I'm getting ready to leave again for a few days out in Baghdad--I can't wait. I love getting out there, I go every chance I get. This sitting around behind a desk all day every day is a true drag.
And speaking of drag, I paid a tranny to cut off all my hair yesterday. Yes, it was a Filipino She-male. She chopped off the pony tail and held it up--it was a foot long. All the little Filipino ladies gasped in unison. It was about that time I noticed my hairdresser's prominent Adam's apple and largish hands. Having spent a great deal of time working in downtown New Orleans where you cannot swing a dead cat without smacking a tranny, my instincts are finely honed.
Of course, I don't care, because everyone knows that when you have a choice, go for the gay man to cut your hair. They are able to see what would make a woman look good, and then they take away everything but what needs to be there.
I love my hair short. It's long layers, chin length, and I've been told many times I look ten years younger.
I'm so conflicted about my future, it keeps me awake at night. If I had any certainty I could find a job I like that will pay me well, it would be a no-brainer. But most days, I like the Army, I love being an officer, and I like what I do. But then there's the deploying, the long hours, the utter lack of personal freedom. I need to just shit or get off the pot, make a decision and stick with it.
Wednesday, February 16, 2005
Monday, February 07, 2005
Far From Home
I just saw on the Blogger Dashboard, Blogs of Note section, one titled "Baghdad Burning." Curious, I opened it...and it's not written by a soldier. Or an American. British journalist, I'm thinking...and feeling rather slighted that those muldoons that run this website haven't recognized what A Great Blog this is! Well, granted, I'm terribly neglectful of it...because I have a job that keeps me madly busy, is all. I mean, I am an intelligence officer in the capital city, for chrissakes.
The elections--nothing short of amazing. I was fortunate enough to get selected for S2, or primary intel officer, for the IPOC--Iraqi Police Operations Center--for eleven days during the elections. So I got to see and hear everything. I ate Iraqi food (no gastric distress), slept on a cot on the roof amoung the date tree tops, worked my ass off, hung out with the plain-clothes detective guys we call the Shia Death Squad, taught them to play Texas Hold 'Em. The Sudanese suicide bomber's ripped-up head sat on the sidewalk and the voters spat on it, stepped over it, and voted anyway.
One old woman was the first in line at the first polling station the Commander visited. She said, "Iraq has been in darkness since 1963. Today the sun finally came out." She had tears in her eyes, her hand shook as she dipped her finger in the purple ink and slid the paper ballot into the plastic box.
In Sadr City, a rocket hit just outside a polling center, killing several voters and injuring others. The injured voters fashioned bandages from clothing and got back in line.
There have been two moments in my Army career when I have felt the full brunt of Far From Home--the first was in Korea, when I was a junior enlisted soldier on guard duty about a mile from the DMZ. It was ten below zero and quiet the way only extreme cold can still the world. The North Koreans have giant speakers along the DMZ--absurd propoganda during the day, and usually silent at night. One night, though, as I was on guard duty, they played opera. In the clear, cold air, it cleanly and without effort trilled across the frozen rice paddies, utterly surreal and unspeakably beautiful.
The second moment came January 30, election day, after I'd come in from patrols. I stepped outside to take some photos of the odd communications tower to our north, just as the sun was going down and the call to evening prayers spun up from dozens of mosques in the neighborhood. I stopped what I was doing and just watched--the sun in the date trees and on the comms tower, the softly mournful prayers sung on the most joyous day in recent Iraqi history, centuries of sorrow untainted by the newly-hatched democracy.
But in the street in front of the Police Station, the pick-up soccer game only paused long enough for the players to pray for a few moments, foreheads to the earth as the ball settled in the gutter. As soon as it was over, they kissed each other, retrieved the ball, and it was game on.
The elections--nothing short of amazing. I was fortunate enough to get selected for S2, or primary intel officer, for the IPOC--Iraqi Police Operations Center--for eleven days during the elections. So I got to see and hear everything. I ate Iraqi food (no gastric distress), slept on a cot on the roof amoung the date tree tops, worked my ass off, hung out with the plain-clothes detective guys we call the Shia Death Squad, taught them to play Texas Hold 'Em. The Sudanese suicide bomber's ripped-up head sat on the sidewalk and the voters spat on it, stepped over it, and voted anyway.
