It's Confirmed, I'm Back to Normal

I looked up my BMI today...and for the first time since early 2003, I'm no longer overweight. My BMI is down to 24.1, squarely in the "healthy/normal" range. A year ago? It was 28.5, approaching outright obese. I'm down a full 25 pounds, and my BMI is probably not entirely accurate, given the muscle I've built.

So after seeing my BMI, I decided to try running again for the first time since 2005, when I left the Army and was told my right knee was beyond repair. I figure, 25 pounds lighter means about a hundred fewer pounds of pressure on the knees when running. So I ran for 15 minutes at the end of my workout today.

And it felt GREAT. Nothing hurt. And even better? Nothing jiggled. I used to HATE running when I could feel my belly doing a full figure-8. I could even feel my ASS moving when I had all that extra weight. Not very motivating...it literally felt like dragging ass.

But today, it felt like it did when I loved to run, before I put on the weight in New York. Well, I can't run for an hour like I used to--don't want to aggravate the arthritic knee--but it made me think that if I keep it down to 10-15 minutes a day, I can probably knock out one weekly run of about 30 minutes--which means running outside this fall. The occasional 5K for fun.

It puts another tool back in my box and I couldn't be happier. I could stand to knock off another 20 pounds, and this could be the jump start I needed to reach the next level.

Other than working out religiously and ensuring I keep losing weight and not putting it back on, I've been working on the house. Painting, unpacking, cleaning up all the little clutter and messes that accumulated both in my absence and in the scant couple of weeks I spent in the house before deploying. I just never fully settled in, and that's what I'm doing now. Nesting. I've painted the guest apartment and my bedroom, and all the boxes have either been unpacked or moved into the storage shed.

And it looks fabulous. There's still plenty to do before school starts next month and I may not get it all done--I'll probably have to choose the den or kitchen to paint the lovely light copper I picked out. But it feels like a neat, clean, functional home. It feels finished. I have a gorgeous desk out in the garage apartment where I'll do all my studying, and I really went all out--painted the walls a gorgeous terra cotta, bought very nice tan suede furniture and bedding, hung all the pictures. And it looks like a place where I'll enjoy spending a great deal of time...which is a big part of staying motivated to study, just having a cozy environment for it.

So I'm ready for school, which will start the week after I return from my Florida vacation with my sister. Life is good. I read an article once about how mood is directly influenced by environment--a messy room exacerbates depression, etc. I believe it. Since the house really started coming together, my doubts about coming back here and making this career change have largely dried up. I know I'm doing the right thing.

Window Seat Acrobatics

The flight to Amsterdam was uneventful and after waiting several hours for the next leg to Atlanta, I was asked if I traveled alone. Then I was pulled from the line, taken to a little room, and grilled for about fifteen minutes on my travel. I suppose that traveling alone from Kuwait is cause for suspicion. They started to get too specific about what I was doing in Iraq--I showed them my orders, which explain all they need to know, and they finally let me go.

I had the window seat next to another American woman traveling alone. Her name was Joanne and she'd been called off her Florida vacation to business in Amsterdam. She looked like one of the Indigo Girls, I don't remember which, and was in a foul mood before we even took off.

I ordered a margarita and she glanced sidelong at me, as if I might soon become a belligerent drunk. I explained that I was coming off a fifteen-month tour in Iraq and the margarita tasted splendid. It did. She didn't seem overly impressed with my explanation and the sidelong glance became a direct stink eye when I ordered a second. I wondered if she expected me to start in on some PTSD-fueled rant, like everyone who's ever been to Iraq is likely to do after a few drinks. She sighed as she crossed her arms over her chest, and went to sleep.

Even after two strong cocktails, I was able to climb over her to the aisle and on to the bathroom without rousing her. I knew that asking to get out would earn me another hairy eyeball and I wasn't in the mood for some pissy broad. I'd had no sleep and my broken tailbone barked at me from all the sitting around.

I returned to the seat and began the delicate climb back over her lap to my window seat. And naturally, she awoke just as I was spread out over her...and I almost made it. From her perspective, that first moment when you wake and figure out where you are must be even more disorienting when there's some half-drunk lady climbing all over you.

I'm horribly jetlagged, and speaking of that disorienting moment on waking, it took several seconds for me to figure out I'm in a rather nice hotel in Columbus, Georgia. It's 2am and I have to be on post in a certain location that I have yet to find at 5 am. So I'm about to check out and go to Walmart, make a CD to listen to on the way back up to Atlanta, find this place, and maybe nap in the car.

But I'm back in the land of the big Walmart and I'll be home-home tonight. *Whew*

The Departed

Leaving the big building and all the people I've come to know and love was very emotional. The day I left was filled with Nerf gun shoot-outs and froggy comments about how much I curse and NOW who will call Kevin an asshole?

I managed not to cry as everyone lined up for good-bye hugs. It felt utterly surreal, even moreso as I climbed into the truck and drove through the International Zone for the last time. It still feels surreal--I imagine it will have this movie-feeling until I get fully settled back in my house. Fifteen months is a long time and I have to be patient with things at home, all the little things that will inevitably be different than I would have them.

When Jessie came back from leave, I found that I was no longer angry about the whole incident I blogged about earlier. I'd missed my friend and forgave her. It felt like it used to between us, when we were really close, and I already miss her. She plans to come visit me in Mississippi, as do several people, and having that furnished guest apartment will prove to be a huge plus for having visitors.

I hope there are many, but I have to work around law school--I understand that first year is a bitch.

So I fly out tonight, following the final insult of the trip--piling all my bags, which must weigh a couple hundred pounds total, on my back for the long trek to the bus station. There are no carts, it's gravel (so the wheeled carry-on is useless), and it'll still be over 115º this evening when it's time to duffel-bag drag.

I absolutely got my luggage down to the bare minimum by mailing stuff home. It's the goddamn equipment I was issued that has to be returned at Fort Benning, Georgia. It's a full duffel bag and weighs a TON. Without it, I only have the carry-on and a medium-sized suitcase. I shudder to think what the airline will charge me for the two checked bags. My company will reimburse it, but damn I hate dealing with it.

There's a four-hour layover in Amsterdam. The flight arrives there at 6 am and I'm hoping there's an open bar in the airport--a beer would taste lovely and I need to knock myself out for the 10-hour flight to Atlanta.

One more hurdle, then it's smooth sailing. Benning will likely prove an additional pain in the ass, but at least I'll be stateside and can find a Denny's, eat some fluffy pancakes and eggs. And the hotel will have a bathtub. Oh yes.

Egg Soup

The first time I met Kuwait was June 2004 when my Infantry brigade landed here. We spent over three miserable weeks in full armor and gear training in the relentless desert in 130º heat. At the time, I compared it to Tatooine of Star Wars fame. And was promptly called a dork for knowing the name of the planet where Luke spent his early years with his uncle and auntie. I got called a dork just yesterday for rolling down my window at a checkpoint in the International Zone, waving my hand around, and telling the bewildered Peruvian guard, "These are not the droids you seek."

I digress.

I just disembarked from the miserable C-130 flight out of Baghdad International, during which I puked my guts into one of the little twistie-tie bags the Air Force supplies so the crew doesn't have to clean up the inevitable leavings of That One Person, there's one on EVERY flight, Who Pukes. And yes, ladies and gents, it's always me.

I know this, that I will always hurl on every military aircraft I ever board, but never once a commercial flight. So I don't eat before I fly military. Keeps things tidy and the little bag may or may not even contain anything for all anyone can tell when you sheepishly deposit it in the garbage bag held out by the raised-eyebrowed flight crew. Except that they know what's in there because they were talking about the puking redhead on their little headsets. Think I don't know what goes on? How could they NOT laugh about it? I had sweat pouring off my face onto the floor, I'm sure I went even whiter than usual, and I had to look miserable during the dry heaves that are the ugly little downside to not eating before an inevitable vomit session.

So here I am in Kuwait again. In July. It's over 130º and there's that wind, the feeling someone's following you with a blow dryer filled with sand. Or a heat gun. This is a miserable place.

