No Move Would Be Complete Without...

...a fiasco or two. I'm driving away early tomorrow morning and I still have kind of a lot of manual labor yet to complete. I'm meeting my (now former) co-workers at a sports bar for a couple of drinks. I could use a good margarita...my feet are swollen and painful. I've been running around and carrying heavy things on them for several days now. And after this last fiasco, I need a drink, without a doubt.

And this is only a partial move--my stuff is already in Mississippi, albeit in storage. There will be pain getting it from point A to point B, but I'll have plenty of help.

Done Deal

I finally got off the fence and signed a contract today. Green Zone, four months, working Counterintelligence analysis for a strategic-level CI cell. And that's all I'll say. It's with Lockheed, so I'm staying with my company. I go to DC for ten days--hotel in Crystal City for ten days? Woohoo!--reporting April 9. From there, a processing station for contractors--probably the one in El Paso everyone hates. I'll just tote my knitting around like an old lady and be patient.

Oh, I guess I haven't discussed knitting--it's become quite the hobby for me when I'm not packing or cleaning. I'm still working on my first sweater--but I get it, you know? I think I understand how to make a sweater, whereas during my first knitting stint (1992), it looked more like magic than something I could learn. Not so much. It's rather medidative. I love the idea of picking out yarns and being able to knit without a pattern, just make it up as I go. People do that, they actually DO that.

Go ahead, call me a spinster. Then run before I kick your ass.

I teach all day tomorrow. Then I have Sunday and Tuesday to get everything done, the house cleaned up to the landlord's specs--Monday's a half-day at work and the other half will be taken up getting a hitch on my car. Turns out, Altimas just aren't designed for a big honkin' trailer ball. I hope I can take it off without incurring a penalty by way of a fee for removing it.

I'm in (mostly) high gear right now, getting packed up and ready to watch Arizona disappear in the rearview mirror. I never intended to stay here. And it's lasted longer than I'd wanted...if only I could make a living in Oxford, I wouldn't have to keep coming out here to Hell.

Buried

I've been a bad, bad girl. I plan to atone for my wickedness (not blogging) once I have something interesting to say. It's just been back and forth, getting things done for work in Arizona, trying not to leave anything undone before going back to Mississippi.

The house looks like hell. I'm being awfully nice to J's landlord. A guy's coming over tomorrow to haul stuff away, do some landscaping, paint the back of the house exterior, and stain/seal the patio.

But I'm excited. A little terrified. I don't have an Iraq job locked in 100%, but there are three for which I've been approved, just awaiting offer letters and security verifications for my clearance. Until I have the offer letter(s), though, it feels a bit like jumping off a building with a parachute that will most likely open. Thank God for home ownership and the attendant fat tax returns.

I've done this before, though. In fact, a few times now. There are days when I think I'm fickle and immature, changing life courses so many times in my 36+ years. But then, each change has made life better and infinitely more interesting. I don't regret not knowing I wanted to be an attorney when I was 21.

Buz Lahrmann said, "Don't worry too much if you don't know what you want to do at 25. The more interesting people I know didn't know until at least 35, and the most interesting people I know still don't."

So all the chaos will be worth it. I have that same feeling I had when I left the Army--a little spooked, but confident that it's the right move, giving up the financial security of the job out here without having the four-month Iraq gig locked in.

Gonna Leave This Town

I'm ready to leave this town...just like in the Professor Longhair song, it hadn't brought me nuthin' but heartache and sorrow, child. I'll spend a little over a week in Oxford, then it's wheels-up to Iraq or Afghanistan; I'm still fielding offers, the most promising of which is in Kirkuk working with the Air Force. Ole Miss is giving me grief on my residency status--and without residency, no scholarship. I'm still awaiting their decision on my status. If, by some miracle, I'm declared a resident and offered the Grand Poobah scholarship, I'll fly back to Oxford in late July. Not sure what I'll do without a scholarship...debt's the last thing I need to deal with a g a i n.

While I truly dislike Sierra Vista, I will miss this house. It's filled with sunlight all day and the big, bright windows and skylights funnel it all in. Still, the house in Mississippi needs no big work, other than paint and an eventual kitchen upgrade. The kitchen is considerably smaller, but then some restaurant kitchens are smaller than the one I have now.

Nothing more to say at this moment in time...just treading water until time to load up and push off for the last time.

GLM

America, the GLM, or Global Language Monitor, has released its hit-list of Most Politically Incorrect Phrases from 2006. I swear I’m not making this list up; it was in today’s edition of the Stars and Stripes, right on page 2. The definitions and commentary, however, I did make up.

And the winners are:

• menaissance [ MEN·eye·sans ] n. the return of manliness following the zenith of “metrosexual” fashion. Offensive because any reference to men is seen as offensive by The PC censors.

• flip chart (plural flip charts) n. visual aid: a visual aid consisting of a large pad of paper mounted on an easel, used to present information. Offensive to Filipinos. Can’t mention them either. You can no longer “flip someone off.” You must now “show them (language Nazi's) your middle finger.” The irony here is that I never even knew the word "flip" as anything referencing a nationality, group, etc. So they actually introduced me to an exclusionary/inclusionary term. Bravo.

• herstory [ húrstəree ] (plural her·sto·ries) n. 1. history from women's perspective: history as it affects women or looked at from the point of view of women, especially in contrast to conventional treatment of history, seen in feminist terms as having favored men 2. life experiences of woman or women: the study or recording of the life experiences, achievements, or expectations of a particular woman or group of women [Late 20th century. < history, as if his- were "of him"] Offensive because if you can’t reference men, you can’t reference womyn either, without the charge of (shocking!!) bias. I heard this term in the late ‘80’s in a Women’s Studies class, and even then I thought it sounded absurd and angry. So now PC even extends to words created earlier to advance the PC cause.

• black coffee [blak·COF·fee] n. coffee without cream or sugar. Offensive because black is no longer a color. So “black ice,” (now “non-Caucasian ice”) “Black Friday,” (“Friday of Color”) “little black dress,” (“small, feminine garment that would match clothing worn by Johnny Cash”) they’re all out. Yes, I’d like a cup of non-cracker coffee. Gimme a cup of that ethnic joe. I’d like some coffee of color. I’ll have the non-porch-honky coffee, please.

So I need to send the venerable GLM my own un-PC word, one I invented and bandy about the office on a daily basis because I’m usually the perpetrator:

• hisassment [his·ASS·mənt] n. Inappropriate remarks or unwelcome advances of a sexual nature directed at the male of the species. Just plain offensive.