One old woman was the first in line at the first polling station the Commander visited. She said, "Iraq has been in darkness since 1963. Today the sun finally came out." She had tears in her eyes, her hand shook as she dipped her finger in the purple ink and slid the paper ballot into the plastic box.
In Sadr City, a rocket hit just outside a polling center, killing several voters and injuring others. The injured voters fashioned bandages from clothing and got back in line.
There have been two moments in my Army career when I have felt the full brunt of Far From Home--the first was in Korea, when I was a junior enlisted soldier on guard duty about a mile from the DMZ. It was ten below zero and quiet the way only extreme cold can still the world. The North Koreans have giant speakers along the DMZ--absurd propoganda during the day, and usually silent at night. One night, though, as I was on guard duty, they played opera. In the clear, cold air, it cleanly and without effort trilled across the frozen rice paddies, utterly surreal and unspeakably beautiful.
The second moment came January 30, election day, after I'd come in from patrols. I stepped outside to take some photos of the odd communications tower to our north, just as the sun was going down and the call to evening prayers spun up from dozens of mosques in the neighborhood. I stopped what I was doing and just watched--the sun in the date trees and on the comms tower, the softly mournful prayers sung on the most joyous day in recent Iraqi history, centuries of sorrow untainted by the newly-hatched democracy.
But in the street in front of the Police Station, the pick-up soccer game only paused long enough for the players to pray for a few moments, foreheads to the earth as the ball settled in the gutter. As soon as it was over, they kissed each other, retrieved the ball, and it was game on.
Monday, January 10, 2005
Goat-Borne IED (GBIED)
There is much too-doo about IED's in Iraq. With good reason. They kill our guys every day, and the enemy grows more proficient and inventive every day.
It started with your run-of-the-mill Improvised Explosive Device, a detonation device + explosives=damn it, there's another. Then they started using cars, and the VBIED (Vehicle-Borne IED) was, um...born. They are devestating and they can target buildings, convoys, large gatherings of children, you name it. More times than not, though, they just kill the asshole driving them, and annoy the crap out of everyone stuck in traffic after the roads get closed.
Then they started tucking them neatly into carcasses on the side of the road. Road Kill Borne IED, RKB-IED. Dogs, camels, whatever can hide explosives, up its ass go the explosives. So add insult to injury, quite literally--if the explosives don't kill you, the rotting camel flesh will paper your vehicle and probably land right on the uncovered sliver of your face.
Necessity is the mother of invention. Enter the JABIED. Jack Ass Borne IED. Yes, friends and neighbors, there was a jackass strolling down the highway down south with all manner of explosives strapped to its unfortunate hide. Pulling a cart, filled with, you guessed it, more explosives. Mortar rounds, the Insurgent's Explosive of Choice: cheap, plentiful, easy to bury in your momma's front yard.
So once you think you've seen it all, enter the Louisiana National Guard. I love them as people, I lived in New Orleans long enough to fall in love with the Louisiana way of life. In this arena, though, that devil-may-care philosophy gets guys killed. And makes them the laughingstock of the Division.
They pulled over a car--suspicious, they said. In the car: a man, and one (1) goat. They tested the goat with X-Spray, which is the litmus test for explosives. It is completely unreliable and the ACLU would hang someone by their toenails in the States for jailing someone based on this crap.
So our good Louisiana friends, they X-Spray the goat. He comes up hot. Put 'im in the BIF! He's going to Abu Ghrayeb! The chorus swells within the patrol. The BIF is the Brigade Interrogation Facility, which is not nearly so sinister as it sounds. Mostly bad-smelling dudes and the occasional Real Bad Guy. Lately, we've gotten a few Really Bad Guys. It's been rewarding.
No kidding, they detained the goat and his driver. Interrogated him. Charged them with Plans to Build and Utilize the First Goat Borne IED in Iraq.