As has always been my tradition, the first thing I did after recovering from the sickies and dragging my 200 pounds of baggage through the rocks to the crammed tent I'll sleep in tonight, was walk to the little McDonald's. I had not, after all, eaten all day. I ordered my favorite, the meal I found difficult to resist and so ate it three times a week while I lived in Arizona and gained a metric assload of weight--the two cheeseburger meal.

Those little cheeseburgers are like heroin. The pickles, the little dollop of ketchup, the minced onions, the soft little bun. I sat at a picnic table in the shade (there's no air-conditioned spot to eat), where it was maybe 120º. And you know what? It just didn't taste very good. Maybe it was the heat, but I've eaten in hotter--hell, I've gone running in hotter. I ate one of the two burgers, about a third of the fries, and pitched the rest. Well, except for the vanilla milkshake, that was ggoooooddd. I had the same experience when I came through here on my way home for vacation last November--it just wasn't all that.

Has fast food lost it's death-grip on me since I've been over here and haven't had access to it? I cannot imagine I'll ever NOT want a Chik-fil-a chicken biscuit...that's pure heaven. But the rest of it? I don't crave it, particularly. The foods I've missed the most have been pretty basic--real eggs cooked well (i.e., not rubberized), and a cold glass of 2% milk. Homegrown maters.

My favorite egg preparation and the first thing I'll eat when I get home, is what an old boyfriend called "Egg Soup." I boil them very soft, the yokes with a layer of cooked stuff and the rest still runny, scooped out into a bowl, mushed up with a crunchy piece of bacon, salted and peppered, eaten with a spoon. It tastes like pure spring sunshine. I might go crazy and spoon it onto a piece of buttered wheat toast, which I'll use then end of to sop up the last runny bits. Oh, and the butter goes on the bread before it's toasted--that way, you get these little spots of soft buttery yumminess. Old boyfriend called this "Egg Soup on Backwards Toast" and ridiculed me greatly until I talked him into a bite.

Then it was Egg Soup for two, baby.

It's Finally Here...Almost

I leave the day after tomorrow. And despite my having spent the last week packing up and mailing boxes home, it still doesn't seem real.

My chore list at home is as long as my arm: rearrange my whole bedroom, paint the entire interior of my house and the guest apartment, buy and arrange furniture for guest apartment and back porch, plant daylillies, unpack the dozens of boxes I never dealt with while on leave AND the ten boxes I've sent from here...it's like a move, coming home after 15 months. I have a little over six weeks to knock it out.

And it's work I love--and what a great way to spend six weeks. Get up, make breakfast, work out (oh yes I will, it's a habit now), paint or otherwise work on the house/yard, cook dinner, chill with a glass of wine, go to bed. It just sounds amazing. And foreign. It's been so long.

I have a plan for maintaining and even improving on my 20-pound weight loss. No break from the gym. I get home Friday night, I'll give myself Saturday to be manic and knock out initial stuff, and I will be in the gym on Sunday. I know why I suddenly started losing--it's all the muscle I built. My metabolism must be on fire.

You should see my arms and shoulders--people, I have guns. My friend here, Doc, told me I'm cut. I can't say I've ever been described that way, but after six months of focusing on strength training, I found what works. I lift heavy, I lift often, and I'm at a point where I can maintain the muscle mass with only an hour a day in the gym, including the cardio. Granted, that's 5-6 days a week, but it's doable. And that's the point.

People, I can do pullups. Admittedly only two, but pullups!! I turn 38 next month, and I can do pullups!!

At some point, I quit worrying about dropping the weight quickly, and just made some small changes (along with the weights) that I can live with. I stopped snacking, and just eat meals that are big enough to keep me happy. Somewhere along the line, I quit thinking about food all the time. That sense of urgency (Must! Eat! Now!) went away. I came to not mind being a little hungry by the time a meal rolls around.

Don't get me wrong, I still have a little pad of what I call "refrigerated biscuit dough" around my middle, but I'm still dropping about a pound a week. And patience, I now understand, is the way to approach this thing.

Another secret? Success is wildly motivating--I look sooo much better. I've lost that bloated look I had with the 20 pounds. I bet I added at least five pounds of muscle...I'm smaller than I was when I joined the Army. Still not down to my Athens (Georgia) weight, but getting there. For the first time in years, I feel as though I look great--and it seriously keeps me from overeating. I feel HOT, and it's amazing. I don't ever want to lose that feeling again. It makes all the difference in the world--in how I interact with people, how I feel in the morning when I get dressed and ready for work, how I feel in the gym, everything. It's like a drug.

My next goal is the six more pounds I need to reach my Basic Training weight. At that point, I will start running again. And I know that will jumpstart the next ten pounds. Once that next six pounds is gone, I feel I can run without pounding my bum knee with all that extra weight. I took off the rucksack, and I just want to get back to running local 5K's, having the extra tool in my kit, be able to run outside in the fall. My favorite fitness activity ever.

In celebration of buying and looking good in a cute little Victoria's Secret tankini, I'm taking a vacation in August: Palm Beach, Florida, with my sis and possibly another buddy. And the other item on my to-do list: dive certification. I'm determined to do it before we go to Florida. Although if I don't get certified, snorkeling in my little tankini sounds like more fun than a barrel of monkeys!

Hiccups

I have twenty days left and time seems to have stopped. There are definitely things I will miss. Among them:

Whenever the power goes out, we are all armed to the teeth with all manner of Nerf guns and ammo, from the simplest pistol to The Ivan, which fires three Nerf RPG's at once, effectively pummeling your opponent. As soon as the lights dim and the computer power supplies start chirping, you can hear the pump-action getting primed in every office. My personal weapon's muzzle flashes and it shoots glow-in-the-dark darts. We'll usually have anywhere from five to twenty combatants at any given time. Yesterday, we assaulted the SCIF, and when the Director walked in and caught me screaming Allah ho'Akhbar and decimating the Reports Officer, I told him we were just practicing our emergency procedures.

I'll miss the Nerf gun wars. We've had melees that spread throughout the entire floor, urban warfare from room to room. I suspect I'll never work someplace with Nerf guns again. Although, I can see it in my first job as an attorney, pulling my Nerf pistol out of the drawer and shooting someone right between the eyes with it while they sit there all agog. It may be trouble, though, if I walk from office to office shooting folks whenever the power goes out. Look out, you nancies, put your warface on!!!

We play dodgeball. No kidding, grown-ass men and women, running around a basketball court playing dodgeball. It's also big fun. Seems we all like to pummel each other in several different ways.

We play great jokes on each other. I left a positive pregnancy test (not mine, of course) in the coed bathroom and sat back while the rumors ran rampant throughout the organization. I meant to send out an email claiming responsibility, but somehow just never did. I had great fun complaining of nausea and rubbing my belly.

A stuffed baby dinosaur was kidnapped from Rob's office, because he had Scott's Transformers DVD. Why anyone would WANT a Transformers DVD is beyond me (I watched about five minutes of it and left the room), but he does have kids. At any rate, a photograph of Baby Dino with an Atomic Fireball stuffed in his mouth as a Gimp-like ball gag circulated. Then, a grainy video of a Nerf gun shooting him in the head, complete with very realistic rifle-shot sound effect, and bad guys chanting Allah ho'Akbar. It was fucking GREAT. Problem is, Rob got pissy and complained about it. What a nancy. So Baby Dino was returned sans Atomic Fireball gag.

Today, I was in a briefing with a 2-star General, and the briefer, one of our guys, accidentally refered to Lebanese Hizballah as "Lesbanese." Everyone started laughing, and for some reason, I turned beet red. I don't know why this happens to me--any unexpected emotion, no matter what it is (usually NOT shame, interestingly enough), and I'm purple. I had to really work at not turning red when I have a good poker hand when I first started playing. Fortunately, I've learned to control it at the poker table because I expect it, I've already prepared myself. So then the General looked right at me and said, clearly puzzled, "Good Lord, you're as red as your hair!" Which of course, made it worse and longer-lasting. So everyone's been teasing me about it all day, shouting LESBIAN at me to see if I'll do it again. What the HELL??? Why would "Lesbanese" make a straight girl blush??