How to Lose Fat

Kinda says it all, doesn't it?

Greetings from the South Rim

I'm so glad I did this. Here's my first look at the Canyon:

From here, I rode the shuttle to the steepest trail on the South Rim, the venerable South Kaibab. I linked up with a festive group of German tourists, decided we'd tackle it together, and down we went.

From the trailhead:

If it looks cold, that's because it IS...when I started out, it was 13º with a stiff wind. I wore four layers, including a North Face Summit Series jacket I bought in Afghanistan. By the time we were halfway to Skeleton Point, I stripped down to a t-shirt and wore all the other layers around my waist...somewhat cumbersome, but it worked.

My legs shook uncontrollably after the hour of straight-down to Cedar Point. I kept looking up at how far we had to climb back to the top:

This is after only 15 minutes down. See those tiny black specks? Those are people.

From the same point, looking down...we still had a LONG way to go.

The way back up was the most gruelling Stairclimber workout you can imagine. But I surprised myself--I consistently got far ahead of the Germans, and felt like I could have gone all the way to the bottom. After my bum knee started to stiffen up, however, I knew that I'd done the right thing stopping where we did.

This was definitely a Christmas to remember.

Grand Canyon, Part One

I wanted to go home for the season, but with classes lining up just before and just after Christmas, it didn't make sense to spend the money. I got to go for Thanksgiving, so everyone understands.

I spent several hours at the office this morning--we have nothing to do right now, so I surfed the Web and bought some meds for Moonpie, looked at my credit score--which is pleasingly high, right up there. We ordered pizza and I became impatient at noon--I had a long drive ahead of me, and wanted to approach the Flagstaff area while it was still light. So I left obscenely early, put Moonpie in the car, and started driving.

It began to rain in Tucson. It was pouring by the time I got to Phoenix. I spent two full hours creeping through that damn city at about 10 MPH--it rains so rarely here, everyone freaks out and goes straight into Gramma Mode behind the wheel. It changed to snow just north of Phoenix, just as the scenery began to get really spectacular. Then it got dark.

Even still, I could make out the astonishingly massive mountains, sleeping behemoths on both sides of the road under a forest of humanoid saguaro cacti. The drive between Phoenix and Flagstaff is straight up, the right lane populated with straining tractor-trailers and those unfortunate souls not sitting on a big, 260-horsepower engine. Times like these, that car is worth every dime--it drives beautifully in these extremes, hugging the curves and sprinting up the steep bits.

Sedona--I can't see much right now, in the dark, but the snow will glow amber in the morning light. One quality I love about the high desert is the light--the entire state of Arizona turns amber, then periwinkle, then glows blue as the sun sets. The moon was a thin, luminous fingernail hanging at eye level and close enough to touch.

Here's the only picture I was able to take, Moonpie's first yellow snow:
He is, by the way, quite the man-magnet, especially in his spunky leopard-print coat. Every time we walk through the hotel lobby, every man in sight is all over him like they're all grammas and he's a baby in Gap.

I'm having room service for breakfast--absurdly early for a vacation--then driving to the Canyon to hike the South Kaibab Trail. I hope there's snow--I can't imagine how it will look with all the contours highlighted with white.

I will, of course, take many, many pictures.

Christmas Vacation

The thing I don't like about not going home for Christmas are all the charity-case invitations...you know, "I'm inviting all the single people over," always with the best of intentions. But I'd rather stay home than be the Christmas charity invitee. So I'm stuck in Arizona, determined to save money to buy a house in Oxford pre-law school.

Which is why I made a reservation for Moonpie and myself at the Grand Canyon. Yep, I'll spend the whole weekend hiking with my dog and exploring northern Arizona restaurants, then drive home Christmas morning. I have two day-long hikes planned out on the South Rim. It's a bit cold, but I'll be layered up, carrying water, and no, I won't have to get rescued. It's a national park and it's not THAT cold. Besides, if they pull your dumb ass out of the Canyon, you pay for it, every dime.

Although I've seen J several times now and I know he wants to go with us--he keeps dropping not-so-subtle hints--I think I'd rather not bring him along. I don't know him well enough for a romantic getaway on Christmas--it's just too weird. And there's the fact that I'm not sure I like him enough to spend three uninterrupted days with him, truth be told. He's smart, attractive, and has a lot going for him, but I'm a little taken aback by how much he talks...the stories that should be five minutes long drag on for twenty. I'm sure I'm guilty of the same thing from time to time, but I'm also okay with just shutting my piehole--which is a good thing, with this one. I get the distinct feeling he's uncomfortable with silence and feels he has to fill it up, and content is immaterial. He is clearly not a keeper and one of us will quit calling the other any day now.

I know myself--I learned the valuable lesson about travel partners when I got to spend some time in Germany while deployed to Afghanistan. I met this other female officer--I found her slightly annoying from the get-go, when she relayed to me a tale about how she drank with her soldiers in Iraq, which is completely against my leadership philosophy (not to mention dangerous), but there you have it. I decided to get on the train and see the sights, final destination Munich. She asked if she could come with me, and a little voice in my head told me to say no.

But I didn't want to be rude. Lesson=better rude than miserable with the wrong traveling companion. She rattled on the entire trip about how great she was, and by the time she got to the part about how Active Duty soldiers should get crammed four to a room so that the National Guard officers (herself included, of course) could get their own rooms when getting ready to deploy, I had my forehead pressed to the window, trying hard to convey that I didn't want to hear it by not responding and staring at every passing blade of grass with intense concentration. Which only seemed to make her more determined...on and on it went.

Finally, in the middle of Munich, she prattled incessantly about how she could keep up with Special Forces in the 17,000-foot Hindu Kush in Afghanistan, 100-pound ruck and all, when she'd complained when I'd taken the stairs at the train station too quickly, and I was done. I handed her the map and her return-trip ticket and told her we would now have to separate.

She was aghast. "But I don't speak German," she gasped. I speak just enough German to get around or elicit enough of a sympathetic response from English-speakers to get help and directions.

"But you're Special Forces," I was already walking away. "And you have the map. It's just urban land-nav, shouldn't be an issue for a Special Forces-caliber soldier."

I know, it was horrible. But I just couldn't listen to another minute of it. J is nowhere near that bad, and if I left him in the Grand Canyon I have no doubt he'd beat me back to the top and not look back...but that voice is telling me not to bring him.

So just me and the dog. I'll take LOTS of pictures.