My boss recommended fingerprinting the goat and planting a GPS chip on him, see what nefarious Goat Cell we can bust up when we see where he roams next. They were released the next day.
Never a dull moment, and I almost hate that we're losing the Louisiana battalion (they'll be subordinate to their Louisiana National Guard Brigade)--they were HIGH entertainment.
It started with your run-of-the-mill Improvised Explosive Device, a detonation device + explosives=damn it, there's another. Then they started using cars, and the VBIED (Vehicle-Borne IED) was, um...born. They are devestating and they can target buildings, convoys, large gatherings of children, you name it. More times than not, though, they just kill the asshole driving them, and annoy the crap out of everyone stuck in traffic after the roads get closed.
Then they started tucking them neatly into carcasses on the side of the road. Road Kill Borne IED, RKB-IED. Dogs, camels, whatever can hide explosives, up its ass go the explosives. So add insult to injury, quite literally--if the explosives don't kill you, the rotting camel flesh will paper your vehicle and probably land right on the uncovered sliver of your face.
Necessity is the mother of invention. Enter the JABIED. Jack Ass Borne IED. Yes, friends and neighbors, there was a jackass strolling down the highway down south with all manner of explosives strapped to its unfortunate hide. Pulling a cart, filled with, you guessed it, more explosives. Mortar rounds, the Insurgent's Explosive of Choice: cheap, plentiful, easy to bury in your momma's front yard.
So once you think you've seen it all, enter the Louisiana National Guard. I love them as people, I lived in New Orleans long enough to fall in love with the Louisiana way of life. In this arena, though, that devil-may-care philosophy gets guys killed. And makes them the laughingstock of the Division.
They pulled over a car--suspicious, they said. In the car: a man, and one (1) goat. They tested the goat with X-Spray, which is the litmus test for explosives. It is completely unreliable and the ACLU would hang someone by their toenails in the States for jailing someone based on this crap.
So our good Louisiana friends, they X-Spray the goat. He comes up hot. Put 'im in the BIF! He's going to Abu Ghrayeb! The chorus swells within the patrol. The BIF is the Brigade Interrogation Facility, which is not nearly so sinister as it sounds. Mostly bad-smelling dudes and the occasional Real Bad Guy. Lately, we've gotten a few Really Bad Guys. It's been rewarding.
No kidding, they detained the goat and his driver. Interrogated him. Charged them with Plans to Build and Utilize the First Goat Borne IED in Iraq.
My boss recommended fingerprinting the goat and planting a GPS chip on him, see what nefarious Goat Cell we can bust up when we see where he roams next. They were released the next day.
Never a dull moment, and I almost hate that we're losing the Louisiana battalion (they'll be subordinate to their Louisiana National Guard Brigade)--they were HIGH entertainment.
Sunday, December 26, 2004
If you don't have anything nice to say...say it anyway
I've been terrible about keeping the site updated. I have no privacy whatsoever, I have a young Private seated right next to me, and anytime I get on the internet for more than five minutes, I get nasty looks from the higher-ups. And I just don't have much by the way of pleasantries to plink in here.
Christmas was truly dreadful. It rained all day and we're in a heightened uniform posture. Which means slogging around in ankle-deep mud in about thirty pounds of gear. We were ordered not to even go to the bathroom at night without full camo (no sleeping in sweats, I suppose) uniform, all the gear, and about five pounds of mud on the boots. Tough to feel any kind of holiday cheer under the circumstances. Could it be worse? Of course, things can always be worse. At least we have great comraderie in the ranks--I don't know what any of us would do if we didn't get along so well.
We're past the halfway mark, six months to go. I keep having dreams about riding my Harley, about how it will feel to have all the garbage I've accumulated this year lifted away. And I have to make my decision about whether to stay in the Army or leave. Once I decline my continued commission, I cannot take it back. I don't have solid confirmation a job will be waiting for me out there, and the worst case scenario is that I don't find something challenging that pays well and end up financially falling flat on my face. Been there, done that, not interested.
