For those of you out there who have my address and like to send me things (those of you who don't have my address and would like to send me things, email me through the profile :) ), here's a short wish-list, things I can't get over here and miss:
*Lipton Cup-a-Soup Spicy Thai Chicken flavor
*David brand BBQ sunflower seeds
*Bath and Body Works Lemongrass Facial Scrub (this especially! If you haven't tried it, run right out and get some!)
*Raspberry Ice Crystal Lite
*Nips--coffee flavor
*Southern Living magazine
*Zapp's chips, any flavor but especially vinegar & salt and the Cajun mesquite BBQ
We can buy candy over here and since so many people send it anyway, the break room already looks like a 7-11.
Saturday, October 16, 2004
Wednesday, October 13, 2004
Pumpin' Them Man Buns 4 Life
If you haven't peed in a plastic portajohn since that stint in construction ten years ago, you're missing out on some prime graffiti.
My favorite string in the big blues outside our headquarters involves the misadventures of "8-Ball," who evidently fancies himself quite the ladies' man. The first entry went something like this: 8Ball Pumpin' Them Buns 4 Life!! A truly frightening illustration of what looked like a horror movie skull-mask performing oral sex accompanied. Rumor has it the original 8Ball is a Sergeant I've assessed as a walking harrassment complaint, no military bearing with female soldiers whatsoever. He stood in front of my desk last week, executing his best Eminem impersonation: "Sup, LT? When we goin' out? You never smile no mo', LT, 'sup?" And I didn't smile then, either, as I asked him who the hell he thought he was talking to.
The rumors flew for weeks, everyone wondering Who Is 8Ball? It became the headquarters joke. 8 Balls were drawn on dry-erase boards with the initials PTMB4Life. At least three different men claimed to be 8Ball. Then the many talents of a female named PNut were extolled, and the attendant conjecture of her identity.
Someone replied by inserting "Man" before the "Buns"...so, Pumpin' Them Man Buns 4 Life. Then ensued the usual homosexual accusations, more crude sketches of female anatomy, a comment about my good friend Josee (LT R___ski is HOT!!), and the best of them all, the comments surrounding the actual plastic urinal sporting the required solid air-freshener disc upon which I suppose the gents are supposed to pee.
An arrow into the bowl: Our hopes of leaving theater, do what you must...
Hmm, I wish I had a silver dollar-sized piece of candy, oh look! It really is a wishing well!
Only the dead have seen the end of war
From the sophomoric mire springs the occasional gem and even a quote from the classics. Infinitely entertaining.
My favorite string in the big blues outside our headquarters involves the misadventures of "8-Ball," who evidently fancies himself quite the ladies' man. The first entry went something like this: 8Ball Pumpin' Them Buns 4 Life!! A truly frightening illustration of what looked like a horror movie skull-mask performing oral sex accompanied. Rumor has it the original 8Ball is a Sergeant I've assessed as a walking harrassment complaint, no military bearing with female soldiers whatsoever. He stood in front of my desk last week, executing his best Eminem impersonation: "Sup, LT? When we goin' out? You never smile no mo', LT, 'sup?" And I didn't smile then, either, as I asked him who the hell he thought he was talking to.
The rumors flew for weeks, everyone wondering Who Is 8Ball? It became the headquarters joke. 8 Balls were drawn on dry-erase boards with the initials PTMB4Life. At least three different men claimed to be 8Ball. Then the many talents of a female named PNut were extolled, and the attendant conjecture of her identity.
Someone replied by inserting "Man" before the "Buns"...so, Pumpin' Them Man Buns 4 Life. Then ensued the usual homosexual accusations, more crude sketches of female anatomy, a comment about my good friend Josee (LT R___ski is HOT!!), and the best of them all, the comments surrounding the actual plastic urinal sporting the required solid air-freshener disc upon which I suppose the gents are supposed to pee.
An arrow into the bowl: Our hopes of leaving theater, do what you must...
Hmm, I wish I had a silver dollar-sized piece of candy, oh look! It really is a wishing well!
Only the dead have seen the end of war
From the sophomoric mire springs the occasional gem and even a quote from the classics. Infinitely entertaining.
Sunday, October 10, 2004
Truth or Scare
I've settled back into the rhythm here, resigned to the fact that I'm stuck here until such time as Uncle Sam sees fit to let me go home. I haven't written because I haven't had much to talk about, and there always seem to be people lurking around reading the screen.
I am in the process of buying a Harley. Is it wise? Of course not. Abe Lincoln said that people without vices generally have no virtues either, and I've always had a gut feeling that I could get very passionate about bikes if I ever took that plunge. I'm buying a smaller model, the Sportster 883 Custom, often snidely called a "chick bike." Last I checked, I'm a chick, and I don't see spending $15,000 on a bike just yet.
If it becomes as much of a passion as I suspect it will (and I'm never wrong about these things), I can always trade it in for one of the pricier models. It's a "starter" bike, just like I bought my home as a "starter home," and certainly don't plan to retire in it. It's just one more thing for me to look forward to and get excited about when it comes time to finally leave this place. It's a frivolous, impulsive purchase, I'm fully aware of that fact...but I was talking about buying one when I got home from Afghanistan, it's something that has always been there, wanting a Harley. Too early for a midlife crisis and too late for a teenage obsession.
I am in the process of buying a Harley. Is it wise? Of course not. Abe Lincoln said that people without vices generally have no virtues either, and I've always had a gut feeling that I could get very passionate about bikes if I ever took that plunge. I'm buying a smaller model, the Sportster 883 Custom, often snidely called a "chick bike." Last I checked, I'm a chick, and I don't see spending $15,000 on a bike just yet.
If it becomes as much of a passion as I suspect it will (and I'm never wrong about these things), I can always trade it in for one of the pricier models. It's a "starter" bike, just like I bought my home as a "starter home," and certainly don't plan to retire in it. It's just one more thing for me to look forward to and get excited about when it comes time to finally leave this place. It's a frivolous, impulsive purchase, I'm fully aware of that fact...but I was talking about buying one when I got home from Afghanistan, it's something that has always been there, wanting a Harley. Too early for a midlife crisis and too late for a teenage obsession.
Saturday, October 02, 2004
Back in Box
The flight back to the Box should have signalled impending doom, or at least the intense unpleasantness that accompanied my return to this hellhole.
It took three days to get back, mostly sitting around in airports. I slept for much of it. However, when we got onto the military aircraft that ferried us into Baghdad, all peace and harmony ended unceremoniously as I dealt with the worst motion sickness I've ever known.
The flights into Baghdad have to drop out of the sky like a rock, it's fifty times worse than any rollercoaster known to man, and it goes on for about ten minutes. I first broke into a nasty, hot-flashy, oh-crap-I'm-fixin-to-puke sweat, took out the barf bag while the other passengers eyed me in nervous anticipation. Sure enough, as soon as I lost lunch, it passed up and down the line until about two-thirds of the plane vomited violently. I felt wreched for making everyone else sick, fought it as hard as I could.
Then landed here to the news that I have a roommate. Her name is Lisa and it's not her fault, but I was livid. Everything I'd found bearable about this deployment got yanked away in one single motion--my sanctuary, my privacy, my uninterrupted sleep.
And for the rest of that day and night, and for much of yesterday, I fell into a deep, dark hole that hit me so hard, I couldn't eat or sleep. I still haven't slept well, but at least I'm not walking around with my stomach in a knot, feeling like I barely retained a shred of control, unnecessarily worried sick about the future, all the makings of a world-class funk. It was dreadful. I told Josee that if I didn't feel better in a couple of days, I'd need to go see someone about it, get some meds or something. I knew I couldn't walk around like that for long.
My roommate, she's a brand-new Second Lieutenant, straight out of school, and this is her first Army experience. And then she arrives to a very grumpy roommate in this shithole--I just couldn't pull off a friendly welcome, as shitty as I felt. And on her first day in country, she stood about twenty feet away as a guy got his hand blown off my a dud round some fool had tossed in the back of his truck.
So she came into the room shaken and terrified, having suppressed that feeling all day. It didn't help that the low-flying Kiowas swept overhead every few minutes. I sat up and talked her down for a large portion of the night, then couldn't sleep again--two nights in a row of intense insomnia, on the tail of the night in Kuwait during which we had no time to sleep for more than a few minutes at a stretch.
So I'm exhausted. My eyes sting. But at least I feel better, that intense sense of dread has mostly disappeared. It's not that bad here. But all day yesterday, I wished I hadn't taken leave at all, having been freshly reminded of the striking differences between here and all the things I hold dear at home. I am very strongly invested in space, in my personal surroundings. The room I had to myself was already poor substitute for my home, and with a roommate seemed nearly intolerable yesterday.
I suppose I just needed a 36-hour freak-out adjustment period.
It took three days to get back, mostly sitting around in airports. I slept for much of it. However, when we got onto the military aircraft that ferried us into Baghdad, all peace and harmony ended unceremoniously as I dealt with the worst motion sickness I've ever known.
The flights into Baghdad have to drop out of the sky like a rock, it's fifty times worse than any rollercoaster known to man, and it goes on for about ten minutes. I first broke into a nasty, hot-flashy, oh-crap-I'm-fixin-to-puke sweat, took out the barf bag while the other passengers eyed me in nervous anticipation. Sure enough, as soon as I lost lunch, it passed up and down the line until about two-thirds of the plane vomited violently. I felt wreched for making everyone else sick, fought it as hard as I could.
Then landed here to the news that I have a roommate. Her name is Lisa and it's not her fault, but I was livid. Everything I'd found bearable about this deployment got yanked away in one single motion--my sanctuary, my privacy, my uninterrupted sleep.
And for the rest of that day and night, and for much of yesterday, I fell into a deep, dark hole that hit me so hard, I couldn't eat or sleep. I still haven't slept well, but at least I'm not walking around with my stomach in a knot, feeling like I barely retained a shred of control, unnecessarily worried sick about the future, all the makings of a world-class funk. It was dreadful. I told Josee that if I didn't feel better in a couple of days, I'd need to go see someone about it, get some meds or something. I knew I couldn't walk around like that for long.
My roommate, she's a brand-new Second Lieutenant, straight out of school, and this is her first Army experience. And then she arrives to a very grumpy roommate in this shithole--I just couldn't pull off a friendly welcome, as shitty as I felt. And on her first day in country, she stood about twenty feet away as a guy got his hand blown off my a dud round some fool had tossed in the back of his truck.
So she came into the room shaken and terrified, having suppressed that feeling all day. It didn't help that the low-flying Kiowas swept overhead every few minutes. I sat up and talked her down for a large portion of the night, then couldn't sleep again--two nights in a row of intense insomnia, on the tail of the night in Kuwait during which we had no time to sleep for more than a few minutes at a stretch.
So I'm exhausted. My eyes sting. But at least I feel better, that intense sense of dread has mostly disappeared. It's not that bad here. But all day yesterday, I wished I hadn't taken leave at all, having been freshly reminded of the striking differences between here and all the things I hold dear at home. I am very strongly invested in space, in my personal surroundings. The room I had to myself was already poor substitute for my home, and with a roommate seemed nearly intolerable yesterday.
I suppose I just needed a 36-hour freak-out adjustment period.
Monday, September 27, 2004
Back to the Box
"You know, then the pulley broke, so they told us it would take two months to get a new one..."
The sun set on a soft, autumn day, and we'd just spent the glorious day sailing on Lake Ontario. He was a retired Air Force Colonel, former fighter pilot, God bless 'im, who had joined us on the dock as we returned...but he was also overbearing, knew goddamn everything, told these lugubriously boring stories about nothing, and stood entirely too close to have breath that bad. We stood in the Brewpub bar, waiting for a table.