Is there some surgical procedure that minimizes the blush response? Because whatever it costs, I will pay it! I read that the whole phenomenon's purpose is to ellicit a sympathy-response from all present. So if I can't learn to control it as a prosecutor, will the jury feel sorry for me if I blush?? Oh crraaapp I hope I never have to find out.

41.6 Days...

...until I get on the plane. I feel like I've been in Baghdad for ten years. The rest of the world has faded to the flickering images on AFN News. Four dollar gas? Doesn't seem real. This painfully prolonged primary season--same thing, it feels like a foreign film. The idea of getting into the car and going to the grocery store sounds about as plausible as hopping into the ole space ship for a quick jaunt to the moon.

You know how when you go to a long matinee, when you get out and the sun's setting, it feels like a surprise that time just kept marching on while you drowsed in the cool dark? That's what the International Zone feels like--someone else's movie. But when I emerge from the theater this time, it's a full 20 pounds lighter--how's that for a double feature?

Reading over the last several posts, it's a bit amazing how much weight things have here--that drama with Jessie felt like it consumed my days because we have no external lives here. There's no going home at the end of the day--I live three floors up from where I work, five floors up from the gym, and about a hundred yards from the chow hall. Most days, I don't leave this one little area. It can feel like prison.

Speaking of the drama, by the way, it all actually worked out for the better--I made other friends, and I'm actually much happier now than I was when I limited myself to that little clicque. We do more stuff--there are dodgeball games, nights out meeting with others, dinners at this little place we discovered, hanging out with people from outside the organization. I'm having much more fun and it's made the days brighter to have a wider circle.

I guess it took divorcing that dynamic to realize how much I'd grown to dislike it--I never shook the feeling that she viewed me as the Queen's Subject and once I saw it clearly, there was simply no going back. And really, that whole thing with the silent treatment followed by the self-righteous presentation of the laundry list of my flaws, the most egregious of which (besides the one that was a full-on lie, an accusation that I'd done something I would never do and screw you for thinking I would) was the way I greet a room? The more I've thought about it, the more amazed I am that someone in their right mind would think that bullshit would ever fly in a friendship.

I'm friendly to everyone involved, but I don't seek out their company, and they don't seek mine. And that's about all there is to it, no hard feelings.

USDA Zone 7B

I have exactly 49.5 days left here, and I'm knocking around the web, looking at gardening sites. I hate that I get there so late in the game--I'll have to skip in to the local nursery to see what I can even plant that late.

I have all kinds of plans for how to get my 1.5 acre lot to look amazing. Vegetables and all manner of blooming things. The previous owner, a relative by marriage, did a great job with the immediate vicinity of the house--I have gorgeous azaleas, vinca, crepe myrtles, and iris all over the front. The west-facing back, though, is a blank slate. I have visions of flowerbeds all along the back of the screened-in porch and along the garage/mother-in-law apartment. Vines will cover the fence and I will choose a fast-growing tree to screen out the loud neighbors with the dangerous, unruly dog.

I also have a weird little side lot that is right now just open grass, bordered by crepe myrtles and pine trees, that would be perfect for the vegetable garden and all manner of other little things. Right now, it's just kind of wasted--it's not in the fenced-in part, so the dogs don't run around in there, and it gets full sunlight. If I had more money to put into it, I'd turn it into an English-style garden with paths, a gazebo, and a thousand different plants and shrubs.

I'm creating the beds for the back when I get back, and plan to take Felder Rushing's approach--keep it seasonal, just put different things in there for late summer, fall, and winter, then plant it like crazy for next spring.

The more I think about it, the more excited I get...after all those years of deploying and moving around, living in barracks and tents and every shithole in Asia and South America plus the American Southwest, where I couldn't get anything I liked to grow, I'm finally in a place with a big yard and limitless options. I'll be there for at least three years and will actually get to see the whole thing grow and change from year to year. It's been so long since I've been able to garden--the last time was 1996, in Athens, Georgia, where I tilled a square in the middle of a kudzu patch and had gorgeous corn and tomato plants taller than I was. It was an amazing garden and I loved puttering around in it, pulling the surrounding kudzu vines off the corn every day, weeding, watering, harvesting.

So now I own this adorable house in Mississippi and can get to work without the specter of a deployment looming. This is the third house I've owned. The first was in Watertown, New York, which would have been a great place to garden...if only I hadn't spent the entire time I owned the house deployed to Afghanistan or Iraq. I loved that little house. I already mentioned why the Arizona house was a no-go. And really? Disliking the desert pushed me out of there--I hated never getting rain, the weather looking the same all the time, the lack of discernable seasons, and the fact that none of the plants I grew up with will grow there, despite my best efforts.

So in exactly 49.5 days, I get it all back, in abundance.

The other thing I really look forward to--wearing all the adorable sundresses I've snapped up over the last month or so, gorgeous wrap dresses from Athleta and three sort of 1930's-looking, classic sundresses from Territory Ahead, which is normally WAY too hippie for my tastes. I wore my blue wrap dress here a few days ago and people couldn't believe I wore a dress in Baghdad. Why not? I sit at a desk all day, I'm not out there in battle rattle getting shot at anymore. After being here over a year this stint, it feels wonderful to dress like a girl from time to time.

And why do you think Arab men wear those man-dress things, the dishdasha? Because it feels about ten degrees cooler in a dress. Plus, it just plain feels good to wear a dress.

After eight years of dressing like a man all day, every day, I'm finding that since I left the Army, I've gone more and more the other way--I never used to wear dresses and skirts, and now I can't get enough of them. I have a closet full of heels. I'm trying to shed my old tomboy self and embrace all things feminine...and it feels wonderful. Why did it take me so long to figure it out, that dressing and looking like a lady is the most powerful thing in the world?

Free Harley

Well, I got my staggering loss down to $23,000 by refusing to pay closing costs for the buyer. It's still more than I would pay for the Harley Softail Delux I've wanted since learning how to ride in 2005. I just gave away a Harley.

I flip-flopped for a couple of days after shit-ass Citimortgage refused the short sale. Apparently, if you behave responsibly and stay current on your payments, you get no help at all with the loss you're taking up the rear--I offered to split the difference, and they wouldn't even consider it. If you stop making payments, however, they'll work with you and forgive all that money. So I cancelled my Citibank credit card (I owe exactly ZERO on credit cards); they'll never get another dime of my money. I did the math--if I rented that goddamn house out at a monthly loss, it would take THREE YEARS to equal what I'm losing on the sale. AND I could have claimed both the loss and the interest on the mortgage on taxes. There's no other way to look at it--this is a devastating loss. It amounts to a full year of law school expenses.

But here's the thing--I'm free of it. Not only that, but my gut is telling me that keeping it would end up costing me more than $23K in the long run. One bad tenant could easily do that much damage. And the way things are going out there, the values could drop further--those asshole builders, they keep on building, even though there are HUNDREDS of vacant homes there. It will take many years for the population to catch up to the inventory of homes. Drive down any street, and you'll see dozens of houses for sale. The town is in trouble, and I may be getting out on the cheap, all things considered.

Not only that, but there is a very large population of contractors (Dept of Defense, not builders) in town whose incomes are starting to drop precipitously. Defense contracting is beginning to seriously constrict--people are having to take pay cuts, move every few years, and/or find another profession. And we have no way of knowing how the next Administration will handle contracting. Any way you look at it, the gravy train has slowed, and may soon stall out completely.

It's a good time to get out of it. And it's a good time to unload that house, even at that price.

And at least I HAVE $23K to lose. If not for my prodigious saving, I would not be able to sell the house, period. Turns out, if you can't cover the loss in cash, the title company will not allow you to sell. I'd be looking at missing payments, possibly foreclosing, and ruining the near-800 credit score I've worked so hard to achieve and maintain. I own the house I live in, I have ZERO debt outside that one mortgage, and when I graduate law school, I won't be in the same sorry shape so many new attorneys find themselves in--tens or even hundreds of thousands of dollars in the hole, and having to accept the highest-paying job they're offered, not necessarily the one they want.