Adventures in Online Dating

I went out with a very attractive soldier last night, another pilot. We met on a dating site, exchanged photos, and he asked me to come over and watch a movie. I liked that he was so forward, because you can often talk on the phone or exchange emails for weeks before you actually meet someone online. I prefer to invest as little as possible before sitting down face-to-face and discerning if we have anything to talk about.

So J ordered pizza, I brought wine, and I followed the directions to his house. His pictures were typical guy--J snowboarding, J in uniform, J shirtless (very nice) on a motorcycle, J's dog, a picture of J's dog poking out from under a porch--not sure how the dog did this, but here it is:

This date was decidedly one of the stranger ones I've ever been on...and there have been many. His house is also typical guy...cluttered (but not dirty) and plain, heavy emphasis on the electronics--surround sound for the movie in this case. I noticed that his laptop was beside the couch, and every few moments, his email program would make a loud Ting and he's lean over to check it. It didn't take long for me to figure out that he was trolling several other dating sites, and taking messages from all the interested parties even as I sat there. Same thing with his cellphone--text messages, ringing frequently...he mostly just looked to see who was calling and sent it to voicemail, or replied to the texts. I teased him about fielding all his other ladies while one's at his house, and he stopped looking at his email, quit texting back.

The pizza came and we sat on the floor to watch Pulse. I kept dropping pizza toppings on his carpet, which I could tell he wasn't happy about, so I ate one piece and switched to the wine. By now I knew we had little in common.

Pulse is a horrible movie, completely trite and sophomoric with the worst imaginable acting, about a computer program gone wild and making everyone commit suicide after infiltrating their dark and shabby apartments through their computers, all in this relentlessly grey setting. Even outside in broad daylight, no real color. All to make sure you get it...it's an apocolyptic landscape, trash and newspapers blowing around the deserted city streets, buildings afire, the howling wind. And we watched some of the special features afterwards, and a confederacy of dunces paraded onscreen to explain how this very thing could happen...hairy old guys holding seminars on the paranormal, more rubes sitting rapt, nodding in agreement, yes, computers can take over and suck out our collective will to live.

And to J's credit, we made fun of the movie all the way through, shouting insults at the screen, then I closed his laptop and put it beside the couch so we wouldn't go hang ourselves from the ceiling fan in the bedroom. The man's no idiot, he's just not that great at picking movies.

I asked him where the dog was, the one from the pictures, and he said, "Oh, he died." Now I was a bit surprised...I asked if it happened while he was in Iraq, and he said, "Korea, actually." So I'm not sure if the dog was with him in Korea and died, or something happened while he as in Korea.

And then I remembered that picture, the dog's head by the porch steps...holy whore of babylon, is that head attached to the rest of the dog?? And why post pictures of your deceased dog, even if it is still alive in the photo?

I didn't ask. We talked for about another hour--we've had many of the same experiences in the Army--and then I left. He said he'd like to see me again, and I said, "Sure, call me." I won't be surprised either way, if he calls or doesn't.

But it was an interesting evening, to say the least, what with that picture of the doghead in my brain for the second half of the night.

Modest Proposal

Well, here’s something crazy…I’m considering a jaunt in Iraq to help pay for law school. I can go for four months with option to extend. I am determined to get through law school debt-free, and this looks like the only plausible way to make that happen.

I can do it this way, or I can potentially borrow and/or run up credit cards during school and start practicing law at age 40 with a crapload of debt. AND the bar often looks very unfavorably on bad credit—they figure if you can’t be fiscally responsible, you likely won’t make such a great lawyer. I do not want to put myself in the position of limiting my practice of law to the highest-paying option out of the need to repay debt.

Patience now will pay big rewards in the long run. And I’m not just talking smack when I say that going over there as a civilian is a whole different ballgame. The job they’ve offered me is something I teach and have a great deal of expertise with—I could do it very well, make a strong contribution to the effort.

Throw Imama from the Plane

I read an article today about the Imams ejected from the plane in Minneapolis/St. Paul (and the entire airline, turns out) after "an anti-American remark and ostentatious Muslim prayers just before boarding the plane," (as it was reported) and how they've hired lawyers in hopes of effecting a great public outcry about their civil rights. I didn't pay the story much attention until we began discussing it in the office, and did a little research. *Caveat*: I know, the internet is a mixed bag when it comes to reliability, as is any medium.

And something I found astonishing—turns out, according to the police report, they didn’t just say a little prayer, stand up, and quietly queue up to board the plane. No, they changed their seats to a pattern that would aid in a hostile takeover, requested superfluous seat belt extenders (which could be used to choke a victim), shouted anti-American, anti-Iraq war slogans, and made a big, loud production of the prayers—which is completely contrary to my experience with the Muslims I know who don’t want us all dead...which is 99.99%. Prayer is a more private affair, certainly not something for ostentatious display in that setting. Why would someone behave this way, knowing how it looked, the risks involved? It’s like joking about bombs as you go through security. It just isn’t done by anyone sane. So then you have to question motivations and possible desired outcome(s).

It seems the likely scenario here was that the whole thing was absolutely deliberate, for one (or all) of the following reasons: 1) They wanted to make an issue of it, get the airline in the hot seat, so that others might be more reluctant to remove suspect Muslims from the plane in order to avoid the profiling/racism charge, 2) It was a reconnaissance effort, meant to probe reactions of airline officials, fellow passengers, and our media as part of the planning phase of an attack, or 3) The most benign of the three, they wanted to make noise for the sake of making noise. Hence the follow-on protests…unless that also ties into reason 1. Note that before the plane even landed in Phoenix, these gentlemen's lawyers were already talking to Jesse Jackson and the press.

Now, granted, I understand that of course profiling was at work here. If a white dude hollered out some “Praise Jesus,” told everyone around they were going to hell, and loudly protested the war in Iraq, chances are he would’ve boarded the plane. But until a zealot Baptist blows up a plane or executes suicide attacks on civilians, that dynamic is reality. Yes, yes, Tim McVeigh…but that was a tiny group of wackadoos and we’ve not seen that type attack happen before or since. Hence, isolated. And that same behavior in a Muslim country? A day spent answering questions would be the least of your concerns, daddy.

Not all Muslims are terrorists—in fact, the vast majority doesn’t entertain the possibility. But in this particular point in time, the terrorists hell-bent on mass-murdering Westerners are Muslim. And all the media coverage, cultural sensitivity, and propaganda to try to “win hearts and minds” falls on deaf ears—once someone has reached that point in their hatred for the West, there is no going back. Period.