"So then I flew down to Hanoi and we looked for a pulley in the catalogue..." The spooge from the underside of an interstate Texaco urinal. I tried to subtly back away. Breathed through my mouth. Nothing doing, he just blew the stench all over me.
"Then we called a place in New Jersey..." The more I tried to regain my personal space, the louder (and more blustery) he became. I figured out that if I buried my nose in my waterglass, the lemon on the rim masked it with some success.
The damn story, about how he'd saved the American taxpayers thousands of dollars getting a pulley from some odd place, went on forever. Tell me a combat story, I'm all ears, but this one was droll as watching golf. You'd think a Nam fighter pilot would have great stories. This one, he chose to tell the ones about ham radio operators and the guy they met in Saigon who'd been to his hometown.
"Aren't you glad the last President drew down your numbers to the point you have to deploy twice in one year?" I.e., it's Clinton's fault I'm in Iraq because a million soldiers aren't enough to fight an insurgency in a two-bit sandbox.
"I'm even more happy my current President committed us to two theaters at the same time for no compelling reason." I said. I just cannot believe this guy would blame Clinton for the trainwreck in Iraq. Laughable. He looked a bit taken aback but laughed it off.
The whole experience reminded me of one Saturday night in New Orleans, I was at Le Bon Temps (great uptown live music dive) with my friend, James. ReBirth Brass Band played for free and we'd just gorged ourselves on raw oysters. We stood close to the stage, just letting all those thumpin' horns wash over us.
Suddenly, the stench of the bottom layer of a two-month-buried coffin washed over me. My face scrunched and I looked at James to see if he'd been hit. He appeared nonplussed.
It soon wafted away after I took another swig of Red Stripe. It wasn't long, though, it hit me again, stronger this time.
"Damn! What the HELL is that stench??" I shouted over the funk. James shrugged. I looked all around. We pressed up against the other ReBirth fans, but the crew around me all looked like frat boys, all drinking, and beer normally goes a long way to mask the Inner Funk of the Unclean Piehole.
There it was again. And then it hit me. The trombone player pointed the brass right at me...and his breath, it came all the way through the instrument and still stank on the other side. He was a pretty wonky-looking character anyway, and I wrote the stench off to frequent drug use.
I didn't need to fret, though. A few minutes later, four cop cars pulled up outside. The band members all exchanged worried glances, some shrugged, all of this mid-jam. The trombone player, his eyes darted all around the room, he looked as though he considered making a break for it.
Sure enough, a crowd of cops washed in, pushed right up to the stage, and cuffed him. Right in the middle of a song. I thought there would be a riot. The rest of the band? Mostly laughed and kept playing.
Too bad, though, that the Air Force Colonel was nowhere near as entertaining as the stanky trombone player.
I'm leaving in a couple of hours, back on the plane. I look out my window at the fiery maple tree, my peaceful front porch, the incredible amplification of color a cool, crisp day will deliver. And I can't even enjoy it, knowing I won't see it again for at least six months.
It is hard to go back. I'd be bawling like a little girl if I didn't miss M so much, if I didn't look forward to seeing him. We've emailed daily, some of them rather naughty, and I think we've told each other more in the last two weeks than we would have in six months over there.
Back to the Sandbox. Wish me luck.
The sun set on a soft, autumn day, and we'd just spent the glorious day sailing on Lake Ontario. He was a retired Air Force Colonel, former fighter pilot, God bless 'im, who had joined us on the dock as we returned...but he was also overbearing, knew goddamn everything, told these lugubriously boring stories about nothing, and stood entirely too close to have breath that bad. We stood in the Brewpub bar, waiting for a table.
"So then I flew down to Hanoi and we looked for a pulley in the catalogue..." The spooge from the underside of an interstate Texaco urinal. I tried to subtly back away. Breathed through my mouth. Nothing doing, he just blew the stench all over me.
"Then we called a place in New Jersey..." The more I tried to regain my personal space, the louder (and more blustery) he became. I figured out that if I buried my nose in my waterglass, the lemon on the rim masked it with some success.
The damn story, about how he'd saved the American taxpayers thousands of dollars getting a pulley from some odd place, went on forever. Tell me a combat story, I'm all ears, but this one was droll as watching golf. You'd think a Nam fighter pilot would have great stories. This one, he chose to tell the ones about ham radio operators and the guy they met in Saigon who'd been to his hometown.
"Aren't you glad the last President drew down your numbers to the point you have to deploy twice in one year?" I.e., it's Clinton's fault I'm in Iraq because a million soldiers aren't enough to fight an insurgency in a two-bit sandbox.
"I'm even more happy my current President committed us to two theaters at the same time for no compelling reason." I said. I just cannot believe this guy would blame Clinton for the trainwreck in Iraq. Laughable. He looked a bit taken aback but laughed it off.
The whole experience reminded me of one Saturday night in New Orleans, I was at Le Bon Temps (great uptown live music dive) with my friend, James. ReBirth Brass Band played for free and we'd just gorged ourselves on raw oysters. We stood close to the stage, just letting all those thumpin' horns wash over us.
Suddenly, the stench of the bottom layer of a two-month-buried coffin washed over me. My face scrunched and I looked at James to see if he'd been hit. He appeared nonplussed.
It soon wafted away after I took another swig of Red Stripe. It wasn't long, though, it hit me again, stronger this time.
"Damn! What the HELL is that stench??" I shouted over the funk. James shrugged. I looked all around. We pressed up against the other ReBirth fans, but the crew around me all looked like frat boys, all drinking, and beer normally goes a long way to mask the Inner Funk of the Unclean Piehole.
There it was again. And then it hit me. The trombone player pointed the brass right at me...and his breath, it came all the way through the instrument and still stank on the other side. He was a pretty wonky-looking character anyway, and I wrote the stench off to frequent drug use.
I didn't need to fret, though. A few minutes later, four cop cars pulled up outside. The band members all exchanged worried glances, some shrugged, all of this mid-jam. The trombone player, his eyes darted all around the room, he looked as though he considered making a break for it.
Sure enough, a crowd of cops washed in, pushed right up to the stage, and cuffed him. Right in the middle of a song. I thought there would be a riot. The rest of the band? Mostly laughed and kept playing.
Too bad, though, that the Air Force Colonel was nowhere near as entertaining as the stanky trombone player.
I'm leaving in a couple of hours, back on the plane. I look out my window at the fiery maple tree, my peaceful front porch, the incredible amplification of color a cool, crisp day will deliver. And I can't even enjoy it, knowing I won't see it again for at least six months.
It is hard to go back. I'd be bawling like a little girl if I didn't miss M so much, if I didn't look forward to seeing him. We've emailed daily, some of them rather naughty, and I think we've told each other more in the last two weeks than we would have in six months over there.
Back to the Sandbox. Wish me luck.
Friday, September 24, 2004
And they're off!
I arrived a little early to the trail ride, having painfully hiked up the top half of Whiteface Mountain. Painfully because I have a bum knee, and it started grinding and popping about halfway up. I probably should have turned around, but I really wanted to see the top of this thing. The big gondola-ride thing was broken.
So no more hiking, might as well ride. Nothing painful there, right?
My horse's name was Zeus--he was a handsome quarterhorse, used to race and now played polo in his spare time. He looked too big to play polo to me--aren't they called Polo Ponies because they need to be smaller? At any rate, Zeus clearly had some pluck, some spirit, because one of the other ladies had already expressed reservations about him. So I took him--I used to ride fairly regularly as a child, and anyway, I'm an Army Officer! No horse is gonna punk me out!
I only ride English. Western is just too clunky, you can't post on the trot and it seems more an operation of just hanging on than actually riding. Problem with this particular English saddle, though, they'd swapped out the stirrup straps, and the right one was about a half-inch shorter than the left. There was no hole in the middle of the leather to make it right. No one had a pocket knife once I was sure there was an imbalance--after we'd cantered up a road and that half-inch became VERY pronounced.
So we stopped, and I leaned back in the saddle to see what I could do--lengthen them both a bit, even it up. I was working on the right one as two guys galloped up behind us, full speed. I felt Zeus tense up, and lifted my left hand to tighted up on the reigns...just as he launched, full-speed, after the galloping pair.
I'm sure it all would've looked funny on camera. I only had one stirrup, I gripped the pommel with both hands, shouting, afraid to let go with one hand to pull the reigns harder, bouncing all over the horse. The galloping pair stopped--we'd caught them, that Zeus can haul ass--and Zeus, he ground his front hooves into the earth and stopped.
Funny thing about inertia, I didn't stop. Kept going, right over his head, envisioning catastrophic injury. Next thing I knew, I was standing next to the horse, missing a shoe. I'm told I grabbed his neck, hugged it, looped around him, and landed squarely on my feet. I am NOT a graceful person, I don't know how it happened this way. One of the other riders said it looked like a gymnast's dismount.
Funny thing about gymnasts, they're flexible, can put their feet behind their heads and whatnot. As soon as I took a step, I thought, damn, that's gonna hurt tomorrow. My back and right leg stiffened up immediately, someone had to lift me back onto Zeus's back.
That was yesterday. And yes indeed it DOES hurt today. I can barely walk. But I'd rather have scorching muscle soreness than broken limbs...or worse. All the way back to the barn, all I could think about was how it would play out in the Battle Update Brief to the Colonel in Iraq:
Personnel Officer: "LT will be delayed a couple of weeks, she broke her leg falling off a horse."
The Colonel: "She WHAT? You're joking! She fell off a horse?!? What the hell was she doing on a horse?"
I'd never live it down.
So no more hiking, might as well ride. Nothing painful there, right?
My horse's name was Zeus--he was a handsome quarterhorse, used to race and now played polo in his spare time. He looked too big to play polo to me--aren't they called Polo Ponies because they need to be smaller? At any rate, Zeus clearly had some pluck, some spirit, because one of the other ladies had already expressed reservations about him. So I took him--I used to ride fairly regularly as a child, and anyway, I'm an Army Officer! No horse is gonna punk me out!
I only ride English. Western is just too clunky, you can't post on the trot and it seems more an operation of just hanging on than actually riding. Problem with this particular English saddle, though, they'd swapped out the stirrup straps, and the right one was about a half-inch shorter than the left. There was no hole in the middle of the leather to make it right. No one had a pocket knife once I was sure there was an imbalance--after we'd cantered up a road and that half-inch became VERY pronounced.
So we stopped, and I leaned back in the saddle to see what I could do--lengthen them both a bit, even it up. I was working on the right one as two guys galloped up behind us, full speed. I felt Zeus tense up, and lifted my left hand to tighted up on the reigns...just as he launched, full-speed, after the galloping pair.
I'm sure it all would've looked funny on camera. I only had one stirrup, I gripped the pommel with both hands, shouting, afraid to let go with one hand to pull the reigns harder, bouncing all over the horse. The galloping pair stopped--we'd caught them, that Zeus can haul ass--and Zeus, he ground his front hooves into the earth and stopped.
Funny thing about inertia, I didn't stop. Kept going, right over his head, envisioning catastrophic injury. Next thing I knew, I was standing next to the horse, missing a shoe. I'm told I grabbed his neck, hugged it, looped around him, and landed squarely on my feet. I am NOT a graceful person, I don't know how it happened this way. One of the other riders said it looked like a gymnast's dismount.
Funny thing about gymnasts, they're flexible, can put their feet behind their heads and whatnot. As soon as I took a step, I thought, damn, that's gonna hurt tomorrow. My back and right leg stiffened up immediately, someone had to lift me back onto Zeus's back.
