My friend, Loring, replied to an email I'd sent last week--the "Hey, I'm coming home soon" message, and I noticed a string of type just under my name on my original email, much like a signature. It said:
"***my name***
124 Lick my ass PL
Suck it harbor, NY"
Whaaattt??? The last address I'd input to the account had been "124 LaGuardia Pl, Sackets Harbor, NY." So some assclown hacked into my account, changed the address, and checked the "attach v card" block. So every email I've sent out has sported this sophomoric little line of crap.
I admit. It is pretty damn funny. I showed it to my Platoon Sergeant this morning and we laughed for about fifteen minutes. So then I opened my Sent Items to assess the damage:
* A mass email to everyone I know, including Grandmother Luci and Great Aunt Eugenia
* Responses to invitations to apply for professional positions with Lockheed Martin and certain 3-letter agencies
* Two messages to a former Commander, now a Major
I immediately sent out another mass email, sans nastiness, letting everyone in on the joke. I bet my friends and family thought I'd gone off the deep end..."Umm, I think it's time for Kristen to come back from Iraq now, there are clear signs of aggression and uncharacteristic unprofessionalism..."
Ohh, we got jokes. It's worth it to have a good belly-laugh like that, it's been awhile.
Thursday, May 12, 2005
Friday, May 06, 2005
Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders
Here you have to have another person in the vehicle to drive around post, called a "TC," and I think it stands for Troop Commander or Tactical Commander, whatever. Not important. So last night, Specialist Scafe leaned over to Sergeant First Class Harritt, my enlisted counterpart, and asked if he would ride with him to Division Headquarters. SFC Harritt replied that he couldn't, he had too much work to do.
After a moment, SFC Harritt leaned back and said, "You went about that all wrong, Scafe, you should have said, 'The Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders are at Division, do you want to go?"
The song on PFC Z's headphones ended just then, and he heard the second part of the statement. He yanked the headphones off and hollered, "The Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders are at Division??? I wanna go!!"
Scafe played it. "Grab your stuff and let's go."
Z: "Can we stop at my hooch and get a camera?" Sure we can.
They go to Division, Z chirping the whole way about meeting the Cheerleaders. He's like a kid at Christmas. They pull up to Division, and Z asked, "Where are they?"
"I don't know, why don't you go ask those guys?"
Z walked up to a group of soldiers, "Excuse me, where are the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders?"
They exchanged glances. "Uh, Dallas?"
Then Z got it. And was greatly disappointed. When he came back down to the office, he had to endure a healthy round of good-natured ribbing--we all like Z. He shook his head among all the howls of laughter, and said, "You know, I don't even care about the teasing, I'm just disappointed that I don't get to meet the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders."
After a moment, SFC Harritt leaned back and said, "You went about that all wrong, Scafe, you should have said, 'The Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders are at Division, do you want to go?"
The song on PFC Z's headphones ended just then, and he heard the second part of the statement. He yanked the headphones off and hollered, "The Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders are at Division??? I wanna go!!"
Scafe played it. "Grab your stuff and let's go."
Z: "Can we stop at my hooch and get a camera?" Sure we can.
They go to Division, Z chirping the whole way about meeting the Cheerleaders. He's like a kid at Christmas. They pull up to Division, and Z asked, "Where are they?"
"I don't know, why don't you go ask those guys?"
Z walked up to a group of soldiers, "Excuse me, where are the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders?"
They exchanged glances. "Uh, Dallas?"
Then Z got it. And was greatly disappointed. When he came back down to the office, he had to endure a healthy round of good-natured ribbing--we all like Z. He shook his head among all the howls of laughter, and said, "You know, I don't even care about the teasing, I'm just disappointed that I don't get to meet the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders."
Thursday, April 28, 2005
Cultural Bias
I fully admit, there are some aspects of American culture I feel are superior. So shoot me. The one I have in mind right now: Americans, in general, tend not to slog their muddy boots up onto the seat of the portajohn, in order to then miss the potty hole and spray shit all over the seat.
A platoon of Iraqi National Guard troops pulled up at our headquarters, and moments later, BOTH portajohns outside my office were smeared from one end to the other with mud and shit, color making them virtually indistinguishable. But you knew the boot prints on either side of the seat and the unmistakable shape and stench of human shit, there's no misidentifying that. Iraqis do not sit on a toilet seat--in fact, out in Baghdad, I've never seen a toilet seat. So when faced with a portajohn, surely a curious structure to these guys, they did what they felt they had to do: climb up on the seat, somehow manage to balance without slipping in the mud and landing squarely in their own waste: squat. It's actually pretty remarkable--I'd wind up with all manner of unpleasantness soiling my clothing and buttocks if forced to maneuver in this way.
Toilet seats are a Western cultural phenomenon. The non-Western countries I've visited, the bathrooms a) were coed, and b) consisted of a filthy, odiferous maw in the floor. The upscale restaurants in Korea might feature a Western toilet in one stall, and a contraption on the floor that looked roughly like a urinal on its back, complete with a little flush handle.
I like that we Americans are generally pretty clean. I've seen more filthy latrines than I care to ever see again. Some other cultures and people sneer at us, say we're "soft." Fine. I'll take it.
A platoon of Iraqi National Guard troops pulled up at our headquarters, and moments later, BOTH portajohns outside my office were smeared from one end to the other with mud and shit, color making them virtually indistinguishable. But you knew the boot prints on either side of the seat and the unmistakable shape and stench of human shit, there's no misidentifying that. Iraqis do not sit on a toilet seat--in fact, out in Baghdad, I've never seen a toilet seat. So when faced with a portajohn, surely a curious structure to these guys, they did what they felt they had to do: climb up on the seat, somehow manage to balance without slipping in the mud and landing squarely in their own waste: squat. It's actually pretty remarkable--I'd wind up with all manner of unpleasantness soiling my clothing and buttocks if forced to maneuver in this way.