We also moved the closing date to June 13 in order to save me as much interest to the mortgage company as possible. I've never been so happy to lose so much money--this house has been such a horrible burden, almost since the day I bought it. I will never buy a house in a new town again. It pays to rent first and take the time to figure out if you even LIKE it there enough to buy. And I will certainly never buy a house before selling the old one again. So this whole thing is a big learning experience--expensive lesson, but it didn't ruin my credit and I can fully recover from it.

The relief I will feel for the next three years is probably worth it, anyway.

*SOLD*

Ladies and gentlemen, after almost eighteen months on the market, I have finally sold that goddamn house in Arizona.

I have never been so happy to lose so much money in my life. I will write a check at closing for about $25K, which sets me WAY back on law school savings. I'll just have to find a way to make it work. It's tax deductible, but what folks don't seem to understand is that when you claim a $25K loss on your taxes, it ain't like you get your $25K back. You get the FEDERAL TAXES on your $25K back. So I'll get about six grand of it back.

I'm asking the bank for a short sale. I don't think they'll go for it, as I've never been late on a payment, but it's worth asking...and threatening to just not pay them the rest.

But even if I eat the full $25K, I can live with it. After getting ripped off by the first roofing company and watching the roof collapse, destroying the entire interior, living in a hotel for ten weeks, then getting ripped off by the construction company that handled the rebuild, fighting with the insurance company for months, then getting ripped off by two landscapers, one handyman, and even the cleaning lady, I am done with that house and that town.

All of the above people, by the way, have already dealt with the State of Arizona in court, or are still pending trial. I'm not kidding--I went after every last one of them by pressing charges with the Registrar of Contractors, who are more than happy to nail people to the wall. Arizona has the highest rate of complaints against contractors in the entire nation. Just ask the roofer who will never get a license again, has a huge judgement against him and a brand-new criminal record, then got hit by the IRS for tax fraud and the Social Security Administration for contracting to tear down a roof while getting disability for a bad back. He's still in jail. The handyman who stole my washer and dryer while I was here in Iraq (I swear I'm not making this up) is pending trial.

The town of Sierra Vista, Arizona, is populated by criminals, creeps, swindlers, shitty contractors, and lunatic Jesus-freak neighbors who called the cops every time I sneezed in their direction. I sincerely hope that the buyers have six Harleys, eight kids, and twelve barking dogs. I hope they make that jerk miserable.

That house is jinxed and the town is hostile. I came to hate that house (even though it's gorgeous), my neighbors, and the town, and it's worth $25K for me to just be SHUT of it, forever. I can now say I have no ties to that wretched place and the wretched people who populate it.

We close June 30, which means that when I get on the plane to come home on July 10, it will be minus the weight of that 2300-square-foot albatross.

Now That's a MAN

I kept seeing him at the gym and there was something about him I liked right away. He has an easy, unselfconscious confidence, not at all cocky, he's friendly and laughs a lot. Plus, he looks a bit like Christopher Meloni, the foxy guy on SVU. Pretty blue eyes, and I had him pegged as a Harley rider and former Special Forces NCO based on the tattoos and the demeanor. He would get on the elliptical trainer next to mine, always smiled and said hello, then proceeded to beat the shit out of himself on it.

I saw him out at a party in the Embassy compound with the group of friends he always has around. They're all somewhat like him--they seem like really cool guys, friendly and not tinged with the little bit of meanness I get out of the younger, traditional Infantry types. They're all guys I'd be friends with. So I walked up and introduced myself. We chatted for awhile and I was right--great sense of humor, guileless and warm, quietly confident. He's from upstate New York and has a great accent for humor.

After that, he always chatted with me in the gym, usually while I was drenched and out of breath on the elliptical. Then as he'd beat himself senseless on the one next to me, he'd play little games with me, like mouth wanna race? or throw water or pretend to shove me off my trainer. He's playful and I'm starting to like this guy.

Next time I saw him out, he shouted my name from across a loud room. J was with me, and I introduced her. She didn't see what I see, but that's okay--I see this guy like something special that not everyone's going to get, and it's better that way. Hell, I'm probably the same way. I told him my email address before I left, thinking he probably wouldn't remember it.

By the time I got home, he'd written me:

Subj: Put 'em up, Buttercup!

Hey Kristen!
As your e-mail address is still fresh in my pea-brain, I thought I might hit you on it and holler atcha!
Was good to see you tonight and I had a lot of fun over there.
Anyway, if ya need a sparring partner, I'll whip ur ass......aaahhhh, who the hell am I kidding.
I'm probably the only guy you know who gets knocked down by his own heavybag. HA-HAAAA!!!!

C-Ya in the gym!
Joe
aka JD

See? Playful, unassuming...and probably repeated my email address to himself all the way home. I was really impressed.

For about six weeks, we emailed back and forth, ran into each other in the gym, but somehow never quite connected. I could tell he liked me and seemed to enjoy touching me when I'm sweaty, but somehow, he just wasn't taking the bait. Granted, I wasn't exactly giving him the kind of encouragement some guys need, but we'd kept it friendly and agreed to link up last night.

He didn't show--he mentioned he may have to work, and one of his gym buddy friends was there. I work with a guy named Ryan, who's a very smart, capable analyst and a fun drunk. Among the little group of us (including two more of JD's friends), the subject of our amazing gym came up. Ryan started asking about a guy with a prosthetic leg. Everyone was puzzled. JD's friend said, "I've been going there for like a year and I've never seen a dude with a prosthetic leg."

Ryan described him. "He's got tattoos all over his arms and you can tell his leg is seriously fucked up, but he gets on that elliptical and he's like an animal on that thing..."

Me, even more puzzled. "Sounds like JD." Then JD's friend told me about What Happened to JD.

He was SHOT. Right through the top of his leg, here in Iraq in 2005, and it took most of the top of his quads with it. He was supposed to die right there. He didn't. Then he was supposed to spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair, never walk again. Not this guy. He barely limps, which is why I never even noticed an injury. He's scarred all to hell, he's had over 35 surgeries and the reason it looks like he's killing himself on that elliptical trainer? Is because he's in some serious pain.

One of the other guys they're always there with is some Special Forces fitness master who has written books, and took JD on when he got here in January. This guy put him on an intense, painful regimen that has him pretty close to the way he was before he was shot, when he was Special Forces and operated all over the world as such.

As his friend reverently told the story, the admiration plain in his voice, all I could think was, Now that's a man. The more I thought about it, the more sense it made. He only wears pants in the gym. The guys, all former SF, respect the shit out of him--it's written all over them.

So I announced, loudly enough for all to hear: "I don't care, he's still smokin' hot." There was a bit of a stunned silence. He is, though, and now? I think he's even hotter. His buddy grinned broadly, clearly pleased as pie. "You can tell him I said that. In fact, I hope you do tell him. I hope it makes his day."

"Oh, Kristen, you have no idea how much it will make his day." He went on to plan a trip for me to go see JD in upstate New York, where he lives. Hell, I love it up there, I'm all about it. Then he just kept going after I told him I have a Harley, about how JD and I can ride off into the sunset, grinning and holding hands on our Harleys. He was excited about it. It was really sweet and reaffirmed what I'd thought about these guys--what a cool bunch. They rallied around JD and pushed him through these workouts. The more I thought about it, the more I saw it, and the more I liked it.

As for the trip and the holding hands? His buddy was drinking and I didn't take that part seriously. But I meant what I said about this guy. To make it through all that pain, to stare his own death right in the face, then to power through it like a bull and come out on the other side without a trace of bitterness or anger and with that easy, bighearted sense of humor?

Now that's a man.

I had the conversation with Jessie and afterwards, felt worse than ever about the friendship. She essentially delivered an ultimatum that had me overhauling my entire personality so that she and the other two will "like" me.