Kudos to the airline for standing firm, to the passengers for raising their concerns, and to the employees who had to make the tough call, at the risk of being labeled racist, xenophobic, etc.

And to anyone who would put this PC bullshit over the lives of American citizens: keep that naïve attitude until another mass attack takes place on our soil. We live in an era when the effective application of security measures will cause some folks to get offended because their civil rights are compromised.

You know what offends me? Dead Americans.

Illusion

My biomom’s (I was adopted as a baby and found them back in ’96) family in Tennessee is a hoot. My bio-uncle and aunt, Ed Neil and Carolyn, drove over on Friday for (my second) Thanksgiving dinner. The discussion turned to a hill near where they live that’s one of those illusory hills, where you can put your car in neutral and roll uphill. Carolyn expressed amazement, all wide-eyes and raised eyebrows.

“I declare, you roll right up that hill. Wonder how they do that?”

Someone said, “It’s an optical illusion.”

“Why, no it’s not, you’re really movin’!”

I hope she didn’t think I was laughing at her.

Homeslice

Driving all over northern Mississippi (or Misipi, if you're a native) taking care of business for my law school application turned out to be a revealing little slice of my home state.

1) Drivers are exceedingly courteous here. If you're making a left against traffic, it will not take long for some kind soul to stop and wave you through. Same with backing out of a parking spot into the street. And then there's the Finger Wave...as you pass an oncoming vehicle on a small road, there is this funny little one or two-fingered salute from the hand on the wheel. Hey, howya doin'.

2) The convenience stores do not carry half-and-half, you know, to use for coffee creamer. I stopped at five last night as I drove in...not one had it. That's the exclusive perview of the grocery store, whereas in NY and AZ, every convenience store carries it. I don't care to speculate about "what it all means."

3) There is no DMV. To change over my license and registration, I went to two distinct offices--the "driver's licence" office out on the highway, and the tax assessor's office downtown. While a bit inconvenient, would anyone lament the demise of the DMV?? Long lines, screaming kids, "take a number"...I didn't wait at all in either office.

4) At the "driver's licence" office, in huge, hand-scrawled letters on the wall behind the ladies processing your forms: "PUBLIC PROFANITY IS A MISDEMEANOR. VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED!" I must've been there on a good day, no one looked like they were fixin' to cuss the ladies.

5) I love barbeque. I miss barbeque. It's sloppy, it smokes for hours, it runs down your chin...I adore it.

6) Southern hospitality is not a myth. Everywhere I went today, everyone greets everyone else, even the cop at the social security office took the time to get me pointed in the right direction.

I can't wait to permanently finish up with Arizona and get back to Oxford without having to leave all the time. I always dread coming back out here--Arizona's just not home.

Made My Bed

Joe stood up, glared at me, and stomped out, slamming the door behind him. He'd already declared that he would never play in another hand against me again--he's a good player, but I always seem to have a slightly better hand when we end up in a pot. It's not that I'm a better player, it has just worked out that way every time we've played--I've taken him out every game for the last couple of months. It happened twice last night--the first hand of the night, he went all in, and I called...I had a pocket pair that made for a full house on the flop. Why the hell wouldn't I call? He also had a full house, but mine was higher--I had eights over tens, he had tens over fours. I don't know how that computes, but there you have it. And then it happened again later, when it was too late to rebuy--that was when he stomped out. He's a good guy, I don't take it personally, but he really hates to lose, especially to the same amateur player, every damn time. So now he hates me. Or not me, per se, he hates playing against me.

Wow. I took first place last night in the Poker League tournament...the one that's generally much tougher, where I just made it to the final table last week for the first time. Pretty nice little pot of money, too. This was an especially gratifying victory because I was down to nearly nothing TWICE and came back to win it. The guy who took second had a veritable mountain of chips all the way to the end--I managed to whittle away at it when we got to the final table. That's the thing about No-Limit Hold'em, why players maintain a love/hate relationship with it--fortunes can reverse in just a few hands, for better or worse.

Of course it's fun. Anything you're good at is fun. And when there's money involved? Even funner. Hard to believe I just started playing in August--now it's a big part of my life, I play at least once a week. I look forward to it all week.

And I'm convinced that being a woman can be a huge advantage at the table--we had a new player last night, some old guy who apparently wins at casinos all the time--who tried hard to bet me out of a huge pot. I had a feeling he was playing bully--when someone bets huge with 4,9,7 on the board, they are either bluffing or holding a high pocket pair. And in the case of a pocket pair, you wouldn't want to bet enough to scare the other player out--you want them to call, so you'll get their money. So I called and sure enough, my little pair of 7's held up. I really think many guys naturally assume you're a weak or timid player if you're a woman. It doesn't work anymore with the regular players--only when someone new shows up. The regulars have all played with me enough to know I'm more likely to call a big bet than walk away.

I hope I'm right about that. But I can't help but notice that there are never any women at the final tables at the World Series of Poker, and they have a separate "Ladies' Event." It's not that women aren't allowed to play in the main event, there just aren't many who do, and then make it that far. I watched the WSOP Ladies' Event and quickly decided I don't care to play in those tournaments--these bitches hissed at each other the whole time. The commentators kept referring to a "catfight." Talk about insulting and demoralizing.

I'd rather win as a poker player than as a Female Poker Player, in any event. And why a ladies' event in the first place? Poker isn't like running or doing pullups, there's no advantage that would necessitate separating the genders.

Like the question posed last night: Can Siamese twins play in the same poker hand? It shall remain a mystery.

My entire crew moved away in the span of six weeks. Shannon just called to tell me she's leaving for Tampa tomorrow morning--so I went to her house with the birthday present I got her and said goodbye. So she, Gus, and Bob constituted the only three people in town I cared to hang out with regularly, and they all abruptly moved to Tampa. The bright side of it for me is, I'll always have a place to go on vacation where I'll be 100% guar-aan-teeed a good time. Which will certainly come in handy during law school. But in the meantime, this drab little town just became that much moreso. *Sigh* I'm glad I don't live here year-round...those three people made it fun to be here. Without them, it's just work.