That was yesterday. And yes indeed it DOES hurt today. I can barely walk. But I'd rather have scorching muscle soreness than broken limbs...or worse. All the way back to the barn, all I could think about was how it would play out in the Battle Update Brief to the Colonel in Iraq:
Personnel Officer: "LT will be delayed a couple of weeks, she broke her leg falling off a horse."
The Colonel: "She WHAT? You're joking! She fell off a horse?!? What the hell was she doing on a horse?"
I'd never live it down.
There's One in Every Crowd
I ate breakfast yesterday in the dining room of the little bed & breakfast where I stayed in Lake Placid, in the amazing fall foliage of the Adirondacks. An older couple, obviously married for many years, sat at the only other table in the sunroom. It was a glorious morning, crisp and cool, I had an appointment for a trail ride (horses) in the mountains, the coffee was strong, and I sat there savoring every molecule of sunshine, every bite of the fluffy and perfect omelet.
Lady: "Well, this was just a huge disappointment."
I couldn't help but eavesdrop, it was quiet as a morgue in there.
Man: "I just wish they had more variety."
Lady: "This is made with Eggbeaters."
Man: "Well, I just don't eat omelets. I can't imagine why we can't have pancakes."
Lady: "And now we'll have to find someplace else to eat breakfast!!"
It went on like this and I winced as they angrily confronted the waitress, then the cook, who was also the part-owner. It was a tiny inn, adorable and antique-filled. My room had a balcony and was full of light. And the omelet was most certainly NOT Eggbeaters--I've had fake eggs in my time, believe me, and these were real. You can't get that flavor, that fluffiness from eggwhites alone.
The owner/cook, clearly shaken from the confrontation, came to clear my plates. I told her the omelet was delicious, that those people must just be naturally difficult.
"I don't understand," she said. "I've been doing this for eight years, I've never been told the breakfast was horrible!" It had clearly ruined her whole day. Someone who takes pride in what they do, they'll take it personally when criticized this way.
Lady: "Well, this was just a huge disappointment."
I couldn't help but eavesdrop, it was quiet as a morgue in there.
Man: "I just wish they had more variety."
Lady: "This is made with Eggbeaters."
Man: "Well, I just don't eat omelets. I can't imagine why we can't have pancakes."
Lady: "And now we'll have to find someplace else to eat breakfast!!"
It went on like this and I winced as they angrily confronted the waitress, then the cook, who was also the part-owner. It was a tiny inn, adorable and antique-filled. My room had a balcony and was full of light. And the omelet was most certainly NOT Eggbeaters--I've had fake eggs in my time, believe me, and these were real. You can't get that flavor, that fluffiness from eggwhites alone.
The owner/cook, clearly shaken from the confrontation, came to clear my plates. I told her the omelet was delicious, that those people must just be naturally difficult.
"I don't understand," she said. "I've been doing this for eight years, I've never been told the breakfast was horrible!" It had clearly ruined her whole day. Someone who takes pride in what they do, they'll take it personally when criticized this way.
I suppose it's all about perspective. It sounds silly to me to hear someone complain about much of anything at all on a morning like that. I made myself laugh picturing the couple in Iraq, in the chow hall...this isn't chocolate sauce on my ice cream, they poured chocolate milk on it! This isn't even real milk! They only have iceberg lettuce! And why do we have to wear all this GEAR, for chrissake! This rifle is heavy! It's hot out here!
That actually happened to me, by the way, they poured chocolate milk on my ice cream when I thought I was getting chocolate sauce. But that's getting pretty prima donna, also, complaining about ice cream in a combat zone. So I didn't complain, I laughed about it, scraped off the contaminated bits of ice cream, and ate it anyway.
Tuesday, September 21, 2004
Adirondack Bound
I'm spending a larger chunk of money than usual on two nights in the "Equestrian Suite" in an old bed & breakfast in Lake Placid, NY. The suite has a jacuzzi tub, a view of Mirror Lake, private balcony, big soft bed with down comforter, breakfast served in the room (local maple syrup, yum). Terri couldn't go with me, so I'm going by myself. Which I don't mind a bit. Two days of fishing and hiking and the leaves are at peak color in the Adirondacks.
This is the first time in my life I've had money. I make plenty of it and don't mind spending it on myself. All my expenses are MORE than handled, I invest a rather large sum of money toward retirement, I have savings, why shouldn't I drop some cash on a mini vacation? I caught a great deal of hell in Iraq for spending $120 on a pair of Bose headphones, and asked the question, Did any of ya'll put any money into my checking account? No? So shut up!
I'm eating too damn much. That's what vacation is for, though. I'll return to Iraq all plump and happy. Well, not very happy about going back to that hellhole, but plump at least.
But first, I'm going night sailing with the Sackets crowd on R's big boat. R is an older gentleman, charming, sounds just like Gordon Elliot with the accent (he was born in South Africa), owns a bridge-material company both here and in Montreal.
I wouldn't go without Rachel and the crew though, because last time I saw him, he grabbed my underwear. I had on low-waisted pants, I guess the underwear poked out the back as I leaned over. And he grabbed it. Mind you, the guy's like, sixty. It's like drowning filet mignon in ketchup--stop! You're ruining it!
But with R, I was pretty direct when he grabbed my panties. I don't imagine there will be a repeat performance, and he only goes into Dirty Old Man mode when he's been drinking. Tonight he has to sail the boat, and he loves that boat too much to drive it drunk.
Even still, there is noting so creepy as a 60-year-old man grabbing your panties. Rates right up there with getting dressed in front of a State Trooper. But that's a different story.
This is the first time in my life I've had money. I make plenty of it and don't mind spending it on myself. All my expenses are MORE than handled, I invest a rather large sum of money toward retirement, I have savings, why shouldn't I drop some cash on a mini vacation? I caught a great deal of hell in Iraq for spending $120 on a pair of Bose headphones, and asked the question, Did any of ya'll put any money into my checking account? No? So shut up!
I'm eating too damn much. That's what vacation is for, though. I'll return to Iraq all plump and happy. Well, not very happy about going back to that hellhole, but plump at least.
But first, I'm going night sailing with the Sackets crowd on R's big boat. R is an older gentleman, charming, sounds just like Gordon Elliot with the accent (he was born in South Africa), owns a bridge-material company both here and in Montreal.
I wouldn't go without Rachel and the crew though, because last time I saw him, he grabbed my underwear. I had on low-waisted pants, I guess the underwear poked out the back as I leaned over. And he grabbed it. Mind you, the guy's like, sixty. It's like drowning filet mignon in ketchup--stop! You're ruining it!
But with R, I was pretty direct when he grabbed my panties. I don't imagine there will be a repeat performance, and he only goes into Dirty Old Man mode when he's been drinking. Tonight he has to sail the boat, and he loves that boat too much to drive it drunk.
Even still, there is noting so creepy as a 60-year-old man grabbing your panties. Rates right up there with getting dressed in front of a State Trooper. But that's a different story.
Sunday, September 19, 2004
Messes, Shoddy Workmanship, and I'll Take Care of It When I Get Back
I painted first the bathroom, which was still Pepto-Bismol pink, then the bedroom. The bedroom sported this frou-frou, granny flowered border crap along the top of the walls. I decided to paint over it.
But the bottom seam curled up just enough for full exposure of my laziness. So I tore off the bottom, then painted over the rest. Who'da thunk sage-colored paint makes such a great wallpaper glue dissolver? Bits bubbled up and had to be torn off, one little shitty swatch at a time, and the piles of paint-sticky wallpaper mounted on the paint tray of the ladder. Some fell on the floor and I had to be careful not to step on it and grind it into the carpet.
I have a big dresser, a hastily-bought, put together yourself job I planned to replace but just haven't yet. I put it together with power tools almost two years ago, it was gorgeous. Then it sat directly over an electric baseboard-heater going full blast for two northern New York winters. It must've warped the wood or something, because now the entire left side has splintered damn near off, despite the nails and screws I've driven in there in a lame attempt to resurrect the dead donkey. The doors and drawers don't close, it looks like shit. And it's heavy enough to put your ass in traction if you try to move it. It took three guys to get this damn thing up my stairs last April.
When I tried to move it aside to paint behind it, the damn thing nearly fell apart. So I moved it out enough to paint behind it as far as the eye can see. I know, shitty work. Put it on the "I'll-take-care-of-it-when-I-get-back" list.
Then I couldn't move the bed. Not one inch. Shortcut, shoddy work-girl, I just passed the roller between the slats (it's a metal sleigh bed) and rolled the color down far enough you have to turn around while actually in the bed and peer down there to see the unpainted bit. Yes, it's poor workmanship. I don't care. Put THAT on the same list.
It will be my pleasure to check off all these little messes on my list when I get back. Because none of those messes comes close to the ones I face going back to Iraq. Those messes, I'll leave behind in that miserable sewer of a nation. I quite like my own messes.
But the bottom seam curled up just enough for full exposure of my laziness. So I tore off the bottom, then painted over the rest. Who'da thunk sage-colored paint makes such a great wallpaper glue dissolver? Bits bubbled up and had to be torn off, one little shitty swatch at a time, and the piles of paint-sticky wallpaper mounted on the paint tray of the ladder. Some fell on the floor and I had to be careful not to step on it and grind it into the carpet.
I have a big dresser, a hastily-bought, put together yourself job I planned to replace but just haven't yet. I put it together with power tools almost two years ago, it was gorgeous. Then it sat directly over an electric baseboard-heater going full blast for two northern New York winters. It must've warped the wood or something, because now the entire left side has splintered damn near off, despite the nails and screws I've driven in there in a lame attempt to resurrect the dead donkey. The doors and drawers don't close, it looks like shit. And it's heavy enough to put your ass in traction if you try to move it. It took three guys to get this damn thing up my stairs last April.
When I tried to move it aside to paint behind it, the damn thing nearly fell apart. So I moved it out enough to paint behind it as far as the eye can see. I know, shitty work. Put it on the "I'll-take-care-of-it-when-I-get-back" list.
Then I couldn't move the bed. Not one inch. Shortcut, shoddy work-girl, I just passed the roller between the slats (it's a metal sleigh bed) and rolled the color down far enough you have to turn around while actually in the bed and peer down there to see the unpainted bit. Yes, it's poor workmanship. I don't care. Put THAT on the same list.
It will be my pleasure to check off all these little messes on my list when I get back. Because none of those messes comes close to the ones I face going back to Iraq. Those messes, I'll leave behind in that miserable sewer of a nation. I quite like my own messes.
Thursday, September 16, 2004
Chatterbox Cafe
One of my oldest friendships is with this lunatic named Luci. We've been close since the morning in 1989 when I awoke after a night of drinking and fighting with my butthole roommate, Joey, to find crazy Luci sitting on my bed, asking me to move in with her and to hell with that butthole Joey. She had been living with Donald, with whom I shared my first kiss on Heather Adair's front porch in ninth grade. Donald remained a friend and I still love to run into him whenever I go home to Oxford, Mississippi--he and Luci both are two of those great, generous-hearted people you hang onto lifelong.
But at any rate, I moved into Luci's tiny, eccentric house at the bottom of Jackson Avenue. Donald had just moved out but the breakup was amicable and he still popped over from time to time. Luci is a Loud, Talkative Southern Woman, just like me. So of course we hit it off, and of course we stay in touch. There are only so many Loud, Talkative Southern Women out there, and I'm a firm believer in keeping good friends as long as we can bridge the gaps in geography and lifestyles.