I'm loud. Shocker, I know. Fucking deal with it. I grew up among loud people and I couldn't change it if I wanted to--even my whisper is audible to the geezer two hundred yards away in a windstorm. I got over being self-conscious about it long ago. I know it annoys some people, but my voice is as much a part of me as my nose and even less correctable.

Makes me a great public speaker, though. I imagine it'll only help me as a an attorney that every man, woman, and child in any courtroom will hear every word from my mouth. I don't expect attorneys who mumble or speak at a barely-audible squeak make very good trial lawyers.

The other major character flaw that she told me about "so I'd have the opportunity to change," as if she's doing me a favor by tearing me down? When I walk into a room, I don't properly greet each person, I "shotgun." I.e., say something along the lines of "What's up, ya'll?" as opposed to, I dunno, laying a hand on each person's arm and asking them about their day. Evidently, this lack of ability to "communicate well with others" indicates that I'm selfish and don't care about people. And "other people" have apparently noticed...which is usually just the way people shore up a weak argument, the justification of everybody thinks so intended to leave you to believe you're the only idiot who doesn't see it.

This from the woman I've listened to for months as her marriage fell apart. I've held her hand and been as supportive and honest as I know how to be. I've listened without judging her for hours on end. I haven't bogged her down with hours of agonizing over my albatross house in Arizona, or the things that aren't being taken care of that are costing me thousands of dollars at home, or my family that completely fell apart at the seams, leaving me to fend mostly for myself in this world, or any of the other shit I go through every day.

The root of this whole issue was and still is that we've all spent 15-20 hours a day together...we just plain got sick of each other. She has an annoying tendency to brag about how much every man she meets thinks she's the most amazing woman to every walk the earth. It just gets old.

I didn't ignore her or trash her behind her back. I didn't rally two other people who were upset for a completely invalid reason that could have been cleared up immediately if they'd had the balls to ask me about it. They didn't--they got together with J and picked through every one of my faults they could conjure. Then ignored me. Then had J deliver this ultimatum about overhauling my personality. Which at 37 years of age? Ain't happenin'.

I bounced all this off several trusted friends. The consensus was that this whole thing is incredibly petty. In the big picture of a person, their method of greeting a room full of people is not something you trash them over, no matter how much it bothers you.

So I tapped out. I'm on friendly terms with everyone involved, but we no longer hang out. I've got other friends here for recreation. Several comments have been made, indirectly of course, that they don't Hold Grudges.

But they're all mistaken. I'm not holding a grudge. I'm not "punishing" them. I just saw a side of all three that I wish I'd never seen--petty, manipulative, and mean. Did anyone really think I'm so pathetic that I would change the way I interact with the world to get them to like me? I'm professional and courteous, but knowing what they think about every little thing that may come out of my mouth, I'm dreadfully self-conscious and uncomfortable around them. So no, I don't hang out--how much time would you want to spend with someone who said they hate your voice?

The function of friendship is not to change each other--we love and accept friends as they are, as we've already decided their assets outweigh their liabilities. Kind, constructive criticism is welcome. Picking someone apart and tearing them down after shunning them for a week is not. Which could go a long way to explain why I've made and kept several lifelong friends, some for twenty years. Developing and maintaining close female friendships has never been a huge challenge for me--I love to spend time with cool women. Men, too, but different friends have different roles. J was my fun friend, mostly. We laugh a great deal and have big fun at times. I never relied on her for big emotional support because she's not That Friend. And I always got the feeling she enjoyed feeling superior to me in some ways--not exactly the makings of the friend you seek when you're feeling fragile.

Don't get me wrong, J is a great person overall--which is why, even with the bragging, I'd weighed the pros and cons and decided to be her friend because she's usually so much fun to be around. Shame I couldn't expect the same supportive acceptance from her.

Well, the latest is, I think we're going to resolve this thing...I'm supposed to have lunch with J tomorrow. I'm still trying to decide if maybe I overreacted, or if J decided to finally talk to me about whatever was bugging her. The truth probably lies somewhere in the middle. I will definitely tell her what it looked like from where I'm sitting. And I don't know that I can ever go back to the way it was--that hostility was not in my mind.

At least we'll be civil after talking about it--these last few days have been horrible. I've missed my buddy. Whatever happens, I really think it came from C, and I now have no doubt I can't trust him as far as I can throw him. That much I know for certain.

I hate drama and conflict, and it's a relief that at least the hostility part is over with.

With Friends Like This...

Every so often, all the seething personal conflicts roil up to the surface in an organization like this. Now is one such time.

My (possibly former) posse has exiled me without telling me there was a problem, asking me for an explanation and/or apology for something I've done to offend them, or giving me any indication what this whole thing is about. It is unmistakable. They've barely spoken to me in almost a week. J walks right past my open office door without even looking at me several times a day.

I initially thought it was in my mind. Then I thought maybe I had missed opportunities to make gestures, and maybe they thought I was avoiding them. But I don't think either is true--they make excuses not to go to the chow hall with me and all conversations are strictly professional, no laughing and joking. I said hello to J in the bathroom this morning, and the temperature tangibly chilled.

It's puzzling. Once I've decided someone is a friend and worthy of my trust and respect, I go talk to them if they've done something to offend me. Either that, or I decide it's not worth making an issue of, and I get over it. I don't understand the silent treatment--I've never perpetrated one myself and it seems counterproductive. Especially when we are all forced to live and work together. I would never intentionally do anything to hurt any of them and it's ruined several of my days lately.

Most issues among people who call each other friends boil down to miscommunication and/or misunderstanding of motives or factors that may not be readily apparent. Hence the conversation that should always take place: "Hey, you pissed me off by doing X." "OK, well you didn't know that Y happened," OR "OK, that wasn't my intention / I behaved badly and I apologize." Amazing what one can accomplish in under five sentences.

This has all got me thinking about the company I've been keeping. If they'll exile me over something they don't even care to address with me face to face, how much did they ever value my friendship in the first place? These are people with whom I've been very close for a year now. A year here is like two at home--we're a fairly small community and spend many hours together every day. It's about as close to being married to a group of people as most of us will ever get outside the ranch in Eldorado, Texas.

I won't talk to anyone here about what's going on. Someone asked me at breakfast why I haven't been hanging out with some of the folks involved, and I responded, "I've been exiled. Dunno why." Changed the subject. It would only get back to them and make things worse, maybe from the silent treatment to open hostility. Which we all need about like a shot to the forehead.

Coiffed

America, I've been coiffed.

One of the biggest drags of being over here is the unavailability of a good beauty salon. If you're a guy reading this, I don't expect you to understand the gravity of the situation--I haven't had my hair cut since I was home in November. And the color? Yeah, I do it myself, standing in my room, trying not to leak it all over my bedspread, and hope for the best. The stuff you buy in the drugstore just ain't the same if you're grey as a gramma like I am. Not to mention the fact that I can't exactly match the gorgeous color I got at the salon at home...I went a shade lighter, and now there's a subtle two-tonedness to my locks that I cannot WAIT to get fixed this July.

It doesn't look horrible, it just doesn't look great. A woman's hair is the single-most important feature under her direct control, and if it ain't right? Mamma ain't right. Period.

So the least I can do is get a decent trim, and my only option is the tiny shop on our FOB with a sign outside that reads Cleopatra's Saloon (sic). With the arrow pointing the wrong way, across the street at the port-o-let. Having never seen an Iraqi woman with short hair, I figured it would be safe to get a trim, as my hair is also long. Iraqi women, especially in their 30's and 40's, are also generally very made up, lots of hairspray and makeup, attention paid to clothing and jewelry. They don't let themselves go for the most part, you won't see them shlepping about in a track suit with dirty hair.

Which, in this environment and given what their lives outside the gate must be like, is actually pretty damn stoic. God bless 'em.

So Cleo welcomes me in, washes my hair, and combs it out. She looks puzzled. "You have two different colors in your hair, one is like copper and the other more like blond."