So I have big ugliness on my mind right now. The job's getting more managable, I'm much more in control than I was a month ago, but I can't write some cheery little blog entry until I'm on more solid ground in all the other aspects of my life.
Christmas was truly dreadful. It rained all day and we're in a heightened uniform posture. Which means slogging around in ankle-deep mud in about thirty pounds of gear. We were ordered not to even go to the bathroom at night without full camo (no sleeping in sweats, I suppose) uniform, all the gear, and about five pounds of mud on the boots. Tough to feel any kind of holiday cheer under the circumstances. Could it be worse? Of course, things can always be worse. At least we have great comraderie in the ranks--I don't know what any of us would do if we didn't get along so well.
We're past the halfway mark, six months to go. I keep having dreams about riding my Harley, about how it will feel to have all the garbage I've accumulated this year lifted away. And I have to make my decision about whether to stay in the Army or leave. Once I decline my continued commission, I cannot take it back. I don't have solid confirmation a job will be waiting for me out there, and the worst case scenario is that I don't find something challenging that pays well and end up financially falling flat on my face. Been there, done that, not interested.
So I have big ugliness on my mind right now. The job's getting more managable, I'm much more in control than I was a month ago, but I can't write some cheery little blog entry until I'm on more solid ground in all the other aspects of my life.
Wednesday, December 08, 2004
Jingle Kitty
A dear friend sent me a package filled with Christmas knick-knacks and Scooby snacks. Among the loot was an ostentatiously adorable little stuffed kitten, wearing a Santa hat canted to one side and a red ribbon around its neck. When you squeeze its little belly, it spews a rendition of Jingle Bells that someone worked very hard to make it so "sickeningly sweet it makes my ass pucker," in the words of LTC O'Connor, our irascible Executive Officer.
So now I'm driving everyone nuts with this damn thing. I set it on LTC O'Connor's desk and he reached for his knife. The Staff Sergeant who sits next to me in the office will stare at his laptop in barely concealed fury every time I trip the switch, "Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle awl de way..." It is truly obnoxious.
Someone broke it at one point. Then last night, Ron, a civilian who works with us and is also obnoxious, fixed it. "Oh look, it works!" He beamed and held up the kitty, the tinny little jingle squeaking from its belly.
CPT Spears walked over, snatched the kitty from Ron, and smashed it on my desk several times in quick succession until the mewling stopped.
"Not anymore." He walked back over to his desk and sat down.
So now I'm driving everyone nuts with this damn thing. I set it on LTC O'Connor's desk and he reached for his knife. The Staff Sergeant who sits next to me in the office will stare at his laptop in barely concealed fury every time I trip the switch, "Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle awl de way..." It is truly obnoxious.
Someone broke it at one point. Then last night, Ron, a civilian who works with us and is also obnoxious, fixed it. "Oh look, it works!" He beamed and held up the kitty, the tinny little jingle squeaking from its belly.
CPT Spears walked over, snatched the kitty from Ron, and smashed it on my desk several times in quick succession until the mewling stopped.
"Not anymore." He walked back over to his desk and sat down.
Thursday, December 02, 2004
Holliday Rollercoaster
Holidays have always been a bit rough for me. Thanksgiving ended up hitting me pretty hard; I found myself missing my mother's oyster dressing and frozen cranberry salad. She died two years ago, just as I was leaving for Officer Candidate School, and my life's been so packed since, I don't think I've ever properly grieved the loss. I certainly don't have the time to think much on the subject here, but it still sneaks in, as unresolved little nastinesses will.
Holidays in my household were always fraught with tension--my father had an explosive temper, and we were always waiting for the sleeping dragon to awaken. My brothers and I always hung around as long as it took to satisfy my mother, who loved holidays and always ended up in tears when The Ogre got ugly. Then Robert, my younger brother, died suddenly when he was fourteen and I was fifteen, and holidays became a true ordeal, something to be gotten through, populated with painfully uncomfortable silences because Robert became The Subject You Did NOT Mention. Ever.