Before I deployed to Afghanistan, Luci complained that she'd gained thirty pounds. When I got back from Afghanistan, she sent me an email that said, in essence, that she was a mommy. Holy shit! I yelled on the phone. You told me you'd gained thirty pounds, you didn't tell me it was a PERSON!
But that's Luci. I called her last night and put on my best older-Southern-woman accent and stated I was Mrs. Gloria Merriwether of the Macon, Georgia, Merriwethers, please call me back at the following number. She called back howling with laughter after she figured out it was me.
After complaining about Iraq for awhile and going on about the work climate and the assholes, during which she hollered in righteous indignation like a friend is supposed to do, I told her about someone in Iraq saying I was a chatterbox.
I don't know why it bothered me. I talk alot. Always have. That won't change, ever.
But Luci, she said exactly what I needed her to say. Even more righteously indignant, she yelled, Girrl, you are the most entertaining person I've ever known! If they don't GET it, they can't keep up! It's not LIKE you're going on about the WEATHER, for god's sake! You have a BRAIN and you're funny as SHIT and FUCK 'EM if they don't GET IT!
That's why I keep that crazy bitch around. I'm so glad I can attain and retain these wonderful longtime frineds I have. I've always had instant connections to certain people, and I'm never wrong, we always end up loving each other for life.
There's Jules, my beautiful, elegant friend from our angry, post-punk high school days. She's a Columbia-educated nurse-midwife, now living in Portland. Luci, of course. She lives in northern California now, but we renewed our friendship when I lived with her in New Orleans, before I got my own place in the city where she was the only person I knew at first. Michelle, a roommate from college in Athens, Georgia, who climbs mountains all over North America and makes maps in Lexington, Kentucky. Tracey, a gifted painter I ran around with, also in New Orleans. Jim, my big gay friend from Athens. Jeff, also a gifted painter, who still lives in Oxford, Mississippi, where we were friends in high school, then college, and now he's one of the people I can count on for a beer and some entertaining stories when I go home to deal with family nastiness. Josee, the one I hang out with in Iraq, will be one of the hang-onto crew.
I go through these uncomfortable times when I feel utterly out of my element. Iraq is NOT my element, I am NOT myself there. And not in a good way. It has eroded my sense of self, bruised my confidence, I guess burnout has that effect on me. Thank God for the Luci's of the world, who can bring it all back home for me. I must be one cool lady, to have so many amazing friends.
So now I'm sitting in my den, on my second glass of champagne (well, sparkling wine, technically, it's Australian--and delicious). Drinking at 10:45...it feels exactly right. I am blessed with friends, no matter what ugliness I go through in Iraq, no matter who calls me chatterbox, no matter what happens with Dad, if I get betrayed by co-workers, jerked around, none of it matters once I get here and can reconnect with my bitches.
But at any rate, I moved into Luci's tiny, eccentric house at the bottom of Jackson Avenue. Donald had just moved out but the breakup was amicable and he still popped over from time to time. Luci is a Loud, Talkative Southern Woman, just like me. So of course we hit it off, and of course we stay in touch. There are only so many Loud, Talkative Southern Women out there, and I'm a firm believer in keeping good friends as long as we can bridge the gaps in geography and lifestyles.
Before I deployed to Afghanistan, Luci complained that she'd gained thirty pounds. When I got back from Afghanistan, she sent me an email that said, in essence, that she was a mommy. Holy shit! I yelled on the phone. You told me you'd gained thirty pounds, you didn't tell me it was a PERSON!
But that's Luci. I called her last night and put on my best older-Southern-woman accent and stated I was Mrs. Gloria Merriwether of the Macon, Georgia, Merriwethers, please call me back at the following number. She called back howling with laughter after she figured out it was me.
After complaining about Iraq for awhile and going on about the work climate and the assholes, during which she hollered in righteous indignation like a friend is supposed to do, I told her about someone in Iraq saying I was a chatterbox.
I don't know why it bothered me. I talk alot. Always have. That won't change, ever.
But Luci, she said exactly what I needed her to say. Even more righteously indignant, she yelled, Girrl, you are the most entertaining person I've ever known! If they don't GET it, they can't keep up! It's not LIKE you're going on about the WEATHER, for god's sake! You have a BRAIN and you're funny as SHIT and FUCK 'EM if they don't GET IT!
That's why I keep that crazy bitch around. I'm so glad I can attain and retain these wonderful longtime frineds I have. I've always had instant connections to certain people, and I'm never wrong, we always end up loving each other for life.
There's Jules, my beautiful, elegant friend from our angry, post-punk high school days. She's a Columbia-educated nurse-midwife, now living in Portland. Luci, of course. She lives in northern California now, but we renewed our friendship when I lived with her in New Orleans, before I got my own place in the city where she was the only person I knew at first. Michelle, a roommate from college in Athens, Georgia, who climbs mountains all over North America and makes maps in Lexington, Kentucky. Tracey, a gifted painter I ran around with, also in New Orleans. Jim, my big gay friend from Athens. Jeff, also a gifted painter, who still lives in Oxford, Mississippi, where we were friends in high school, then college, and now he's one of the people I can count on for a beer and some entertaining stories when I go home to deal with family nastiness. Josee, the one I hang out with in Iraq, will be one of the hang-onto crew.
I go through these uncomfortable times when I feel utterly out of my element. Iraq is NOT my element, I am NOT myself there. And not in a good way. It has eroded my sense of self, bruised my confidence, I guess burnout has that effect on me. Thank God for the Luci's of the world, who can bring it all back home for me. I must be one cool lady, to have so many amazing friends.
So now I'm sitting in my den, on my second glass of champagne (well, sparkling wine, technically, it's Australian--and delicious). Drinking at 10:45...it feels exactly right. I am blessed with friends, no matter what ugliness I go through in Iraq, no matter who calls me chatterbox, no matter what happens with Dad, if I get betrayed by co-workers, jerked around, none of it matters once I get here and can reconnect with my bitches.
Wednesday, September 15, 2004
Pink and White Striped Bag
I went shopping again today, and left Victoria's Secret with a nice new collection. See, I was wrongfully accused of wearing boys' underwear. (Such scandalous accusations! Untrue!) So what better way to prove the opposite than the undisclosed, wait-and-see contents of the infamous pink-and-white-striped bag. I also procured a bottle of delicious champagne and various accoutrements from Bath and Body Works...you'd think I had company coming over.
I don't. The champagne is for me to savor on the front porch and see if I like it enough to serve it (and an Australian Savignon Blanc) when I make dinner for friends on Monday. I'm thinking spanakopeta, the Greek spinach pastry made of phyllo, a spinach salad, my favorite soup made with chick peas/potatoes/rosemary, and homemade ice cream for dessert. I have truly missed cooking.
I ate lunch today with Kelley, a Signal officer who was on the Ten Miler team with me last year (we were friends before that, though). She's as disenchanted with the Army as I am, and she's never deployed. She and her husband (a rather salty guy I worked with last year in the Engineer Battalion) have been separated by the Army for the past three years due to deployments, schools, temporary duties, etc. And now it looks like he'll deploy in a couple of months and she will not.
The only officer I know right now who plans to stay in the Army is Shayla, my fellow LT in Iraq. I think she has this vision of herself as a Colonel and plans to sit it out. Hell, more power to her. It's just not the life for me.
Like Kelley, though, I loved the Army until all this shit happened, the endless deployments and unmanagable operational tempo. No end in sight for that dynamic.
It's late afternoon and the maple tree in my backyard which is taller than the house has just started turning red. The sun filters through it and all over the deck, into the dining room, all the way in to where I sit in the den. Phil put the ugliest goddamn coffee table I've ever seen in here--straight out of the '70's, thick pine, complete with cheesy iron fittings. I haven't asked where my coffeetable is, and I haven't seen it around the house. I suppose I should ask this question--his explanation of the coffee table was that he puts his feet on it and didn't want to ruin mine. Fair enough, I suppose, but depending on where he's storing mine, it could get ruined anyway.
But for now, the champagne has been in the freezer long enough for me to enjoy a glass in the shade of my fiery maple tree. I cannot even enjoy it fully, knowing I have to go back.
This will all be here when I get back for good. Whenever that may be.
I don't. The champagne is for me to savor on the front porch and see if I like it enough to serve it (and an Australian Savignon Blanc) when I make dinner for friends on Monday. I'm thinking spanakopeta, the Greek spinach pastry made of phyllo, a spinach salad, my favorite soup made with chick peas/potatoes/rosemary, and homemade ice cream for dessert. I have truly missed cooking.
I ate lunch today with Kelley, a Signal officer who was on the Ten Miler team with me last year (we were friends before that, though). She's as disenchanted with the Army as I am, and she's never deployed. She and her husband (a rather salty guy I worked with last year in the Engineer Battalion) have been separated by the Army for the past three years due to deployments, schools, temporary duties, etc. And now it looks like he'll deploy in a couple of months and she will not.
The only officer I know right now who plans to stay in the Army is Shayla, my fellow LT in Iraq. I think she has this vision of herself as a Colonel and plans to sit it out. Hell, more power to her. It's just not the life for me.
Like Kelley, though, I loved the Army until all this shit happened, the endless deployments and unmanagable operational tempo. No end in sight for that dynamic.
It's late afternoon and the maple tree in my backyard which is taller than the house has just started turning red. The sun filters through it and all over the deck, into the dining room, all the way in to where I sit in the den. Phil put the ugliest goddamn coffee table I've ever seen in here--straight out of the '70's, thick pine, complete with cheesy iron fittings. I haven't asked where my coffeetable is, and I haven't seen it around the house. I suppose I should ask this question--his explanation of the coffee table was that he puts his feet on it and didn't want to ruin mine. Fair enough, I suppose, but depending on where he's storing mine, it could get ruined anyway.
But for now, the champagne has been in the freezer long enough for me to enjoy a glass in the shade of my fiery maple tree. I cannot even enjoy it fully, knowing I have to go back.
This will all be here when I get back for good. Whenever that may be.
Tuesday, September 14, 2004
Surprise, Surprise, Surprise
Several big and not entirely pleasant suprises on returning home.
Surprise # 1: The House is Filthy. Terri picked me up at the airport (I love this lady) in my truck, which has been washed, waxed, and vacuumed. It looks brand new and I got to drive it home. The little things you miss. The whole way up, she told me about how filthy the house was—she cleaned it yesterday, for which I owe her 70 bucks (Phil will pay this one, it’s HIS filth). Evidently, the boy has been just slogging around in his own filth in my home. To his credit, he hasn’t had parties and the cats are well taken care of…so I count my blessings there.
Surprise #2: The House is Periwinkle. WHOA. I chose what I thought was a muted blue/grey. What I got is straight periwinkle. Holy shit. So I’ve already picked out a charcoal grey for Dave to paint over it in the spring. There’s a house on the next street that looks like mine and is charcoal grey and looks fabulous. Then you drive down my street and POW, there’s my house. It would look adorable in New Orleans. But up here, in the Land of the Philistines and Formidable Matrons, it’s a bit much.
Surprise #3: Phil is still here. As soon as I walked in the door, the excuses started…My truck broke down, I haven’t had time to seal the deck/paint the bathroom/start the floors, insert about four more predictable excuses here. He’s leaving tonight. The house looks great, thanks to Terri, but his junk is scattered around…I expected that.
(Sidebar, no real surprises here) Sleeping in my bed is like checking into a five-star hotel. I spent money on the softest sheets, plush down comforter, a fine pillow-top mattress. And with all that, I didn’t sleep well. Kept waking up and savoring the cool ceiling fan breeze, the soft sheets, the crickets outside the open window, the rain, the amazing way that bed feels.