I nod and explain the color situation. She nods and instructs me to put the color on the roots--which actually aren't "roots," they're like four inches long, my hair grows fast--and leave it on for forty minutes, then comb it through the rest. I don't go on to explain that the drugstore color will not cover the salon color, no matter what I do. Her hair is very long and black--although she says hers is also grey underneath. We're all engaged in the same struggle.

I look at the framed photos on her counter. Cleo smiling in several academic-looking settings, accepting awards in a business suit. I ask her if she had been a teacher. She nods. I was Chemical Engineer under Saddam. I smile and nod with respect, suitably impressed. There is nothing else to say to this woman who held a PhD and now makes her living styling hair in Iraq's new world order.

She spins me around to face the mirror. Most beauty parlors the world 'round make the mistake of spotlighting the clientele with the harshest of all flourescent light. I know they need to see your hair, but it's demoralizing to sit in front of a mirror in front of that light. I studied myself in a way I can't in my room with my one little bulb.

I look very pale. Check. I've lost some weight and my face is a bit thinner. Check, hallalujah. My skin's blessedly clear, but every new wrinkle looks magnified. But the thing I find a bit alarming is how tired I look. The blowing dust here keeps my contacts dry and my eyes a bit swollen, and it brings out the bags. I look utterly exhausted, despite my near-pathological insistence on at least eight hours of sleep a night. Working over 90 hours a week for over a year will do it to the best of us, even with sufficient sleep. In this harsh light, I look...well, I guess I look my age, which has never been the case.

Cleo takes about ten minutes to cut my hair, getting the long layers just right. She then spends about an hour burning it with a hair dryer, bullying it into submission with a round brush, clipping sections up here and there. There is a great deal of hairspray. But somehow, she managed to curl the bottom half of my poker-straight locks without a curling iron or rollers, only the brushes and her fingers, and the slight stench of burning hair under the intensity of the dryer she wielded like a samurai.

It was parted all wrong and the front wasn't right, but after I got outside, shook it out, and ran my hands through it, it looked fabulous. I caught a glimpse of myself in a shop mirror as I walked back to our building. I can definitely see the weight loss. I'm wearing a red, v-necked t-shirt, capris, and sandals. I don't look nearly so tired in the light of day. I do look pale, but it's in a good way, if that's possible.

I must look better than I think, because I'm still seeing a man ten years my junior who can benchpress over 400 pounds. There isn't much competition and I seriously doubt I'd turn his head in normal life, but know what? I don't care. You take the good with the bad over here; this hot young boytoy cancels out a great deal of the monotony and bullshit I deal with daily. And I don't hear him complaining.

I'M OKAY...but Iraq, most decidedly, is not.

I just want to remind everyone: I live on a different end of the International Zone than the side that's getting hammered with rockets right now. I live in a thick, concrete building that has never been hit with a rocket or mortar, except the JDAM that we (as in the United States) sank right down the center. And it barely left a mark. This building is as safe as it gets here in Iraq, and I don't tend to leave it very often when things get noisy out there. Well, it's also over 100º already, so I'm in dog-under-porch mode already.

Please try not to worry. I'm safe where I am.

I spent last Sunday afternoon talking to a battalion-level intelligence officer who lives on a Combat OutPost (COP, a surge concept). It reminded me why I left the Army, and why I'm so happy to be right where I am. His COP is beyond vulnerable. If Mookie (Muqtada al-Sadr) lifts the cease-fire he imposed on Jaysh al-Mahdi last August, this Captain assesses that he and his guys will have fighting positions in their rooms. These COPs are all over Baghdad--small bases with tactical-level units, most of whom look around at Baghdad within arm's reach just outside the walls and hope this lull in attacks will hold until they leave theater.

The recent spike in attacks is the result of Mookie hinting around lifting the cease-fire. The relative calm we've experienced since last August is NOT entirely attributable to the surge, despite the gloating, crowing politicians' I told you so's. It's also strongly tied to the cease-fire. Well, that and the hugely successful reconciliation effort. It's myopic to say that the surge is working--a combination of factors have quieted Baghdad, not just the presence of extra troops.

It's a precarious quiet, make no mistake about it.

If the JAM cease-fire goes, we'll be right back where we were last summer--rockets and mortars are a Shia Thang (as is JAM), piped in from Iran (also Shia), and the reconciliation has been most successful with Sunnis. Which means fewer car-bombs and suicide bombers, but the rockets and mortars keep coming. The last three days have borne this theory out; it's been pretty damn noisy around here. And those guys out there on the COPs? Allah help them.

If things go back to hell here in Baghdad, what will that do to the election? Everyone seems to have mostly forgotten about Iraq on account of the trifecta: housing misery (which keeps me up at night), the seesawing stock market, and the lack of dramatic news from Iraq of late. It could change the dynamics of the discourse...but I'm not sure that's a good thing. I think we've neglected domestic policy and issues since 9/11, and it's time to turn our attention inward. That said, I don't believe we can withdraw--I think it's one of those things candidates say now that they will have to retract later. I tend to take anything said during a campaign with a grain of salt--it's not cynical, it's just that people jump out to their left and right extremes when it suits their ambitions, then settle back into the (relative) center when the time comes to actually make some decisions for which they'll be held accountable.

What do I think we should do here? I just don't know. I'm pissed off that the Iraqi government hasn't taken control. They seem perfectly content to let us continue to do all the heavy lifting, and the corruption, demagoguery, and foreign influence mean this government couldn't break up a cookie fight at a kindergarten. But if we leave, it WILL go to hell. Iran will run it, and that is not a happy scenario for anyone but Iran. Including Iraq. Especially Iraq.

We can't do it for them forever, and there seems to be little incentive or will within the Government of Iraq to take the reins and get this shit done. Also, most of the educated men and women have un-assed; most Iraqis with the means to leave the country (read: the best and brightest) have done so. So what are you left with?

Think of what this place will look like in twenty years. The kids haven't regularly been to school, most teachers have left anyway, all this generation has known is what they view as an occupation, and consistent exposure to violence unlike anything a child in an industrialized country could even dream up.

Iraq is an unsolvable trainwreck. I agree with Madeleine Albright: invading Iraq was the worst foreign policy decision of our generation, maybe of all American history. But I tend not to get into that argument, because it just does not matter--what's next, that matters.

I truly feel sorry for whoever wins this election. The next President will be handed a mountainous steaming turd, and nothing he/she says or does will make it smell like a rose.

Hippity Hoppity

Twenty-seven rounds of indirect fire (rockets) impacted the International Zone yesterday in four separate vollies, spaced throughout the day. None fell near us. We'd planned to attend Easter services and have a special dinner at a location outside our little immediate area, but after the second salvo, we decided against that course of action, opting instead to gorge on crappy Easter candy here in our thick, concrete building. It's already over 100º, so it's just as well.

The supervisor gig is no trouble at all so far. We're all holding our breaths when it comes to our futures--the contract's up for rebid, and we don't know what will happen...except that we'll all have jobs here. So I may not be a supervisor for long--if another company takes over, I'm no longer responsible for anything above and beyond myself and my own work. Personally, I don't much care either way--I'm out of here in July regardless.

And my company is already making noise about offering me some kind of fat, 6-figure position in the DC area. I freely admit, it's tough to turn down--I'm in a field where I know what I'm doing, I'm good at it, and it's lucrative. When I decided on law school, I was in a boring job in a boring town, and things have changed significantly since then. I've found myself wavering. But then, if I stay in touch with my company, these jobs will not go away, they'll only get better after law school, even if I decided to go back into straight intelligence, not use the law degree.

Curiosity got the better of me, and I went fishing around on the government's website for attorney positions within the counterintelligence community. And I *really* liked what I saw. Great pay, interesting work, with an international aspect, and I already have the clearance issues resolved. Oh, and the 10-point veteran's benefit applies. It got me kind of excited. It's a short-term/long-term struggle--I can go make six figures in DC now, and I won't see the payoff for law school for several years.