Surprisingly, though, I'm enjoying this early phase of the Christmas season. I like the people around me here (unlike LAST year, see Blog Entries Past), all my friends and family have sent these amazingly thoughtful packages, and I'm enjoying it just fine. It's horribly cold in New York. I have much to look forward to when it's all over.
The time passes more quickly and a little more easily all the time.
Holidays in my household were always fraught with tension--my father had an explosive temper, and we were always waiting for the sleeping dragon to awaken. My brothers and I always hung around as long as it took to satisfy my mother, who loved holidays and always ended up in tears when The Ogre got ugly. Then Robert, my younger brother, died suddenly when he was fourteen and I was fifteen, and holidays became a true ordeal, something to be gotten through, populated with painfully uncomfortable silences because Robert became The Subject You Did NOT Mention. Ever.
Surprisingly, though, I'm enjoying this early phase of the Christmas season. I like the people around me here (unlike LAST year, see Blog Entries Past), all my friends and family have sent these amazingly thoughtful packages, and I'm enjoying it just fine. It's horribly cold in New York. I have much to look forward to when it's all over.
The time passes more quickly and a little more easily all the time.
Wednesday, November 24, 2004
Monkeys with Typewriters
The weather turned and at 34 degrees, we have no heat in our work tent. Typing is excruciatingly slow--either chickenpeck with gloves on, or with stiff fingers. I'm drinking about eight cups of coffee a day, just because I like to hold the warm mug between my hands. Whod'a thunk Iraq would get so damn cold?
I've settled into my new job and I like it much better. The detainee saga provides great entertainment--and NO, we do not put chemlights up their butts or stack them naked or any such bullshit. What a bunch of morons those MP's were.
Yesterday my team interrogated a guy with a frontal lobotomy. What was he accused of? Masterminding an IED cell. Right. Another one, had zero use of his left arm, and he allegedly fired RPG's at a convoy. Sure.
It's Thanksgiving and we have no special plans. I'm taking a half-day off tomorrow, my first in weeks. I'm getting used to it somehow, I don't wake up with that feeling of dread any longer.
Our civilian contractor wears this leather jacket that is straight out of 1987 and has earned him the nickname, McGuyver. We tease him relentlessly. Hey, Ace, what's shakin'? He has never worn it before here, and brought it because he knew it wouldn't bother him if it gets destroyed. He takes the teasing very well.
I've settled into my new job and I like it much better. The detainee saga provides great entertainment--and NO, we do not put chemlights up their butts or stack them naked or any such bullshit. What a bunch of morons those MP's were.
Yesterday my team interrogated a guy with a frontal lobotomy. What was he accused of? Masterminding an IED cell. Right. Another one, had zero use of his left arm, and he allegedly fired RPG's at a convoy. Sure.
It's Thanksgiving and we have no special plans. I'm taking a half-day off tomorrow, my first in weeks. I'm getting used to it somehow, I don't wake up with that feeling of dread any longer.
Our civilian contractor wears this leather jacket that is straight out of 1987 and has earned him the nickname, McGuyver. We tease him relentlessly. Hey, Ace, what's shakin'? He has never worn it before here, and brought it because he knew it wouldn't bother him if it gets destroyed. He takes the teasing very well.
Saturday, November 06, 2004
Mudbowl
It rained for four days straight and the mud was ankle-deep for the duration. Hard to imagine that the desert would turn into such a pigstye. "Acme Poop Soup, Just Add Water." The weather then turned and now it's cool and sunny, and the mud is slowly drying. Every pair of my boots was coated top to bottom and now they're lined up in my room. I can't put them outside because we have a Theft Problem.
Too busy to write more. Packages have started arriving since I mobilized my Rear Detachment Logistics Node, otherwise known as friends and family...I was dry as a bone for awhile there. Packages are like gold around here and to everyone that sent stuff, THANK YOU.
A guy I barely know in New York wrote me a note about the fact that it's Veteran's Day weekend--a four day holiday for us military types. I hate to miss all the time off that starts in November and goes clear into January. Hell, I'd settle for one day off right now--it's been over six weeks. I took yesterday morning until noon, and it felt great. But a whole day is what I need.