It's a good thing I started playing poker--I'll hit it with a vengeance once the LSAT is out of the way on December 3. I'll even start playing weekend casino tournaments, see if I can learn enough to sock away a little cash here and there. Mostly, though, it's just fun. Last week I took out one of the Grand Poohbahs of the venerable Saturday night game (the one I never win, the level of play is much higher). I'm starting to figure out how to read people and the play a bit more accurately, and to take more chances, call more big bets...which is how I took Rob out last week, I called his all-in and beat him with a pair of 5's. He was NOT pleased. Funny, these guys beat me and send me packing all the time and I laugh about it, figure that's the game, it's not personal. But when I win, they all immediately tell me they'll be gunning for me next time. It happens every single time I take someone out.

I've been watching World Series of Poker reruns, and there is one side of poker I really do not like--that juvenille, shit-talking, playground bully dynamic that often comes up. I've only played friendly home games, and I've even seen it there from time to time. I think women draw that reaction at the table was disturbing reliability--there are many men who immediately think the way to behave toward the token chick is to bully. Or try to. I vow that when I do start playing at the casinos, I won't take the bait. I won't make an ass of myself responding to some sophomoric trash talk. Taking someone's chip stack seems like the best response, and if you lose, at least you leave the table with your dignity.

Dear John Kerry--

Please, I beg you, SHUT UP!! Go home, go away, you've done enough damage to the Democratic Party over the last two years to last us all a lifetime.

Sincerely--

The Sandbox

As if I weren't homesick enough (for upstate New York, which I loved), this article in Cooking Light had to go and make it worse. It's on the Seaway Trail, a series of little highways up the coast of Lake Ontario to the St. Lawrence River. I used to ride my bike on those roads. The little beer glass on the map? Yeah, that's for the Sackets Harbor Brewing Company, my old haunt. And that crazy lighthouse is also in Sackets, where I lived before I bought my adorable little house and where I still had friends and spent a great deal of my leisure time. I really miss it up there, especially right now when the fall color is at its peak and the snows will soon fly. I loved my little house and my neighborhood. I'm beginning to think I should have worked at getting through the NY State Police Academy--I'd be in it now, in fact--or found some other way to stay up there...but here's the thing: being out here in a town and job I only feel lukewarm about has pushed me to law school. So eventually, it will all be the right path...I just have nearly a year to stick it out here and set myself up for success in law school and beyond. And maybe I can get back up there at some point.

And on that note, I'm taking a test-prep course (to the tune of $1400 I did NOT have to spend) three nights a week. It makes for some brutally long days--work at 7am for eight hours, drive over an hour, home at about midnight--but it will really be worth it. I've only had two classes so far, and the light bulb has already started burning.

Turns out we were all wrong about my friend S's boyfriend--he's an ass and she has dumped him. Now I'm sorry I encouraged her to work it through with him. He's deceitful and manipulative, he was cheating on her, and she's moving all the way to Tampa to get herself away from him. Which means that both of my close friends here are gone, both to Tampa. If I weren't so dead-set on law school next year, I'd do the same thing--I really do not like this town and I'm looking forward to getting back on my side of the Mississippi River without having to keep coming out here. This limbo stuff is for the birds, but I know it's what I have to do to get where I want to be.

The Uda Loop

I am so averse to the bar scene here that I only go out on weekend nights to play poker. No poker last night, so I settled in to watch a movie and just enjoy my home—I still appreciate the normalization, not sitting in the den amid the piles of chaos.

My friend S called—she’s been dating T, which has been a huge relief to us all. S’s tastes have heretofore run to Thug, as in, plumber ass-crack pants, backwards baseball hat, that “I’m too cool for you people” air, you know the type. Not so with T—he’s outstanding, loves her kids, and seems the perfect solution to her aversion to moving through life without a man around.

But right now they’re having big issues, their first real fight. I listened patiently and provided what feedback I could, but after we’d gone over Every. Single. Minute. Detail, I became impatient and told her it was her decision, I can’t make it for her, and I had stuff to do. Bottom line, he got caught in a big lie, she completely melted down to the point of near-violence, and now he doesn’t seem to want to talk about it and work it out. Read=he didn’t want to spend hours going over Every. Single. Minute. Detail…hell, I’m a girl and it was about to drive me crazy.

I seem to think more like a man the older I get—I just don’t have the patience to microanalyze every utterance, every gesture, every text message or phone call. My final advice: first of all, NEVER have a meltdown like that, especially that early in the game. Men do not respond well to female meltdowns, ever. Even if he did something shitty, to me, meltdown=The End. I put myself in that situation, and if a man I was with completely lost his bearing like that, I would most definitely look to the door. Second, stick to the big issues when you finally DO talk to him…do not comb through the minutia. I know men HATE the whole “We need to talk” dynamic from the get-go, so to torture him with hours of explaining every single gesture would shut down any human with the patience of a sage.

So then we hung up and I went about the business of putting together a really killer tamale pie. It was in the oven when S called back.

“Hey, are you busy?”

Me: “Umm, sort of, why?”

S:  “Can you come over here? Because Cherie thinks I should dump him and I want to talk to you both at the same time.”

I hesitated. Keep in mind, S is ten years my junior. The prospect of spending the next two hours arguing over something I had resolved and dismissed in my own mind (and had long since tired of hearing about) sounded like about as much fun as a poke in the eye with a sharp stick. And to put a third party in the mix, a woman who’s been married to the same guy for over ten years and does not see this thing from the perspective of a single mother of two? Nein, danke.

So I compromised and went over to S’s house later that night—I’m a good friend and I know she needs to keep on talking about it…but MAN it’s easy to see why men think all women are neurotic naggers. Not that S is, but to obsess over it for a week straight…sigh, I’d rather be single forever than have to comb through minefields ad infinitum.

So now I’m on my way out to the desert to shoot my new firearms—the .357 hand-cannon and the .22 Luger. Which sounds like a much more satisfying way to deal with frustration than getting caught in the relationship Uda Loop.

Baghdad Burning

Baghdad Burning is a blog I like to read. This young Iraqi woman doesn’t post much—electricity is spotty, and internet access is rare indeed in Baghdad. You just don’t hear this perspective in the media—about how daily life has changed on a deeply personal level, the amount of effort required to shop for food or get across town to visit a friend. I’ve been reading her since 2003, when she started out hopeful that the Americans brought a better life with them. Now her writing is filled with anger and sadness—and she is a highly educated, moderate woman, not some easily-influenced, uneducated slum-dweller in Sadr City. The illiteracy rate among Iraqi women is over 80%—and that’s for Arabic. For English, it’s not measurable—but suffice it to say, this young woman is very unusual, to have the education required to write English so eloquently. Most English native-speakers don’t write this well.