Surprise # 1: The House is Filthy. Terri picked me up at the airport (I love this lady) in my truck, which has been washed, waxed, and vacuumed. It looks brand new and I got to drive it home. The little things you miss. The whole way up, she told me about how filthy the house was—she cleaned it yesterday, for which I owe her 70 bucks (Phil will pay this one, it’s HIS filth). Evidently, the boy has been just slogging around in his own filth in my home. To his credit, he hasn’t had parties and the cats are well taken care of…so I count my blessings there.
Surprise #2: The House is Periwinkle. WHOA. I chose what I thought was a muted blue/grey. What I got is straight periwinkle. Holy shit. So I’ve already picked out a charcoal grey for Dave to paint over it in the spring. There’s a house on the next street that looks like mine and is charcoal grey and looks fabulous. Then you drive down my street and POW, there’s my house. It would look adorable in New Orleans. But up here, in the Land of the Philistines and Formidable Matrons, it’s a bit much.
Surprise #3: Phil is still here. As soon as I walked in the door, the excuses started…My truck broke down, I haven’t had time to seal the deck/paint the bathroom/start the floors, insert about four more predictable excuses here. He’s leaving tonight. The house looks great, thanks to Terri, but his junk is scattered around…I expected that.
(Sidebar, no real surprises here) Sleeping in my bed is like checking into a five-star hotel. I spent money on the softest sheets, plush down comforter, a fine pillow-top mattress. And with all that, I didn’t sleep well. Kept waking up and savoring the cool ceiling fan breeze, the soft sheets, the crickets outside the open window, the rain, the amazing way that bed feels.
Saturday, September 11, 2004
Out of the Box
I feel more like myself than I have in months. I'm in Kuwait, so technically still the sandbox...but I'm wearing my own clothes, sipping a Starbucks, and wondering if yanking someone's ponytail would constitute UCMJ-prosecutable assault. There are two women next to me, one stationed in Kuwait, the other in Iraq.
Kuwait: "So, do you like it up there?"
Iraq: "Yeah, it's okay. It gets kind of boring."
Kuwait: "Don't you have a movie theater where you are?"
Iraq: "Yeah, but they only change out the movie once a week."
Kuwait: "And I heard there's a pool."
Iraq: "Yeah, but it gets crowded."
Okay, ladies, come spend a day in MY world, and complain about your crowded pools and movies that only change once a week. There is a pool at my base, but I will NEVER, I repeat, NEVER have the time to go. Movie theater? Are you kidding?
And besides, what little free time I have is spent either sleeping or breaking the rules. Which I can't get off my mind (not the sleeping part). It's no small feat to have something to get me on the plane back to Iraq after my two weeks at home are over. And I cannot quit thinking about how much more enjoyable this trip would be if Mark could come along...I'd love to spend a couple of days in my big gorgeous bed, answering the door only to accept food.
Kuwait: "So, do you like it up there?"
Iraq: "Yeah, it's okay. It gets kind of boring."
Kuwait: "Don't you have a movie theater where you are?"
Iraq: "Yeah, but they only change out the movie once a week."
Kuwait: "And I heard there's a pool."
Iraq: "Yeah, but it gets crowded."
Okay, ladies, come spend a day in MY world, and complain about your crowded pools and movies that only change once a week. There is a pool at my base, but I will NEVER, I repeat, NEVER have the time to go. Movie theater? Are you kidding?
And besides, what little free time I have is spent either sleeping or breaking the rules. Which I can't get off my mind (not the sleeping part). It's no small feat to have something to get me on the plane back to Iraq after my two weeks at home are over. And I cannot quit thinking about how much more enjoyable this trip would be if Mark could come along...I'd love to spend a couple of days in my big gorgeous bed, answering the door only to accept food.
Wednesday, September 01, 2004
Go West, Young Woman
Only nine days left until I can sleep in my own bed for two straight weeks. West, into the sunset. The young woman part is debatable, I just turned 34.
One of my soldiers had a huge crisis of confidence this afternoon. I could see she was on the verge of tears, so I skirted the elephant in the living room until she got to it in her own way. Which was to burst into tears. She wanted to quit. Didn't think she could do this. Doesn't feel there's anyone to go to bat for her. Her supervisor couldn't care less if she got shot in the face by a field-grade officer.
I've had exactly these thoughts, exactly this crisis. Over and over, only in the portajohn, trying to keep quiet enough that passersby don't hear it. So I said the same things to her that I say to myself at least once a day: you CAN do this. Whether or not you CHOOSE to is another matter. You learn the most in times like this. You'll come out of it stronger. Have a whole new perspective, a new way to frame all the events of your life after this year. This is where your character kicks in and gets you through it. We're all in the same boat. Hang in there.
It probably works better coming from someone else. Plus I went in with her to talk to the Major, when she thought she'd get chewed out and was terrified. Her supervisor wouldn't support her. And here's where it got a bit odd, and brought home the point that I am truly an island adrift in the Big Boys' Club that is any Infantry Brigade: MY supervisor, the Major, shot me an annoyed look as we left the room and asked, snidely: What, are you playing Mother Hen now?
I was appalled. Mother Hen?!? I'm her Platoon Leader, I responded, making no effort to conceal my irritation with the patronizing remark.
This is what we do as leaders. You don't send your Sergeant in to talk to a field grade officer by herself. At least I don't.
What is WRONG with these people? They make this crap so much harder than it has to be, then find weakness where there should be kindness. We can't even support each other? I keep chalking my crisis moments up to being in a World Class Funk, when maybe all those nasty thoughts I have in my weak moments are right on target.
I need to surround myself with my friends and family, get my perspective back, so I don't turn into an asshole like this organization encourages.
One of my soldiers had a huge crisis of confidence this afternoon. I could see she was on the verge of tears, so I skirted the elephant in the living room until she got to it in her own way. Which was to burst into tears. She wanted to quit. Didn't think she could do this. Doesn't feel there's anyone to go to bat for her. Her supervisor couldn't care less if she got shot in the face by a field-grade officer.
I've had exactly these thoughts, exactly this crisis. Over and over, only in the portajohn, trying to keep quiet enough that passersby don't hear it. So I said the same things to her that I say to myself at least once a day: you CAN do this. Whether or not you CHOOSE to is another matter. You learn the most in times like this. You'll come out of it stronger. Have a whole new perspective, a new way to frame all the events of your life after this year. This is where your character kicks in and gets you through it. We're all in the same boat. Hang in there.
It probably works better coming from someone else. Plus I went in with her to talk to the Major, when she thought she'd get chewed out and was terrified. Her supervisor wouldn't support her. And here's where it got a bit odd, and brought home the point that I am truly an island adrift in the Big Boys' Club that is any Infantry Brigade: MY supervisor, the Major, shot me an annoyed look as we left the room and asked, snidely: What, are you playing Mother Hen now?
I was appalled. Mother Hen?!? I'm her Platoon Leader, I responded, making no effort to conceal my irritation with the patronizing remark.
This is what we do as leaders. You don't send your Sergeant in to talk to a field grade officer by herself. At least I don't.
What is WRONG with these people? They make this crap so much harder than it has to be, then find weakness where there should be kindness. We can't even support each other? I keep chalking my crisis moments up to being in a World Class Funk, when maybe all those nasty thoughts I have in my weak moments are right on target.
I need to surround myself with my friends and family, get my perspective back, so I don't turn into an asshole like this organization encourages.
Sunday, August 29, 2004
Little City
I managed to get out of the cage again, this time to the International Zone, formerly known as the Green Zone.
I rode in the back of a Jed Clampett-style truck, standing up and facing forward like a dog in a pickup, because I wanted to see everything. It's a little walled-in city, the International Zone, lush and green and peopled with smiling Americans and friendly Iraqis pawning pirated DVD's (Copyright? I'll Copy yo' shit Right onto mine) and former Regime currency with Saddams iconic mug on the bills. I spent all the money I had on movies--call it Hollywood's contribution to the war on terror, I don't feel the least bit remorseful.
I was there for a meeting at the Embassy. My job just became much more interesting and rewarding in that my piece feeds into a national-level effort. I'll go to these meetings once a week, either in the Embassy or closer to where we live. Either way, it's a bright spot in my week and infinitely more gratifying to be a part of something bigger than our little fishbowl of a Brigade.
So, the International Zone--we ate chicken biriani (fabulous) at a cafe next to a sign that read, "Alcoholic Beverages Will NOT Be Served Until All Weapons Are Cleared." I was with a group of Majors from our higher headquarters and they were great company. The female major has a voice that would curdle mother's milk when she briefs over the high-tech voice-chatroom thing we use, but in real life, she's warm and funny, and very good at her job.
I savored every moment. The spicy chicken and sweet rice, studded with currants and saffron. An older episode of Happy Days played on the TV overhead, complete with hystrionic Arabic voice-over. I drank a mango-puree concoction and we laughed about filming While You Were Out in one of Saddam's palaces. How his arrest, detention, and trial are all an elaborate ruse to get him out of the palaces so we can renovate them, make military headquarters and embassies out of them all.
I go home a week from Friday. I'd enjoy it much more if the lovely blue-eyed man could come with me, but that's outside the realm of possibility.
I rode in the back of a Jed Clampett-style truck, standing up and facing forward like a dog in a pickup, because I wanted to see everything. It's a little walled-in city, the International Zone, lush and green and peopled with smiling Americans and friendly Iraqis pawning pirated DVD's (Copyright? I'll Copy yo' shit Right onto mine) and former Regime currency with Saddams iconic mug on the bills. I spent all the money I had on movies--call it Hollywood's contribution to the war on terror, I don't feel the least bit remorseful.
I was there for a meeting at the Embassy. My job just became much more interesting and rewarding in that my piece feeds into a national-level effort. I'll go to these meetings once a week, either in the Embassy or closer to where we live. Either way, it's a bright spot in my week and infinitely more gratifying to be a part of something bigger than our little fishbowl of a Brigade.
So, the International Zone--we ate chicken biriani (fabulous) at a cafe next to a sign that read, "Alcoholic Beverages Will NOT Be Served Until All Weapons Are Cleared." I was with a group of Majors from our higher headquarters and they were great company. The female major has a voice that would curdle mother's milk when she briefs over the high-tech voice-chatroom thing we use, but in real life, she's warm and funny, and very good at her job.
I savored every moment. The spicy chicken and sweet rice, studded with currants and saffron. An older episode of Happy Days played on the TV overhead, complete with hystrionic Arabic voice-over. I drank a mango-puree concoction and we laughed about filming While You Were Out in one of Saddam's palaces. How his arrest, detention, and trial are all an elaborate ruse to get him out of the palaces so we can renovate them, make military headquarters and embassies out of them all.
I go home a week from Friday. I'd enjoy it much more if the lovely blue-eyed man could come with me, but that's outside the realm of possibility.
Wednesday, August 18, 2004
The Novelty
I got out yesterday to a town several miles outside the Baghdad city limits. The purpose of the trip was to meet with the local Police Chief and discuss how we could help them maintain security in the town--reinforce the jail, buy uniforms and boots, get them some extra training.
As soon as we pulled into the Police Station, a small crowd of kids gathered just outside the reinforced barrier. They hollered, cheered, gave us the thumbs-up, which I'm still not sure about. In Arab culture it's more obscene than our middle finger...but we figure the kids have seen us do it enough, they know it doesn't mean that to us. And they won't stop until you wave and smile at them.