This place is great at making us all feel sorry for ourselves. *Sigh*
Too busy to write more. Packages have started arriving since I mobilized my Rear Detachment Logistics Node, otherwise known as friends and family...I was dry as a bone for awhile there. Packages are like gold around here and to everyone that sent stuff, THANK YOU.
A guy I barely know in New York wrote me a note about the fact that it's Veteran's Day weekend--a four day holiday for us military types. I hate to miss all the time off that starts in November and goes clear into January. Hell, I'd settle for one day off right now--it's been over six weeks. I took yesterday morning until noon, and it felt great. But a whole day is what I need.
This place is great at making us all feel sorry for ourselves. *Sigh*
Sunday, October 31, 2004
And Speaking of Smells...
Yesterday I ventured to the Interrogation Facility, where we hold the knuckleheads rounded up during raids. Bad Iraqis, in other words, whose offenses range from arms dealing to toting RPG's to emplacing IED's, fananciers, etc. The men are mostly from Baghdad and include shieks and bottom-rung, filthy street thugs.
I stood outside the medical screening room while they brought in one character who'd been fingered by his piso as an IED-emplacer. This one in particular fell into the "filthy street thug" contingent--he evidently hadn't washed in many moons, maybe since the last Ramadan. He removed his shirt to reveal a full, greasy chest and back of matted, black, unspeakably thick hair. I don't even wish to speculate what parasites and stench-producing bacteria resided there. Out in the hall, several of us exchanged "holy-crap-did-you-see-that" faces.
And then they removed his shoes.
A funk arose like the spooge from the bottom of a Turkish sewage canal. There was a stunned silence. The medic bolted outside and vomited into the gravel. The handful of soldiers--myself among them--assembled outside the door scattered as if a grenade had been deployed. The guy stood there confused, wondering why the Americans were so offended. The other medic picked the shoes up one at a time between thumb and forefinger as he held his breath and sealed them in a small garbage bag.
And it made a great story later in the Headquarters.
I stood outside the medical screening room while they brought in one character who'd been fingered by his piso as an IED-emplacer. This one in particular fell into the "filthy street thug" contingent--he evidently hadn't washed in many moons, maybe since the last Ramadan. He removed his shirt to reveal a full, greasy chest and back of matted, black, unspeakably thick hair. I don't even wish to speculate what parasites and stench-producing bacteria resided there. Out in the hall, several of us exchanged "holy-crap-did-you-see-that" faces.
And then they removed his shoes.
A funk arose like the spooge from the bottom of a Turkish sewage canal. There was a stunned silence. The medic bolted outside and vomited into the gravel. The handful of soldiers--myself among them--assembled outside the door scattered as if a grenade had been deployed. The guy stood there confused, wondering why the Americans were so offended. The other medic picked the shoes up one at a time between thumb and forefinger as he held his breath and sealed them in a small garbage bag.
And it made a great story later in the Headquarters.
Thursday, October 28, 2004
Scratch 'n Sniff
Everyone has a signature smell that has nothing to do with the products they use to mask it. I read an article in Psychology Today that touched on this phenomenon, how just before a really nasty divorce, often the involved parties would exclaim, "I just couldn't stand her/his smell anymore."
I only notice men's smells. Women all smell roughly the same to me. Mark smells very clean and masculine, but not in an Old Spice, bullshit way and has nothing to do with when he last showered. I caught a fresh, clean smell from TK, my fellow platoon leader. Several others. Mark swears I smell great, and so do two other women we work with. And he says a couple of the other female soldiers do not smell sweet to him--I swear, I've never smelled any of them, and we work in close quarters.
I suppose that explains why, even when showered and fresh and ostensibly unoffensive, every time my commander comes around, a truly offputting odeur wafts straight up my nose. I have a physical reaction to it--revulsion so strong, my gag reflex kicks in.