This post really touched a nerve for me—it’s so beautifully written, so wistful, and such a sad snapshot of what life has become for most Iraqis, despite most Americans’ good intentions:

Summer of Goodbyes...
Residents of Baghdad are systematically being pushed out of the city. Some families are waking up to find a Klashnikov bullet and a letter in an envelope with the words “Leave your area or else.” The culprits behind these attacks and threats are Sadr’s followers- Mahdi Army. It’s general knowledge, although no one dares say it out loud.

In the last month we’ve had two different families staying with us in our house, after having to leave their neighborhoods due to death threats and attacks. It’s not just Sunnis- it’s Shia, Arabs, Kurds- most of the middle-class areas are being targeted by militias.Other areas are being overrun by armed Islamists. The Americans have absolutely no control in these areas. Or maybe they simply don’t want to control the areas because when there’s a clash between Sadr’s militia and another militia in a residential neighborhood, they surround the area and watch things happen.

Since the beginning of July, the men in our area have been patrolling the streets. Some of them patrol the rooftops and others sit quietly by the homemade road blocks we have on the major roads leading into the area. You cannot in any way rely on Americans or the government. You can only hope your family and friends will remain alive- not safe, not secure- just alive. That’s good enough.

For me, June marked the first month I don’t dare leave the house without a hijab, or headscarf. I don’t wear a hijab usually, but it’s no longer possible to drive around Baghdad without one. It’s just not a good idea. (Take note that when I say ‘drive’ I actually mean ‘sit in the back seat of the car’- I haven’t driven for the longest time.) Going around bare-headed in a car or in the street also puts the family members with you in danger. You risk hearing something you don’t want to hear and then the father or the brother or cousin or uncle can’t just sit by and let it happen.

I haven’t driven for the longest time. If you’re a female, you risk being attacked.I look at my older clothes- the jeans and t-shirts and colorful skirts- and it’s like I’m studying a wardrobe from another country, another lifetime. There was a time, a couple of years ago, when you could more or less wear what you wanted if you weren’t going to a public place. If you were going to a friend’s or relative’s house, you could wear trousers and a shirt, or jeans, something you wouldn’t ordinarily wear. We don’t do that anymore because there’s always that risk of getting stopped in the car and checked by one militia or another.

There are no laws that say we have to wear a hijab (yet), but there are the men in head-to-toe black and the turbans, the extremists and fanatics who were liberated by the occupation and at some point, you tire of the defiance. You no longer want to be seen. I feel like the black or white scarf I fling haphazardly on my head as I walk out the door makes me invisible to a certain degree- it’s easier to blend in with the masses shrouded in black. If you’re a female, you don’t want the attention- you don’t want it from Iraqi police, you don’t want it from the black-clad militia man, you don’t want it from the American soldier. You don’t want to be noticed or seen.

I have nothing against the hijab, of course, as long as it is being worn by choice. Many of my relatives and friends wear a headscarf. Most of them began wearing it after the war. It started out as a way to avoid trouble and undue attention, and now they just keep it on because it makes no sense to take it off. What is happening to the country?

I realized how common it had become only in mid-July when M., a childhood friend, came to say goodbye before leaving the country. She walked into the house, complaining of the heat and the roads, her brother following closely behind. It took me to the end of the visit for the peculiarity of the situation to hit me. She was getting ready to leave before the sun set, and she picked up the beige headscarf folded neatly by her side. As she told me about one of her neighbors being shot, she opened up the scarf with a flourish, set it on her head like a pro, and pinned it snuggly under her chin with the precision of a seasoned hijab-wearer. All this without a mirror- like she had done it a hundred times over… Which would be fine, except that M. is Christian.

If M. can wear one quietly- so can I.

I’ve said goodbye this last month to more people than I can count. Some of the ‘goodbyes’ were hurried and furtive- the sort you say at night to the neighbor who got a death threat and is leaving at the break of dawn, quietly.Some of the ‘goodbyes’ were emotional and long-drawn, to the relatives and friends who can no longer bear to live in a country coming apart at the seams.

Many of the ‘goodbyes’ were said stoically- almost casually- with a fake smile plastered on the face and the words, “See you soon”… Only to walk out the door and want to collapse with the burden of parting with yet another loved one.

During times like these I remember a speech Bush made in 2003: One of the big achievements he claimed was the return of jubilant ‘exiled’ Iraqis to their country after the fall of Saddam. I’d like to see some numbers about the Iraqis currently outside of the country you are occupying… Not to mention internally displaced Iraqis abandoning their homes and cities.

I sometimes wonder if we’ll ever know just how many hundreds of thousands of Iraqis left the country this bleak summer. I wonder how many of them will actually return. Where will they go? What will they do with themselves? Is it time to follow? Is it time to wash our hands of the country and try to find a stable life somewhere else?

August 8, 2006

Iraqis don’t care to move around like Americans do—they tend to stay near their families unless some great turn of fortune, for better or worse, befalls them. I cannot imagine the grief that each and every citizen of that country must feel.

That said, I remain deeply ambivalent about where to go from here. More and more, it’s becoming clear that security in Iraq is simply unattainable. The Washington Post reports that Col. Pete Devlin's assessment, written in mid-August, says that "there is almost nothing the US military can do to improve the political and social situation there,” speaking specifically about Anbar Province from the perspective of the Marine Intelligence Chief there. But, as we’ve seen, what happens in Anbar, generally foreshadows or mirrors events in Baghdad. And where the capital goes, so goes the entire country.

I don’t have much hope and I’m furious at this Administration for getting us into this mess in the first place (for reasons many of us still don’t understand and never will), then refusing to listen to the people who had the experience to know how best to conduct the operation. The decision-makers only cared to listen to the yes-men (including the intelligence community yes-men) who lacked the operational experience to dispense competent advice, and any military leader ballsy enough to speak truth to power was systematically humiliated and driven out of their long and distinguished careers. It’s no coincidence that nine of the Army’s best Generals Officers chose early retirement over the appointment to Secretary of the Army—no one wanted to work for Rumsfeld. Can you blame them, after what happened to Shinseki, Powell, and White?? It’s also no coincidence that many of these same General Officers have come forward to condemn Rumsfeld—and believe me, as a former officer, I know that takes some serious cajones. The climate and structure of the officer brotherhood rewards compliance with commanders and strongly discourages (to put it really mildly) even the appearance of discord with anyone of superior rank. This dynamic cannot be overstated and does not diminish in applicability after leaving the service.