It was obvious that Americans haven't been to this town in quite some time. We saw no other military vehicles. The small crowd that gathered told me our presence was unusual. There was nothing hostile about it.
The Police Chief was a Colonel. Although anyone can call themselves a Colonel here, this guy had the bearing of one--he was clearly a man who was accustomed to being in charge. Iraqis are much larger people than Afghans; I dwarfed even the men in Afghanistan and even with my smallish feet, they easily wore my running shoes. Not these Iraqis. A couple of them were quite large, with giant hands like hams.
The Chief's lackey (probably a Lieutenant ;) brought in a silver tray of shot glasses centered on tiny saucers. They were filled with sugar, and he poured hot tea into each one. There were similarly tiny spoons; it was like playing tea party. The tea was almost unbearably hot, and very sweet.
We took off our helmets and settled in to talk. Soon the word got out that there was an American woman on the premises--every Iraqi cop in the force soon gathered out in the hallway, pushing each other out of the little door to stare at me. It was a bit unsettling. As soon as we finished meeting with the Chief (above all, they want rugs and curtains, to hell with the boots), the men saw I had a camera and the party started. One by one, they lined up to take pictures with me. I couldn't see the men as the Lieutenant took the pictures, and laughed out loud when I saw them later. In each photo, the man is leaned back a bit, with a very serious, tough-guy expression. A possessive arm hovers just behind my back.
I had three marriage proposals in fifteen minutes. There's the novelty of how we look--me, in particular, with red hair, pale skin, and green eyes--but I think it's more than that. I think American women are in turn worshipped and reviled the world over. For this, we can thank Brittney Spears.
As soon as we pulled into the Police Station, a small crowd of kids gathered just outside the reinforced barrier. They hollered, cheered, gave us the thumbs-up, which I'm still not sure about. In Arab culture it's more obscene than our middle finger...but we figure the kids have seen us do it enough, they know it doesn't mean that to us. And they won't stop until you wave and smile at them.
It was obvious that Americans haven't been to this town in quite some time. We saw no other military vehicles. The small crowd that gathered told me our presence was unusual. There was nothing hostile about it.
The Police Chief was a Colonel. Although anyone can call themselves a Colonel here, this guy had the bearing of one--he was clearly a man who was accustomed to being in charge. Iraqis are much larger people than Afghans; I dwarfed even the men in Afghanistan and even with my smallish feet, they easily wore my running shoes. Not these Iraqis. A couple of them were quite large, with giant hands like hams.
The Chief's lackey (probably a Lieutenant ;) brought in a silver tray of shot glasses centered on tiny saucers. They were filled with sugar, and he poured hot tea into each one. There were similarly tiny spoons; it was like playing tea party. The tea was almost unbearably hot, and very sweet.
We took off our helmets and settled in to talk. Soon the word got out that there was an American woman on the premises--every Iraqi cop in the force soon gathered out in the hallway, pushing each other out of the little door to stare at me. It was a bit unsettling. As soon as we finished meeting with the Chief (above all, they want rugs and curtains, to hell with the boots), the men saw I had a camera and the party started. One by one, they lined up to take pictures with me. I couldn't see the men as the Lieutenant took the pictures, and laughed out loud when I saw them later. In each photo, the man is leaned back a bit, with a very serious, tough-guy expression. A possessive arm hovers just behind my back.
I had three marriage proposals in fifteen minutes. There's the novelty of how we look--me, in particular, with red hair, pale skin, and green eyes--but I think it's more than that. I think American women are in turn worshipped and reviled the world over. For this, we can thank Brittney Spears.
Out of the Cage
Today I get to go out on patrol with the MP's. Not to a dangerous area, mind you, don't get excited. I'm going to recon the areas in which I'm tasking people to collect intelligence, meet with a local police chief. I'm terribly excited to actually see Iraq, rather than just the inside of the Headquarters. This filthy, mouse-ridden tent where I work. It's easy to lose perspective in here.
I haven't slept much at all. I could spend the morning sleeping after this briefing I have to give in half and hour. But I need to get out there. I need something to look at, I need to see different people and some of this country. And I will spend the next 24 hours straight prepping a weekly rollup brief for the Commander, so this is my one chance to run for it.
One just ran across my desk. Yes, a mouse. They don't bother me the way they do some of these big manly men--some of them screech and jump like little girls. They set traps, they consult with exterminators, it has become A Problem. They spend time and energy on it that I just don't have, or care to summon for something so trivial.
I haven't slept much at all. I could spend the morning sleeping after this briefing I have to give in half and hour. But I need to get out there. I need something to look at, I need to see different people and some of this country. And I will spend the next 24 hours straight prepping a weekly rollup brief for the Commander, so this is my one chance to run for it.
One just ran across my desk. Yes, a mouse. They don't bother me the way they do some of these big manly men--some of them screech and jump like little girls. They set traps, they consult with exterminators, it has become A Problem. They spend time and energy on it that I just don't have, or care to summon for something so trivial.
Saturday, August 14, 2004
Talk Is Even Cheaper Here
Yesterday I was informed, in all seriousness, that the young'uns think Mark and I are doing the hibbidy-dibbidy. I had to laugh--I walk around like the undead, on fewer than four hours of sleep a night, and they think it's because I've been gettin' it on with this man with whom I admittedly would like nothing more than lose some sleep.
Problem is, we're under a General Order that forbids sex between unmarried people. Which means I won't get naked with him. Period. That kind of trouble, I can do without--I have enough just doing my job day to day. And Mark, he was the one who told me about said rumor. I tried to gauge how he felt about it, if it was a subtle how 'bout it?
And what did I do? Laugh suggestively, level a charming gaze into his baby blues, and purr that it would be nice to give 'em something to talk about? Um, no. Actually, it caught me completely off guard and I went all awkward. The sleep deprivation and my physical filthiness added to the decidedly unsexy way I felt right about then, sitting in the chow hall trying to force down a steak sandwich with dirt under my fingernails and grit in my ears.
It was a perfect opportunity for me to just lay it on him, that when we get back to the States it's on like hot buttered popcorn, baby, that I'll put him between two slices of bread and call it Love Sammich? Oh, but no. My stomach clenched and I stammered something about the fact that his civilian rank is equivalent to a Colonel and wouldn't that be fraternization?
Damn it! What's the matter with me? Ok, I have to bring it up again, casually, and stop being such a chickenshit. How is it I can tell someone higher in rank that they're a dumbass, but I can't even look at this man when the conversation turns a bit serious? I feel fourteen years old, like my braces are cutting my lips up and I have a bad haircut.
But all the signs are there. It's in the way we speak to each other day to day. The soldiers picked up on it immediately, hence the rumors. I have to be careful, though, because it looks unprofessional that I'd have a little summer fling.
But it's not. We're not fooling around. Really. It wouldn't be so awkward if we were. Would it? I'm out of practice, I've blissfully forgotten how uncomfortable it can be, getting that close to someone.
But really, there's nothing wrong with me that a full night's sleep wouldn't fix.
Problem is, we're under a General Order that forbids sex between unmarried people. Which means I won't get naked with him. Period. That kind of trouble, I can do without--I have enough just doing my job day to day. And Mark, he was the one who told me about said rumor. I tried to gauge how he felt about it, if it was a subtle how 'bout it?
And what did I do? Laugh suggestively, level a charming gaze into his baby blues, and purr that it would be nice to give 'em something to talk about? Um, no. Actually, it caught me completely off guard and I went all awkward. The sleep deprivation and my physical filthiness added to the decidedly unsexy way I felt right about then, sitting in the chow hall trying to force down a steak sandwich with dirt under my fingernails and grit in my ears.
It was a perfect opportunity for me to just lay it on him, that when we get back to the States it's on like hot buttered popcorn, baby, that I'll put him between two slices of bread and call it Love Sammich? Oh, but no. My stomach clenched and I stammered something about the fact that his civilian rank is equivalent to a Colonel and wouldn't that be fraternization?
Damn it! What's the matter with me? Ok, I have to bring it up again, casually, and stop being such a chickenshit. How is it I can tell someone higher in rank that they're a dumbass, but I can't even look at this man when the conversation turns a bit serious? I feel fourteen years old, like my braces are cutting my lips up and I have a bad haircut.
But all the signs are there. It's in the way we speak to each other day to day. The soldiers picked up on it immediately, hence the rumors. I have to be careful, though, because it looks unprofessional that I'd have a little summer fling.
But it's not. We're not fooling around. Really. It wouldn't be so awkward if we were. Would it? I'm out of practice, I've blissfully forgotten how uncomfortable it can be, getting that close to someone.
But really, there's nothing wrong with me that a full night's sleep wouldn't fix.
Saturday, August 07, 2004
If It Weren't for Bad Luck...
I haven't posted lately for two reasons: I am so short on time that I never get more than four hours of sleep a night, and I didn't/don't have anything nice to say.
The last few days have been utter hell on earth. I cannot even look the commander in the eye, I hate him so much. It's been so long since I've dropped off or picked up laundry, I'm on the Third Wearing of the Socks. It's 6:30 on Sunday morning, I've been here since five, and I won't get to leave until well after midnight tonight. And am required to be in by five. Seven days a week. For the next ten + months. And the late nights will not go away.
My short-term memory is gone. I couldn't remember the word for that thing you write when you come in from a mission, oh yeah, a REPORT. It literally took thirty seconds to come up with that word. This was last night. I think.
Just now I caught a glimpse of myself in the chow hall mirror as I washed my hands. I look like a drug addict--red, glassy eyes (with black circles, very glamorous), hair in disarray, pale skin.
The one bright spot in my week came two nights ago, unexpectedly, when I finished a six-hour meeting with the Men With Rank, and the sweet man I've mentioned before had gotten my dinner. Steak, a salad, and cookies, in a go-box on my desk with a little note about how he'd noticed I hadn't eaten.
It sounds like a tiny gesture, but at that moment, I was moved nearly to tears. I'll take all the wee kindnesses I can get right now, and make an effort to push some out myself. I gave my two soldiers the morning off and that's why I'm here now. Stuff like that. I can't let the vitriol filter down. I must be the shit filter. Does it make my life hell? Yes, it does. Is it the right thing to do? Yes, it is.
I'm good at my job. I just don't like it much right now.
The last few days have been utter hell on earth. I cannot even look the commander in the eye, I hate him so much. It's been so long since I've dropped off or picked up laundry, I'm on the Third Wearing of the Socks. It's 6:30 on Sunday morning, I've been here since five, and I won't get to leave until well after midnight tonight. And am required to be in by five. Seven days a week. For the next ten + months. And the late nights will not go away.
My short-term memory is gone. I couldn't remember the word for that thing you write when you come in from a mission, oh yeah, a REPORT. It literally took thirty seconds to come up with that word. This was last night. I think.
Just now I caught a glimpse of myself in the chow hall mirror as I washed my hands. I look like a drug addict--red, glassy eyes (with black circles, very glamorous), hair in disarray, pale skin.
The one bright spot in my week came two nights ago, unexpectedly, when I finished a six-hour meeting with the Men With Rank, and the sweet man I've mentioned before had gotten my dinner. Steak, a salad, and cookies, in a go-box on my desk with a little note about how he'd noticed I hadn't eaten.
It sounds like a tiny gesture, but at that moment, I was moved nearly to tears. I'll take all the wee kindnesses I can get right now, and make an effort to push some out myself. I gave my two soldiers the morning off and that's why I'm here now. Stuff like that. I can't let the vitriol filter down. I must be the shit filter. Does it make my life hell? Yes, it does. Is it the right thing to do? Yes, it is.