But I know I'm doing the right thing. It's just going to take time to see it. This was how I felt when I left the Army just as I pinned Captain, and that worked out extremely well. Even the Arizona gig was not a mistake--my supervisor there went to bat for me to get this position, which is providing a springboard into upper-echelon management at the world's largest defense contractor. Or at least, a gorgeous resume for job-hunting time, out in 2011. Funny how those Army years and all the crap I dealt with have all turned into my greatest selling points.

I just have to keep the faith in two years, when my savings are dwindling and I contemplate that fat salary I could be making. I just have to know that I'll be as good at law as I am at intel, and if I can successfully combine the two, it'll be a unique and endlessly fascinating career.

Or, I could be making six figures in DC. Damn, it really is hard to turn down.

Wanna see my house?

This is the link to the virtual tour for the Arizona property that's ruining my life. Prepare to be BLOWN AWAY.

(Or, totally cheesed out by the bucolic slow-mo and elevator music.)

On the bright side (the very bright side, actually), I got an unexpected promotion to a supervisory position. The pay's only marginally better (still, more than I'll ever make as an attorney) for the extra five pounds of crap I'll have to deal with every day. I have a good relationship with everyone I supervise, so I don't forsee any issues I can't handle. And it will look fantastic on my resume'.

Never a dull moment...I'm having a streak of great career luck, and I REALLY wish it would extend to the AZ house. Insha'allah.

File under Things That Make Me Want To Drink Gin Straight From The Cat Bowl: My lovely home state introduced a bill that would actually ban restaurants from "feeding the morbidly obese." That's right, it's all the restaurants' fault. In the fattest state in the US, and by extension, the world.

Don't read this next bit if you have food in one hand. It ain't polite.

Our chow hall has recently introduced these amazing burritos, pita wraps, and sandwiches. Most days for lunch, it's one of the three--grilled meat, wonderful chile cream sauce, bacon, and tortilla/pita/bun. They are the best thing here and most people go to lunch and get a second helping for dinner. People rarely label the tinfoil packages in the fridge, as each knows they have this little slice of heaven and will eat it as soon as it can reasonably be called suppertime.

So, my buddy Craig noticed that one burrito exceeded the normal 24-hour window for eating it for supper. He asked around because he wanted to eat it. No one claimed ownership. He ate it.

Its rightful owner was irate. Hours later, a human turd appeared in Craig's desk drawer. I swear I'm not making this up.

All the guys in the office, while somewhat grossed out, thought it was hilarious. The women were horrified. Is this a guy thing, taking a shit in someone's desk drawer? The perpetrator was an Army Officer, no less. And might I point out, this was not a proportionate response. It's like nuking the city of Chicago to get at a sniper.

I guess it's kind of funny now in a who the hell takes a shit in a drawer kind of way. While we laughed about it at chow the next day, I remembered The Incident.

I lived with an Infantry battalion in Saddam's old intelligence school for a couple of weeks when I was here as a soldier. It was a massive, six-story building, and the plumbing did not work--I'm pretty sure I blogged about it at the time. We had toilet and shower trailers outside...but it was six stories down. So if you were on the sixth floor and you were a young guy, you pretty much pissed into bottles. And yes, it is disgusting, especially since they tended to accumulate.

But that's not even the worst of it.

The building also had trash chutes and elevator shafts. All manner of ugliness piled up in the elevator shafts, but the trash chutes emptied into the Sergeant Major's office...and was therefore off-limits.

Ostensibly, anyway.

Every morning, at roughly 7am, someone would shit on a cardboard chow hall tray and send it down the chute. As it clattered into the Sergeant Major's office, all hell would instantly break loose, every soldier yanked from their rooms and out into the sunlight, threats issued while most people tried not to laugh.

This went on for about ten days, and the perp was never caught. That's taking passive aggression to a whole new level. And if you weren't one of those guys getting yanked out of bed and screamed at, or the Sergeant Major, it was funny in an oh my god who shits on a tray and sends it down a trash shoot to the Sergeant Major kind of way.

It's only on deployment that I've seen this behavior, the icky Poop Joke taken to its farthest extreme. But then, I never lived in a frat house.

I'm awake at 2am, thinking about it...right now, I just can't commit myself to another year over here. It may be the best thing to just come on home in July and figure things out from there. I really need to get to/through law school now, not in a year. I'm wondering if my dad can help me out, if worse comes to worst. I hate that idea, but it's there.

I don't have to decide right away, and I'm trying something new with that damn house to get it to sell. I may be able to pull this thing off yet, get home this summer. Insh'Allah, God willing.

In the meantime, another sleepless night...

I Must Be Crazy...

...because I'm thinking about staying here another year, putting off law school *yet again.* Thing is, I got caught in the housing collapse--my property in Arizona has tanked completely, and my losses will add up to more than all three years of tuition combined. It scares the crap out of me to start school with it hanging over my head. Talk about a bad investment. Seemed like such a good idea at the time--no one could have predicted how badly Arizona would get hit with the housing crisis. I can't even rent it out for anything close to the mortgage payment, it's so bad.

If I jump into school now before recovering from what could be abject financial failure, I could end up in the kind of trouble I said I'd never get into again. It took seven years to pull my credit out of the gutter after the first round of student loans and bad decisions--I never want to live through that again. And the more I look at it, I'm headed down that road...that is, unless I stay here another year, tough it out, and recover from the six-digit hit I'm taking. I wish I were exaggerating. Between the house and my mutual funds, it's a serious bloodbath.

It keeps me awake for hours at night, worrying about it.

GOD I don't want to. I miss my family, my house, my town, my animals, all of it. I miss my life. And for the sake of all that's holy, I don't want to put off law school yet again. Plus, I'm excited about starting school, jumping into it and getting my hands dirty. I hope Ole Miss doesn't tell me to go get bent if I bail out one more time.

But not so excited about the recession and my hemorrhaging savings account. Nothing in the news leads me to believe the bottom of this ride is anywhere close. I made a bad decision buying that house, but at least I have the means to recover, where so many have lost everything.

But I also understand that I have a fantastic job here--it's infinitely fascinating, pays obscenely well, and I'm surrounded by competent, hard-working, fun people. Professionally, it does not get any better than this. It just doesn't.

I could be back in time to start the summer term in *gulp* 2009. Which would put me at 42 at graduation. I can graduate up to my neck in debt at 41, or with enough surplus to take time off, study for the Bar, and find a job I want--at 42.

Kind of seems like a no-brainer...but I'm having a hard time wrapping my head around another year away from home, another year to wait for school. I need to sleep on it a few nights, figure this whole thing out, then commit to that course of action.

Begin

Some sweet woman named Alise left me the following comment on an older post:

"Kristen. Dude. Reading your post is like having someone recite aloud the thoughts in your head without having actually imparted them to that person. Your blog is awesome! (Um, so I guess I'm awesome?) I think you should forgo law-school and write. Be a Kinky Friedman or a Calvin Trillin. If you're not familiar, get thee to a bookstore ASAP. Regards, your sister from another mother. Alise"

A total stranger just made my whole day.

I've wanted to be a writer since I was about ten. I guess I'm still looking around for the right story to tell. I have enough time here, I should give it a serious shot. But how does one even begin to actually write the type stuff I like to read--i.e., short stories, dense novels, meaty fiction? Because I wouldn't be satisfied with it if it weren't up to the standards I apply to what I read. And is there really still a living to be made from it in this day and age, or more importantly, a readership?

And again, where, how do you start?? An outline of a narrative? Do you just start writing without knowing where the plot's going, how it will end? How did Flannery O'Connor do it? Is this something that can be researched? Are good writers born that way, or do they train themselves for it?

When I lived in the same town (El Paso, TX) as Cormac McCarthy, I was on the lookout for him everywhere I went--the grocery store, gas stations, coffee shops, I scanned the streets and buildings, hoping to run into him. Because that's what I wanted to ask him, if I could manage it without stuttering and coming off all creepy and stalkerish--how do you start these amazing stories?

People who think they could be writers are a dime a dozen. I read somewhere that it's never surprising when a friend says they're working on a novel, it's only surprising when someone actually finishes one.

I suspect it's like anything else, after all is said and done: writers find their voice and method by doing. But I also suspect there's a degree of drudgery--you have to keep at it, plug away every day, requiring dedication and sacrifice.