So what now? I don’t know, I honestly don’t know. Iraq is already looking more and more like Afghanistan under the Taliban, where militias rule, terrorists galvanize and train, and absolute interpretations of the Koran dictate policy. If we leave, does it descend into complete chaos, or are we already there? Will the Iraqi “leaders” step up, or will a bloodletting pave the way for an even more permissive environment for terrorist training and recruitment? I don’t like what I think will happen if we leave (another Afghanistan, no real government and a Whole Lotta Terrorists), and I don’t like what’s happening while we stay.

What I do know is that I can barely stand to watch the news, when one or the other of the Administration Monkeys stand there and talk about how well it’s going. I can’t help but picture a tantrum-throwing child with hands clamped over both ears to the deafening roar of Evidence to the Contrary, shrieking, “We’re making progress!!! The Iraqi people chose Democracy when they voted!! You can’t vote and be a terrorist at the same time!!”

Really? Does anyone know whether Timothy McVeigh ever voted? Why is that a contradiction? When it comes to voting here in the Land of the Free, one thing is abundantly clear—a single-party controlled trifecta of White House and both elements of Congress is clearly not a good thing, not in any respect of what government is supposed to do for its citizens. There has to be some balance, or there are no checks. Even many conservatives feel it’s time to break the single-party stranglehold.

Sunday was the day the house was truly set back up again—I could have company without walking behind them saying, “It really doesn’t normally look like this, it’s still under construction, it’s usually much nicer…” I’m enjoying myself out here, but looking forward to going home to Mississippi next week, insha’h Allah. God willing.

Holy Card-Sharking Whore of Babylon, Batman!!

This is the pile of money I won last night playing poker in Tunica. I spent ten bucks on the initial buy-in and never bought more chips. I took second place in the weekly tournament I've come to enjoy so much. The reason I like tournaments so much, is that you only stand to lose your buy-in, which is never more than I'd spend at a bar or restaurant. There is no danger of losing large sums of money, which seems like it would cloud your judgement and serve as a distraction. The other reason I like these tournaments is that I'm getting to know the regular players fairly well, and it's a great group of folks, very friendly game where no one gets pissed when the girl who still accidentally says "Raise" when she means "Bet" cleans them all out. I still don't have the etiquette and terminology down, which leads to charges of card-sharking from the boys who show up wearing headphones and sunglasses, all business. It is great fun--I'm getting really good at punking people out, bluffing them when needed, and padding the pot--that is, getting them to put large sums of money on the table when I do have a winning hand. But that's probably not the correct term, either, I just made that up.

This is Tigger. Well, his track name was Chestnut, and I suppose I should be calling him RC Cola, since it looks like I'm going to keep him as Moonpie's companion. So his official name will be RC Cola, nicknamed Tigger--it just fits him so well, he's tall and skinny, red and black striped, with that funny-looking Roman nose. He had a rough time of it--got into a fight at the track and his shoulder was ripped up. He had surgery and kept tearing the stitches out--so when I got him, I had to keep him in a crate 24/7, walk him outside on a leash for potty breaks. He's only 18 months old, so life in a crate was miserable for him. But now he's paroled and a sweetheart of a pooch. I love walking the two of them together--they make a striking sight.

Wonder how he'll adjust to the back and forth between here and Oxford? I may need to leave them both here or there, pick one, and quit lugging the poor beasts around.

The Week in Pictures

I just got a new camera--it's small and takes lovely pictures. The Mondavi Vineyards--a perfect 72 degrees. And later in the day, into a different microclimate:

I tried to catch the condors that flew out from these cliffs--too far away. Someone tried to tell me they were pelicans--no way, these suckers looked prehistoric.

Damn, I have to go to work--I'll post more later...

Birthday Fun

I’ve been waiting for my camera to boomerang back to me, having left it in my friend’s Saab in San Francisco, before I wrote about the trip. It bears adding photos, no doubt about that.

It was lovely. It felt like November, cool and damp and dark. But with the Bay Area’s ten thousand little microclimates, we spent equal time in glorious sun-drenched spaces, like the little restaurant in Tiburon on the water with the skyline and Golden Gate Bridge spread out before us while we ate Crabcakes Benedict and sipped Mimosas.

We met Luci’s old friend Marlow, a gay Asian nurse who rides a spankin’ BMW 5200. I’d known Marlow in New Orleans, and I think she’s lovely—she has this childlike enthusiasm and capacity for delight that all these years and thyroid cancer (she’s still in treatment) haven’t diminished. Other adventures: Napa Valley and Mondavi Vineyards, Chinatown, where I spent more than I had a right to with a house under construction, Stinton Beach, hour-long massages in San Rafael, the Ghiradelli factory…food, food, and more food. Hell, it’s vacation, that’s what it’s for. And we walked for miles, compensating for some of it. I’m back in the gym this week and the couple of pounds I managed to bring home have already gone away again.

And here’s an odd thing: while we wandered around Chinatown spending like tourists, the gauntlet was thrown down in a little bar and we started in on tequila shots. They normally waste me in no time flat, which is why they are for special occasions only. My 36th birthday, in this case, in Chinatown, with friends who promised not only to care for me, but suspend judgment if I wanted to get silly. I took three huge shots—the last one was served in a highball glass in a bar where I was surrounded by lecherous older men. It took me three passes to drink it all—it was more like two shots. And I felt NOTHING. A little giggly, maybe, but a long way from buzzy. And we’re talking Patron, not cheap shit. Maybe the cheap shit has more alcohol. But I gave up after that last one—why bother with shots if they aren’t working, for chrissakes??

I love the way northern California looks—the fog, mountains, the ocean, ethereal architecture. Too much of a commute to get from place to place and NOT a good area to ride a motorcycle, but a very cool corner of the Earth regardless.

Oh, the Reserves thing—I knew there had to be a catch. They would permanently take away the disability I get from the Veterans’ Administration. Screw that. OH, and I’d deploy for six months out of every eighteen. Double screw that. It’s one thing to sit here all comfy in Arizona thinking a deployment might not be so bad, but I know all too well that even in the best of circumstances—a good boss, a great mission, cool co-workers—I’d hate being deployed again. I understand that my center of gravity is my home—the pets, cooking, nesting. And that was what I missed the most while deployed—my home, the house itself, the total sanctuary of it. The nesting instinct became much more pronounced when I became a homeowner and it’s not likely to diminish as I get older.

I Must Be Nuts

“Would you be interested in a Reserve MI slot as the S2 in a CA BAT?/ I can get you a 10 thousand dollar bonus.