There must be something to this scent thing, and all those billions people sink into perfumes and powders and showergel that smells just like white chocolate hazelnut cake, and we're all walking around just smelling like we smell anyway. So I guess I don't necessarily smell like the sandalwood powder I sprinkle on every morning, or Shalimar, which is the ONLY perfume I'll wear. I think the point of the products, the reason I spend sixteen bucks on a bottle of delicious-smelling shower gel, is that I derive great pleasure from the scent. My shower is one of they day's true pleasures, and the lovely smell of baking cake as I'm lathering up in soft, rich bubbles just makes it that much nicer.
I'm getting in on some football betting pool action. I get actively solicited for participation--I'm sure it's because I'm not only female, but I also choose the teams based on what city I like better. Atlanta v. Miami, I'm voting Atlanta. I'll always pick New Orleans, Seattle, San Francisco. So they're all convinced my five bucks will just go straight into the kitty with little risk of my ever winning a cent. And I'm teased about it, and then the guys all admit that my picks are actually really good, that I could end up winning at some point. And then I'd be the one laughing, it would be like one of them winning first prize in a flower arranging competition. With all their smells.
I only notice men's smells. Women all smell roughly the same to me. Mark smells very clean and masculine, but not in an Old Spice, bullshit way and has nothing to do with when he last showered. I caught a fresh, clean smell from TK, my fellow platoon leader. Several others. Mark swears I smell great, and so do two other women we work with. And he says a couple of the other female soldiers do not smell sweet to him--I swear, I've never smelled any of them, and we work in close quarters.
I suppose that explains why, even when showered and fresh and ostensibly unoffensive, every time my commander comes around, a truly offputting odeur wafts straight up my nose. I have a physical reaction to it--revulsion so strong, my gag reflex kicks in.
There must be something to this scent thing, and all those billions people sink into perfumes and powders and showergel that smells just like white chocolate hazelnut cake, and we're all walking around just smelling like we smell anyway. So I guess I don't necessarily smell like the sandalwood powder I sprinkle on every morning, or Shalimar, which is the ONLY perfume I'll wear. I think the point of the products, the reason I spend sixteen bucks on a bottle of delicious-smelling shower gel, is that I derive great pleasure from the scent. My shower is one of they day's true pleasures, and the lovely smell of baking cake as I'm lathering up in soft, rich bubbles just makes it that much nicer.
I'm getting in on some football betting pool action. I get actively solicited for participation--I'm sure it's because I'm not only female, but I also choose the teams based on what city I like better. Atlanta v. Miami, I'm voting Atlanta. I'll always pick New Orleans, Seattle, San Francisco. So they're all convinced my five bucks will just go straight into the kitty with little risk of my ever winning a cent. And I'm teased about it, and then the guys all admit that my picks are actually really good, that I could end up winning at some point. And then I'd be the one laughing, it would be like one of them winning first prize in a flower arranging competition. With all their smells.
Monday, October 18, 2004
More Tolerable Every Day
A small group of us stood outside one of the rooms, talking shit at the end of the day. The guys think my roommate is gorgeous (she is), and they talked of all the other ladies around here they think are beautiful. As a matter of habit, I tend NOT to wax poetic about men I'd like to see naked, at least not around other men. It's tacky behavior...Mark was there, so of course I didn't list off the many attributes of that Navy Seal I'd been lucky enough to stand behind during a briefing.
And I got my own room back. Moved to a smaller room right next to the latrine. So I can stand in my room and make monkey faces at the rest of the company. Funny how something so small as having a private room can mean so much--I slept like a baby in that blessed silence, woke up at 4:40 to run, smoked a hill workout with Josee and felt great all day.
It's like that wonderful Xiang Jimou movie, To Live: Time passes, and things get better and better each day.
And I got my own room back. Moved to a smaller room right next to the latrine. So I can stand in my room and make monkey faces at the rest of the company. Funny how something so small as having a private room can mean so much--I slept like a baby in that blessed silence, woke up at 4:40 to run, smoked a hill workout with Josee and felt great all day.
It's like that wonderful Xiang Jimou movie, To Live: Time passes, and things get better and better each day.
Saturday, October 16, 2004
Wish List
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.
*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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)