What We Deserve

"You know when they see hurricanes hitting your coasts, they think it's Allah's wrath." The Danish lawyer went on, "They see the traffic lights blown sideways and think you're getting what you deserve."

This was during a break in the poker game with the Brits. I was up by a*lot* and it was looking good for my winning the night's tournament. We gathered outside in the crisp air while they all smoked and I just took a breather. Some of the old guys, regular players, had been unhappy about losing hands, and a couple of them were right grumpy.

Davie, who is from Northern Ireland and whose friend dates my friend, joined us. He was pretty drunk already. I still don't drink here--it's a war zone. If something happens, you're what, drunk? I don't even have a weapon, so I'd really need my wits about me if something went wrong.

"I'm sure many people in the Middle East do believe that, but how do you counter that? It's not something that can be helped. Ignorant people will think ignorant things and you know how Arab media works--it's pure emotion and no one questions whether or not any of it is actually true. They just believe it. The function of media is different--they think we're silly for expecting impartiality." I mentioned Saddam's Information Minister, that nutjob who said American soldiers were committing suicide by the tens of thousands outside the gates of Baghdad. People actually believed it.

The Dane nodded. I was justabout to remark on the incident in his country with the Muhammad cartoon as case in point when Davie broke in.

"You Yanks need a war every fifteen years for your economy," he slurred.

I know I shot him a look. "What? Our economy was in the best shape it's ever been in before the Iraq war and now look at it. And we're fighting TWO wars."

"Yeah, that kind of tanks that one, doesn't it?" Jinns laughed.

"You're not really fighting the war in Afghanistan, WE are." We as in,the British Army.

I've already sat through his tirades about how far superior the British Army is to the American Army and have exercised admirable restraint in not arguing over it. What's the point? I like the Brits and I don't need to get into a pissing match and say shitty things about their military the way Davie has about ours. I'd gotten used to having to answer for America's actions in this crowd. It's an uncomfortable position to be in when you don't actually agree with so much of it. Usually, it's good-natured, like someone's just asking for my opinion. This time, it felt like a deliberate affront.

I'm sure the expression on my face said it all. Davie's not the sharpest knife in the drawer, he has no respect for Americans, and he was drunk. I really did not want to engage this jackass.

"We have more fighting troops over there than you do."

I laughed, which probably pissed him off. But come on! "What are you, high? Did you bump your head?"

"How many troops do you have there?" he asked, becoming louder and more belligerent.

It was quickly getting uncomfortable and I tried to ease my tone, keep my tone light so as not to make A Scene. "I don't know off the top of my head, over 20,000."

Actually, once the next round of Marines gets there, it'll be 28,600, give or take. The Brits have fewer than 4,000. I looked it up the next day.

"We have more than that. We're fighting your war. Your military's shit anyway, the British Army is ten times better."

I was starting to get pissed. I hadn't come there for a fight and all I could think about was how I would never behave this way towards them. It's just bad form."You're wrong. Look it up tomorrow when you're sober. I know for a fact we have more troops there." I tried to make it sound like I was done with the conversation, and turned back to Jinns to change the subject.

He was suddenly furious, having worked himself into a clannish frenzy. "You Yanks got what you deserved on 9/11. You can't take it when it's on your soil. I lived in Northern Ireland for fourteen years, I lived with it every day, and you get it once and you go starting world war over it."

I stared at him in disbelief. I couldn't even speak. And I could not believe that no one else standing there said anything. Had the tables been turned and it was a Brit in our compound, I would have shut any American down for this line of shit long before it reached this point. Silence is one step down from outright complicity.

He kept on in this line until I finally cracked and said something to the effect of you go fuck yourself, what kind of man are you to say something like that, what the hell's wrong with you, etc. I pushed past him, back inside.

He even sneered to my back, "Yeah, walk away, truth hurts doesn't it." He's lucky I didn't physically assault him, I was so upset.

Our two friends, the ones who are dating, were the first people I saw when I got inside. I was so angry, I was afraid I'd cry. Which would be nothing short of horrifying. J knew right away something had happened--her whole face changed when she saw me. "What's wrong?"

I pointed at Andy, Davie's longtime friend. "Your buddy's a fucking asshole." I told them what happened and Andy looked mortified. Davie still continued his rant outside. Kev, a really huge, sweet bald guy who'd been to my left at the poker table, filled my hand with M&M's, apologizing for Davie's behavior.

Why didn't anyone shut him up? I looked around at the people I'd spent the last month getting to know. They all suddenly looked very different. Do they agree with him? Is it a cultural thing, that no one would step in and tell someone they're out of line? What kind of people are you? I've always considered the Brits (and Aussies) as our brothers and sisters, our best allies, the ones we could count on for a good time and good company. And to be fair, I've never heard one of the English guys go on this way--it's always the Scots or Irish. They seem to be so clannish and proud, in this crowd it translates to outright xenophobia.

He tried to apologize later after some of his buddies told him what an asshole he was (little late for that), but I wouldn't talk to him--you can't unring that bell, sweetheart.

J told me later that she wouldn't have taken the bait, that she doesn't let things people say get to her. That's just not part of my package, and here's why: if you can't defend your convictions, especially about the BIG things, your homeland, your countrymen and women, your way of life, then you lack courage or conviction. Or both.

Or maybe it's laziness, too much trouble to speak up. People might not like it, I may offend someone. Know what offends me? Dead Americans, on our soil or someone else's, and any idiot who says or thinks it was anything less than an unspeakable act worthy of the world's wrath. I am extremely passionate about certain things, and I'm not sorry. My homeland is one of them--I would actually have a really hard time respecting any American who could stand there silent in the face of comments like that.

I don't walk around getting into fights--I'm usually very good at disagreeing without getting shrill. I'm respectful about it. But this was just beyond the pale. He knew I'd been an American soldier, so even absent the 9/11 comments, it was astonishingly, unacceptably rude.

I sat back down at the table, still very angry, still not convinced that the opinion wasn't shared to some degree by everyone present, but determined to just finish the game. I won over $400 and as soon as the last hand was done, I took my money and left without saying goodbye to anyone outside the poker game.

I'm never going back.

We Have Different Grammas

I've been inexcusably lazy in posting...bad girl! Actually, when this popped up for my login screen, I was a bit leery about logging in, knowing what I know about bad guys and media exploitation:Turns out, though, Blogger just launched an Arabic version, it wasn't a hack job. At least I hope it wasn't. If my blog is replaced by some raging bullshit, you'll know I've been schwamied. Or maybe THIS is the raging bullshit.

I often feel like the proverbial square peg. I rarely shake this feeling unless I'm among friends I've known for at least a couple of years. Over here, it's like an urban bar scene...I definitely don't fit in and it makes me right self-conscious at times. Not that I care enough to overhaul my personality--it kind of pisses me off when I'm reminded that I'm loud (which I am), or that I have a "strong personality" (also true), etc. I think I'm one of those people you either really like, or really don't like, and there's likely very little middle ground. But know what? Fucking deal with it, I won't put on airs to keep people from getting the vapors. I'm not mean, I don't hurt people, I try to be kind, so if loudness in and of itself is the issue, that's just silly and harkens back to some June Cleaver, women-should-be-delicate-flowers bullshit.

All the holiday season goodwill disappeared shortly after New Year's, so we're back to business as usual with the office drama. And as usual, I'm not involved, just observing and trying not to choose sides. Keeps things lively, but also irritates the crap out of me from time to time, watching everyone assign nefarious motives to each other's every word and facial expression, the smallness it begets in people with already stingy natures. I'm trying not to let it rub off on me--I've been That Person before, and I'm working hard to not be so judgemental and negative myself, give everyone the benefit of the doubt. It can be tough, and some people don't deserve it...but I've come to admire that generousness and tolerance (with a hefty dose of patience) in others where I didn't previously see it in myself. Just being conscious of it helps immensely.

So I'm working on it. And I have to be patient and tolerant with myself in the process.