-CPT A”

This message landed in my inbox this morning. CA=Civil Affairs, a component of Special Forces. And the crazy thing? I’m seriously considering it. A Civil Affairs Battalion would not have responsibility for the security of their Area of Responsibility, which makes a HUGE difference in what a deployment would look like. And Special Forces? Completely different animal from a light infantry brigade.

So I have some questions out to the guy who sent this to me—what does the unit’s deployment schedule look like, what educational benefits could I qualify for, what happens to my disability rating, etc. I understand it would mean deploying again—but as I said, completely different animal from conventional Army stuff. And the clincher—as a Captain with over 8 years in, I would make almost double what I make now if I deployed. Plus the $10K bonus. What about law school, you may rightly ask. I could still do law school…and if I deployed during school, I would pick up where I left off on returning. With at least $50K in savings to apply toward tuition and living expenses.

The next clincher—I could not be deployed more than one year in any five-year period. So if I did deploy, I wouldn’t have that threat of another deployment, and could join this animal called IMA—Individual Mobilization Augmentation. Which means for two weeks each year (or more, if I wanted), I could call my branch manager and choose whatever cool assignment I wanted—counter-drug in South America, diplomatic observation in the Balkans, that type thing. On my terms. Oh, and then there’s retirement pay if I stayed in twelve years.

But the experience is what is tempting me—Civil Affairs’ mission is out among the population, working with local authorities on stuff like getting clean water to them, infrastructure, etc. Basically, it’s working friendly with the locals, trying to improve relations and living conditions for them. Not shooting at them. Plus, most CA soldiers were active duty Special Forces types—which means that a great deal of the bullshit in the regular Army, the crap that runs counter to common sense, gets bypassed. And it may not be Iraq—CA does stuff all over the world.

So then the big question becomes, who would take care of Moonpie? That one, I’d have to study on, figure something out.

The Lipstick Trick

I quit going to my usual nail spa after the third time I sat there for half an hour waiting for an appointment for which I arrived five minutes early. They were constantly overbooked, always working a walk-in between appointments and therefore, never ever on time. So then the obvious question becomes, why bother to make an appointment if you’ll get pre-empted by a walk-in every damn time? So I stood up, told the owner that this was the third and final time I’d wait and that I wouldn’t be back, and drove to the mall.

The nail spa there got me right in. The owner herself, an older Vietnamese woman, did my nails. I told her I’d just left Tam’s and she went into a tirade.

“He talk too much. He say he the only one who do Solar nail, everybody do Solar nail. I been in this business twenty year. I buy Solar nail wholesale.” She reached under the counter and produced a rather large jug of the powder. “See? He can’t get it wholesale. He come to me three year ago and asked for job, I said no, now he talk too much.” This went on for a good twenty minutes—the length of time it took her to finish my nails, about half what it took at Tam’s. And they looked fabulous.

If someone had told me a year ago that I would be a regular at a nail salon to the point where I had insight into the rifts in the local Vietnamese population, I never would have believed it. But at the end of it, the woman stood up and asked me, “What your name, young lady?” We shook hands and I told her I would come back and I only wanted her to do my nails, knowing it would please her. She was already pleased she’d stolen a customer away from Tam’s…I bet I’ll get right in and out of there with fabulous nails every time now.

So later that night (Friday), I drove out to my now-customary poker game. There are usually between forty and sixty players squeezed onto the tables, some in the host’s garage, some out on the patio. I always choose the patio—nice out there if you remember the bug spray. It was a gorgeous night—the mountains turning purple with the sunset, cool breeze. And I couldn’t help but notice a rather beautiful young man as he sat across from me.

I couldn’t keep my eyes off him, despite the indicators of youth that worked somewhat against him. He wore a black t-shirt which read, “101 WAYS TO TELL SOMEONE THEY’RE A STUPID MOTHERFUCKER!!” And it listed them out…fell out of the stupid tree and hit every branch on the way down, you know the drill. Horrible shirt that no one past the age of about thirty would wear. And a ball cap that had that Playboy silhouette you see on the mudflaps of big rigs, the seated big-boobed woman, you know the one. It said something about single moms and I already stared at him more than I should, so I never could read it properly.

Boytoy. That’s all I could think, watching his muscular chest beneath that horrid shirt. We watched each other—it was so much fun to play poker and flirt with this hottie under the radar. Rob, an old friend, sat to my immediate right and talked to me the entire time—Rob’s a great guy, hilarious, married but constantly pressing the EO limits by making comments about my appearance. He calls a “hottie alert” whenever I go to his office, in a different building from mine. That type thing.

So I have the Lecher on one side teaching me poker tricks and this beautiful boy across the table. He introduced himself immediately and held my attention by commenting on my game—damn you’ve got a great poker face, etc. Teasing me and locking his hands behind his head in order to flex his sculpted arms at me.

It was intoxicating. I couldn’t stop looking at his chest—this guy looked like something out of Men’s Fitness. He even had a cleft chin and blue eyes. I laughed at myself—I knew I was behaving just like a guy and I didn’t care.

And I played it—he flexed his chest and arms, and I played the Lipstick Trick. See, if you apply lipstick the right way and catch a man’s eye in the process, all nonchalant and accidental-like, it works like a charm. I don’t know what it is about that gesture, but every man I’ve tried it on has behaved as if I suddenly grew three cup sizes in a bikini. This guy looked like he’d been slapped.

How did I learn this trick? I applied lipstick in a bar one night with Shannon’s friend Harris in attendance, and he went nuts and let me in on the secret—you do that and catch a man’s eye, it’s the sexiest gesture in the arsenal. I’ve thanked him at least ten times since.

In this case, Boytoy played out long before I did, and hovered around the tables waiting to see if I’d play out soon…and I considered it, going all-in on a crap hand so I could stand up and see if he’d approach me on the way to my car. He prowled around, staring at me and my chips, for about half and hour, then gave up and left in a very loud little old sportscar. See, nothing in common. But I’m looking for him next time—smart, easy to talk to, and friendly, who looks like that? Who cares if he’s ten years younger??

I’ll be in California next Friday, going to San Francisco to visit my old friend Luci. So I’ll miss him this week—but I’ll go every Friday night I can. If for nothing else, to enjoy the cross-table tension and watch his big chest flex under whatever bad t-shirt he wears next time. I’m already one of the only females there, I may as well behave like a guy while I’m at it. Behave like a guy but look like a girl, with pretty nails and lipstick and heels. Oh yes.