I'm good at my job. I just don't like it much right now.
Sunday, August 01, 2004
Long Day's Journey Into Night
It's 10pm, I've been here since 5:30am, with no end in sight. It's been this way for over a week. I'm so sleep-deprived, I hallucinated on the walk home last night. A piece of white toilet paper fluttering on the ground became a serpent. Albino, I suppose, but a serpent nonetheless. I jump and yelped. I'm glad no one was around.
Actually, I was even more glad no one was around to witness my stress-induced tantrum moments later in the shower. Having worked that insane schedule for many days in a row, I can't exactly remember when my last shower took place. I'm thinking it was three days prior. But last night, I reached my filth threshold and sacrificed a half-hour of sleep for a shower. So imagine how pissed I was when I reached for the knobs, naked, shampoo in hand, and there was no water.
I cursed. I threw things. Slammed doors. Then went about fixing the problem...threw switches in the fuse box, turned knobs on the pump, still naked as a jaybird and not giving a tinker's damn. And finally, something went right and the pump started working.
I was still pissed, though, and muttered furiously all through the shower and kept it up stomping back to my room.
There's nothing wrong with me that a full night's sleep wouldn't fix. I'm only able to keep this blog updated because the Boss isn't around and we finally have an unclassified computer in the Dungeon.
I miss my queen-sized sleigh bed with the fine sheets and thick down comforter. I miss the ceiling fan's sweet breeze. I miss waking up to sunlight in the room and the sound of traffic outside the Park where I live. I miss my kitchen. And the front porch with the cheap chairs I bogarted from Dad's house that actually look great and are quite comfortable when you pull one up to the railing, put your feet up, and read for the late afternoon as the cats chase each other on the front lawn. I just plain miss home.
Actually, I was even more glad no one was around to witness my stress-induced tantrum moments later in the shower. Having worked that insane schedule for many days in a row, I can't exactly remember when my last shower took place. I'm thinking it was three days prior. But last night, I reached my filth threshold and sacrificed a half-hour of sleep for a shower. So imagine how pissed I was when I reached for the knobs, naked, shampoo in hand, and there was no water.
I cursed. I threw things. Slammed doors. Then went about fixing the problem...threw switches in the fuse box, turned knobs on the pump, still naked as a jaybird and not giving a tinker's damn. And finally, something went right and the pump started working.
I was still pissed, though, and muttered furiously all through the shower and kept it up stomping back to my room.
There's nothing wrong with me that a full night's sleep wouldn't fix. I'm only able to keep this blog updated because the Boss isn't around and we finally have an unclassified computer in the Dungeon.
I miss my queen-sized sleigh bed with the fine sheets and thick down comforter. I miss the ceiling fan's sweet breeze. I miss waking up to sunlight in the room and the sound of traffic outside the Park where I live. I miss my kitchen. And the front porch with the cheap chairs I bogarted from Dad's house that actually look great and are quite comfortable when you pull one up to the railing, put your feet up, and read for the late afternoon as the cats chase each other on the front lawn. I just plain miss home.
Friday, July 23, 2004
Waiting for the Other Shoe to Fall
Jackass has been so unnaturally nice these last few days, I'm waiting for the catch, the proverbial Other Shoe. He said I looked tired last night and sent me home. Huh???
I slept soundly until about ten pm local time when BOOM!!! Huge explosion. BOOOM! Even bigger one five minutes later. A bunch of us gathered outside after turning off our porch lights so the sumbitches wouldn't have anything to aim at. We could see blue flashes of light from both the east and west, the ground shook. There's no bunker, so we stood there laughing nervously.
"Was that one closer? Are they bracketing?" someone asked. Bracketing is what folks do with artillery, use a spotter and tell the dude firing the tube to crank it left or right so they can hit the target.
So we all felt pretty sheepish this morning when we read that only the first explosion was an incoming mortar...the other ten? Us firing back, hallalujah.
Just now all the field grade officers in the Brigade Headquarters freaked out, walked from office to office shouting and swearing and threatening to fire folks. A fist fight almost broke out between two majors.
When will these infantry types learn that it's in times of chaos that calm counts the most? And that jackassery has a way of trickling down if you don't have a strong enough leader in the middle as a stopper? They all reminded me of little barking chihuahuas, walking around spreading vitriol without task or purpose or direction.
So I escaped. It's air conditioned in here. I snuck out with our Warrant Officer and Shayla, the other female lieutenant. They won't miss us in the chaos.
I slept soundly until about ten pm local time when BOOM!!! Huge explosion. BOOOM! Even bigger one five minutes later. A bunch of us gathered outside after turning off our porch lights so the sumbitches wouldn't have anything to aim at. We could see blue flashes of light from both the east and west, the ground shook. There's no bunker, so we stood there laughing nervously.
"Was that one closer? Are they bracketing?" someone asked. Bracketing is what folks do with artillery, use a spotter and tell the dude firing the tube to crank it left or right so they can hit the target.
So we all felt pretty sheepish this morning when we read that only the first explosion was an incoming mortar...the other ten? Us firing back, hallalujah.
Just now all the field grade officers in the Brigade Headquarters freaked out, walked from office to office shouting and swearing and threatening to fire folks. A fist fight almost broke out between two majors.
When will these infantry types learn that it's in times of chaos that calm counts the most? And that jackassery has a way of trickling down if you don't have a strong enough leader in the middle as a stopper? They all reminded me of little barking chihuahuas, walking around spreading vitriol without task or purpose or direction.
So I escaped. It's air conditioned in here. I snuck out with our Warrant Officer and Shayla, the other female lieutenant. They won't miss us in the chaos.
Saturday, July 17, 2004
Let the Jackassery Begin
No shit, there I was, moving north from Kuwait to Baghdad on a three-day hell convoy. I had a PFC driving, the ambient temperature with the asphalt and whatnot was about 130ยบ, we wore full body armor, and the first thing we saw outside the gate was a dead camel stretched halfway across the road. Unbelievable stench attendant.
You would think that the road connecting Kuwait to Baghdad, roughly the same route Saddam marched years back, would involve a nice, four-lane interstate. And parts of it were. But mostly, it was worse than the back roads of Mississippi. I had neither door nor seatbelt to keep my body-armored butt in the vehicle, so spent a significant amount of energy just holding on. That and pointing my rifle out the door, ready to tear somebody's ass up if they messed with us.
The radio consumed the rest of my effort--I had no speaker, so had to hold the handmike under the kevlar helmet the whole trip. My ear was purple when we finally arrived. But we're not there yet.
The first flat tire hit just after the dead camel. We'd been out the gate maybe twenty minutes. It took almost an hour to change it...the truck was huge and heavy and bent the jack like a paperclip. The next flat tire hit the next day. There were six in all. And then the coup de grace.
"Shit, is that a wheel in the road?" I drove at this point, the PFC almost passed out from the heat and fatigue. Sure enough, an entire wheel spun off the road, the heaviest truck we have beached to the left of the road. Thank Allah there was no fuel truck convoy from the opposite direction at that particular moment.
For three hours, midday heat, we stood on the side of the road. Everyone kept both hands on weapons, fully alert despite the face-melting heat--we were, after all, in Iraq by this time.
The third day began with the outpost where we'd "slept" getting mortared. Time to hit the road, folks, let's move. Next, I fully exploded on a Staff Sergeant from another unit who dismounted his vehicle moments before we were to depart in order to inform me, snidely, that our trailer/big satellite dish had a tail light out. He'd been openly disrespectful the whole trip, and my Flip Mode went something like this: "No shit, Sergeant! It's been like that for four days, jackass! Get back in your goddamn vehicle and get your head out of your ass! And take whatever personal bullshit problem you have with you!" I think there was more as he slunk back to his truck.
We finally arrived here. I have my own room in an air-conditioned trailer. I bought a fridge. But that is where the luxury ends. We're two miles from the chow hall. A mile to work. Three miles to the higher headquarters. No vehicles. Very hot. I'm buying a bike today.
Three days of holding urine for hours on end to my GREAT discomfort culminated in a bladder/kidney infection that hit me like a bag of bricks yesterday. It went from "Hmm, I may have to go to sick call tomorrow" to "Holy shit is there an emergency room around here?" in the span of an hour. Nothing like pissing volumes of blood and suffering pain that doubles you over speechless to make you move toward the doc.
What's next? Possibly, some days of frustration and more jackassery from my commander. I'm getting better at avoiding him entirely.
You would think that the road connecting Kuwait to Baghdad, roughly the same route Saddam marched years back, would involve a nice, four-lane interstate. And parts of it were. But mostly, it was worse than the back roads of Mississippi. I had neither door nor seatbelt to keep my body-armored butt in the vehicle, so spent a significant amount of energy just holding on. That and pointing my rifle out the door, ready to tear somebody's ass up if they messed with us.
The radio consumed the rest of my effort--I had no speaker, so had to hold the handmike under the kevlar helmet the whole trip. My ear was purple when we finally arrived. But we're not there yet.
The first flat tire hit just after the dead camel. We'd been out the gate maybe twenty minutes. It took almost an hour to change it...the truck was huge and heavy and bent the jack like a paperclip. The next flat tire hit the next day. There were six in all. And then the coup de grace.
"Shit, is that a wheel in the road?" I drove at this point, the PFC almost passed out from the heat and fatigue. Sure enough, an entire wheel spun off the road, the heaviest truck we have beached to the left of the road. Thank Allah there was no fuel truck convoy from the opposite direction at that particular moment.
For three hours, midday heat, we stood on the side of the road. Everyone kept both hands on weapons, fully alert despite the face-melting heat--we were, after all, in Iraq by this time.
The third day began with the outpost where we'd "slept" getting mortared. Time to hit the road, folks, let's move. Next, I fully exploded on a Staff Sergeant from another unit who dismounted his vehicle moments before we were to depart in order to inform me, snidely, that our trailer/big satellite dish had a tail light out. He'd been openly disrespectful the whole trip, and my Flip Mode went something like this: "No shit, Sergeant! It's been like that for four days, jackass! Get back in your goddamn vehicle and get your head out of your ass! And take whatever personal bullshit problem you have with you!" I think there was more as he slunk back to his truck.
We finally arrived here. I have my own room in an air-conditioned trailer. I bought a fridge. But that is where the luxury ends. We're two miles from the chow hall. A mile to work. Three miles to the higher headquarters. No vehicles. Very hot. I'm buying a bike today.
Three days of holding urine for hours on end to my GREAT discomfort culminated in a bladder/kidney infection that hit me like a bag of bricks yesterday. It went from "Hmm, I may have to go to sick call tomorrow" to "Holy shit is there an emergency room around here?" in the span of an hour. Nothing like pissing volumes of blood and suffering pain that doubles you over speechless to make you move toward the doc.
What's next? Possibly, some days of frustration and more jackassery from my commander. I'm getting better at avoiding him entirely.
Saturday, July 10, 2004
Close Call(s)
"Um, is that an HE round?"
HE, or High Explosive--an artillery round. This question from the driver, a Specialist in my platoon and one of my favorite soldiers. We drove willy-nilly through the desert, ten Humvees, thirty personnel. We were on our way to yet another range, another day spent in the face-melting heat. If we could just get there.
People went on a recon the day before, to make sure we could get out to the range. It's notoriously hard to find, this one--out in the middle of the Kuwaiti desert. They finally found it, somehow, and now led the pack. We were already late, having wasted half an hour before we left due to a mixup with guard duty and the last-minute addition of several vehicles to the convoy without telling me.
ME, the Range Officer-In-Charge. Yeah, ME, the one who organized all this crap for the last three weeks. ME, the one who needs to know about additions to the convoy so I can get the paperwork done.
But surely there is a real road that leads to this range, or what passes for a road out here--generally two little mounds on either side to guide you through the loose sand. Only out here, no guidance. Only craters and spent artillery that indicated we were in an impact zone.
At first, it was funny. The Commander has us lost and wandering like the Philistines through an impact area. Ha ha, we could get hit with a mortar.
We drove through herd of camels. Passed heavily scaled lizards as big as your leg. Turned around more than once. I instructed the soldiers in my vehicle to scan for heffalumps in homage to that Winnie the Pooh where they wander in circles through the forest.
Two hours of nudging camels and dodging lizards (but thankfully, no mortars), we arrived at the range. One of the infantry units from our brigade occupied the range off to our right about 400 meters, well visible on the desolate desert floor. The heat has become even more intense these last few days. In the afternoons, stepping out of the tent into the glare makes me think of that Nazi sumbitch on Raiders of the Lost Ark who opened the Ark, and his face ran off onto his shirt, eyeballs rolling off his chin. It literally feels as if your meat is cooking.
As we assembled the big weapons we were to shoot, I bent into a Humvee to get another bottle of water. And then there was a MASSIVE explosion. I straightened up to see sand falling about 150 meters from us, between our site and the infantry guys. Someone close to me yelled, "What the hell was that??"
"Cease fire, cease fire, cease fire!!!" I yelled. I was the Range Safety Officer. I got onto the radio to Range Control. The consensus among our guys was that it was a mortar round, far too big for anything we or the infantry guys fired that day.
It's a point of contention. There was a mortar platoon up the hill from us who categorically denied having fired at all. And so the range went on.
But we did notice, on passing the mortar platoon a second time on our way home, that the tubes all pointed in a different direction than they had when we'd passed them earlier.
Well, yeah, it could've been bad. But it wasn't, and makes a good story.
HE, or High Explosive--an artillery round. This question from the driver, a Specialist in my platoon and one of my favorite soldiers. We drove willy-nilly through the desert, ten Humvees, thirty personnel. We were on our way to yet another range, another day spent in the face-melting heat. If we could just get there.
People went on a recon the day before, to make sure we could get out to the range. It's notoriously hard to find, this one--out in the middle of the Kuwaiti desert. They finally found it, somehow, and now led the pack. We were already late, having wasted half an hour before we left due to a mixup with guard duty and the last-minute addition of several vehicles to the convoy without telling me.
ME, the Range Officer-In-Charge. Yeah, ME, the one who organized all this crap for the last three weeks. ME, the one who needs to know about additions to the convoy so I can get the paperwork done.
But surely there is a real road that leads to this range, or what passes for a road out here--generally two little mounds on either side to guide you through the loose sand. Only out here, no guidance. Only craters and spent artillery that indicated we were in an impact zone.
At first, it was funny. The Commander has us lost and wandering like the Philistines through an impact area. Ha ha, we could get hit with a mortar.
We drove through herd of camels. Passed heavily scaled lizards as big as your leg. Turned around more than once. I instructed the soldiers in my vehicle to scan for heffalumps in homage to that Winnie the Pooh where they wander in circles through the forest.
Two hours of nudging camels and dodging lizards (but thankfully, no mortars), we arrived at the range. One of the infantry units from our brigade occupied the range off to our right about 400 meters, well visible on the desolate desert floor. The heat has become even more intense these last few days. In the afternoons, stepping out of the tent into the glare makes me think of that Nazi sumbitch on Raiders of the Lost Ark who opened the Ark, and his face ran off onto his shirt, eyeballs rolling off his chin. It literally feels as if your meat is cooking.
As we assembled the big weapons we were to shoot, I bent into a Humvee to get another bottle of water. And then there was a MASSIVE explosion. I straightened up to see sand falling about 150 meters from us, between our site and the infantry guys. Someone close to me yelled, "What the hell was that??"
"Cease fire, cease fire, cease fire!!!" I yelled. I was the Range Safety Officer. I got onto the radio to Range Control. The consensus among our guys was that it was a mortar round, far too big for anything we or the infantry guys fired that day.
It's a point of contention. There was a mortar platoon up the hill from us who categorically denied having fired at all. And so the range went on.
But we did notice, on passing the mortar platoon a second time on our way home, that the tubes all pointed in a different direction than they had when we'd passed them earlier.
Well, yeah, it could've been bad. But it wasn't, and makes a good story.
Sunday, July 04, 2004
Oh Say Can You See...
No, not really. Not in this sandstorm. And I don't think we'll see any fireworks. Everyone please have an extra beer for us today and I'll catch up when I get back.
I managed to creep into my tent yesterday and spent the afternoon writing and reading a summertime trash novel: Trading Up by Candace Bushnell of Sex and the City fame. It's exactly what I need--a frivolous tale about some rich, hip girls in New York, driving out to the Hamptons for parties on the beach.
Talk about escapism. What, am I supposed to read Hamlet out here?
Still, I can't let my brain go to mush, so the next novel on the trail is Flannery O'Connor's The Violent Must Bear it Away. Great Southern black humor, too bad she died at 32. She would've continued to whup ass.
I have never lived well with people. Right now I'm crammed into a tattered, filthy tent with thirteen other females, and I'm the oldest one by at least ten years. I cope using earplugs and a frou-frou little blue silk eye pillow that allows me to shut off my lights whenever I get away from the Headquarters at night.
Most of these ladies, they're good people, just a bit young. But two of them just annoy the hell out of me--it's just this constant litany of honking, braying laughter, loud enough to shatter glass. One of them plays the I'm So Cute role, using babytalk and all other manner of nerve-grating, little-girl vernacular. The other plays Poor Me, My Life's So Hard. AND they BOTH greatly exaggerated illness and injury while we were in the desert in order to get driven back here, away from all that hard stuff. And they're both Sergeants!
Nothing annoys me more than a female soldier who feeds right into all the negative stereotypes many of our male counterparts assign us: we're lazy, we're weak, we malinger and complain.
The First Sergeant made my whole day yesterday when he told me that officers live in single-person rooms. I won't have to listen to all that blah blah blah from those two.
I managed to creep into my tent yesterday and spent the afternoon writing and reading a summertime trash novel: Trading Up by Candace Bushnell of Sex and the City fame. It's exactly what I need--a frivolous tale about some rich, hip girls in New York, driving out to the Hamptons for parties on the beach.
Talk about escapism. What, am I supposed to read Hamlet out here?
Still, I can't let my brain go to mush, so the next novel on the trail is Flannery O'Connor's The Violent Must Bear it Away. Great Southern black humor, too bad she died at 32. She would've continued to whup ass.
I have never lived well with people. Right now I'm crammed into a tattered, filthy tent with thirteen other females, and I'm the oldest one by at least ten years. I cope using earplugs and a frou-frou little blue silk eye pillow that allows me to shut off my lights whenever I get away from the Headquarters at night.
Most of these ladies, they're good people, just a bit young. But two of them just annoy the hell out of me--it's just this constant litany of honking, braying laughter, loud enough to shatter glass. One of them plays the I'm So Cute role, using babytalk and all other manner of nerve-grating, little-girl vernacular. The other plays Poor Me, My Life's So Hard. AND they BOTH greatly exaggerated illness and injury while we were in the desert in order to get driven back here, away from all that hard stuff. And they're both Sergeants!
Nothing annoys me more than a female soldier who feeds right into all the negative stereotypes many of our male counterparts assign us: we're lazy, we're weak, we malinger and complain.
The First Sergeant made my whole day yesterday when he told me that officers live in single-person rooms. I won't have to listen to all that blah blah blah from those two.
Friday, July 02, 2004
No Wonder They Hate Us, You Jackass!
I just took a blessedly long, cool shower and changed into freshly laundered and pressed DCU's after five days out in the desert. I was FILTHY. Sand ground into the scalp filthy.
I've concluded that they must've filmed the Tatooine piece of the original Star Wars here. I've never seen such a vast expanse of utter nothingness. Not a bush, not a scrub tree anywhere in view. I thought El Paso was bleak...this place looks like the surface of the moon.
But I'm satisfied. I ran five ranges in four days, successfully trained the company on a myriad of combat tasks. And the best part of each day out there was the early morning "range sweep," bearing close resemblance to a Rat Patrol remake.
It was that short period of time in this moonscape that it's actually pleasurable--the sun's just up, it's still cool, and there's a pink-purple cast on everything. My range sweeps involved my riding shotgun in a Humvee with some crusty old retired-Infantry Sergeant Major, smoking and cursing, as we hauled ass through the landscape. Felt like a bobblehead doll, almost fell out a time or two, and loved every minute of it.
The purpose of the Range Sweep is to chase off the Bedoins. Hard to imagine, in this day and age, a herd of camels sheparded by an astonishingly wiry Bedoin, accompanied by a pack mule and a dog, roaming the landscape in search of scant feed for the herd. But we chased them off the range all day, keep them from getting accidentally shot.
I'm strictly limited on time, so I have to keep this abbreviated.
There was another unit out there with us on an adjacent range, and I watched them through my binoculars as they chased a herd of sheep away...they did it differently from us though. We politely asked the shepard to move on, using gun-gestures to explain they might get shot if they stayed. Usually worked just fine. These jackasses, however, barreled right into this poor man's herd. I SAW them run over a lamb.
I was PISSED.
I saw the Lieutenant, a guy I've dealt with here from time to time. I asked him, "Hey, did ya'll just run over that guy's flock???"
He smirked. "I think we scared one, it might've had a heart attack."
I stared at him for a moment. "No wonder they hate us, you jackass," I said, then walked away.
I can't abide arrogant American assholes. Period.
I've concluded that they must've filmed the Tatooine piece of the original Star Wars here. I've never seen such a vast expanse of utter nothingness. Not a bush, not a scrub tree anywhere in view. I thought El Paso was bleak...this place looks like the surface of the moon.
But I'm satisfied. I ran five ranges in four days, successfully trained the company on a myriad of combat tasks. And the best part of each day out there was the early morning "range sweep," bearing close resemblance to a Rat Patrol remake.
It was that short period of time in this moonscape that it's actually pleasurable--the sun's just up, it's still cool, and there's a pink-purple cast on everything. My range sweeps involved my riding shotgun in a Humvee with some crusty old retired-Infantry Sergeant Major, smoking and cursing, as we hauled ass through the landscape. Felt like a bobblehead doll, almost fell out a time or two, and loved every minute of it.
The purpose of the Range Sweep is to chase off the Bedoins. Hard to imagine, in this day and age, a herd of camels sheparded by an astonishingly wiry Bedoin, accompanied by a pack mule and a dog, roaming the landscape in search of scant feed for the herd. But we chased them off the range all day, keep them from getting accidentally shot.
I'm strictly limited on time, so I have to keep this abbreviated.
There was another unit out there with us on an adjacent range, and I watched them through my binoculars as they chased a herd of sheep away...they did it differently from us though. We politely asked the shepard to move on, using gun-gestures to explain they might get shot if they stayed. Usually worked just fine. These jackasses, however, barreled right into this poor man's herd. I SAW them run over a lamb.
I was PISSED.
I saw the Lieutenant, a guy I've dealt with here from time to time. I asked him, "Hey, did ya'll just run over that guy's flock???"
He smirked. "I think we scared one, it might've had a heart attack."
I stared at him for a moment. "No wonder they hate us, you jackass," I said, then walked away.
I can't abide arrogant American assholes. Period.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)