Toilet seats are a Western cultural phenomenon. The non-Western countries I've visited, the bathrooms a) were coed, and b) consisted of a filthy, odiferous maw in the floor. The upscale restaurants in Korea might feature a Western toilet in one stall, and a contraption on the floor that looked roughly like a urinal on its back, complete with a little flush handle.
I like that we Americans are generally pretty clean. I've seen more filthy latrines than I care to ever see again. Some other cultures and people sneer at us, say we're "soft." Fine. I'll take it.
Sunday, April 24, 2005
Home Soon
We were informed yesterday that my unit will get on the plane to Kuwait a week earlier than we thought. We stay there for a couple of days to get the standard briefings--you know, don't beat your wife and drink every drop of beer in Watertown when we get home, health screenings, etc. Then we're just waiting for transportation. I packed up a couple of boxes yesterday to send home, less stuff to deal with.
Fewer than 60 days until this nightmare ends. It's all I can think about.
Fewer than 60 days until this nightmare ends. It's all I can think about.
Monday, April 18, 2005
Hiccups
I don't know why I thought of it this morning on the treadmill (and might I add that I am in the worst shape ever and will have to slave mightily when I get home to make up for it). My second job ever was as a checker at Kroger. The first was Kentucky Fried Chicken, where I learned that there are plenty of people whose lives just stall out there. They work at KFC and that's that.
At Kroger, you're supposed to start out as a bagger. I was referred to Kroger via the Student Employment Office, and the position was "checker," not "bagger." Evidently, no one informed the ladies of the aisles of this Student Employment advantage. So I had no idea what the hell was going on when they treated me like radioactive furniture.
I was nineteen. And if there's anyone out there who wasn't awkward at nineteen, to hell with you.
I assumed I was looking at the same dynamic I'd seen at KFC: Those Who Somehow Stalled There like a tropical depression over southern Louisiana, did not much like Those Who Would Only Work Here While In College. Which pissed me off, because most of my friends didn't have to work at all, and here I was clearing minimum wage AND taking a full class load AND somehow living on about $350 a month (with rent and a car payment, and this was the late '80's, folks), and then I have to come here and be treated badly by these people??
I befriended a sweet-natured black girl whom I'd sort of known in high school. Her name was Kim and she was the kind of girl who would laugh at anything and everything. We started talking one day about the color pink, and how we both hated it, and all cute shit in general. Then on break one day, she told me the reason the Other Ladies didn't like me, was that I had started as a checker, and not a bagger. One of them even sniffed, "I wonder what she did to get that job."
At the time I recall being terribly offended. Especially since the Manager was this wormy-looking old guy, ew!! But how silly is that, that someone would screw the Manager for a checker job?!?
A high school friend I hadn't seen in quite some time came through my line one day, and remarked that I looked like I should be blowing up buildings or something. Hmm. And what's even more odd, is he sounded hugely respectful when he said it, like it was the best compliment ever.
And now my job is to catch people who blow up buildings. Well, here, they mostly blow up cars. I want my next job to involve catching even more people who would blow up (or fly planes into) buildings. Who'd'a thunk. And my friend? Maybe I should look him up, just to make sure he's not blowing up buildings, seeing as how he thought that was so cool.
Last night I dreamed I stood outside the big tent where we work, and watched several mortars come in, all in very slow motion. It was as if someone had gently tossed them from just over the wall. One landed right in front of me and I said out loud, "Well, shit! I'm glad that one's a dud!" And I think it was the sound of my voice that woke me up...good thing I don't have a roommate.
At Kroger, you're supposed to start out as a bagger. I was referred to Kroger via the Student Employment Office, and the position was "checker," not "bagger." Evidently, no one informed the ladies of the aisles of this Student Employment advantage. So I had no idea what the hell was going on when they treated me like radioactive furniture.
I was nineteen. And if there's anyone out there who wasn't awkward at nineteen, to hell with you.
I assumed I was looking at the same dynamic I'd seen at KFC: Those Who Somehow Stalled There like a tropical depression over southern Louisiana, did not much like Those Who Would Only Work Here While In College. Which pissed me off, because most of my friends didn't have to work at all, and here I was clearing minimum wage AND taking a full class load AND somehow living on about $350 a month (with rent and a car payment, and this was the late '80's, folks), and then I have to come here and be treated badly by these people??
I befriended a sweet-natured black girl whom I'd sort of known in high school. Her name was Kim and she was the kind of girl who would laugh at anything and everything. We started talking one day about the color pink, and how we both hated it, and all cute shit in general. Then on break one day, she told me the reason the Other Ladies didn't like me, was that I had started as a checker, and not a bagger. One of them even sniffed, "I wonder what she did to get that job."
At the time I recall being terribly offended. Especially since the Manager was this wormy-looking old guy, ew!! But how silly is that, that someone would screw the Manager for a checker job?!?
A high school friend I hadn't seen in quite some time came through my line one day, and remarked that I looked like I should be blowing up buildings or something. Hmm. And what's even more odd, is he sounded hugely respectful when he said it, like it was the best compliment ever.
And now my job is to catch people who blow up buildings. Well, here, they mostly blow up cars. I want my next job to involve catching even more people who would blow up (or fly planes into) buildings. Who'd'a thunk. And my friend? Maybe I should look him up, just to make sure he's not blowing up buildings, seeing as how he thought that was so cool.
Last night I dreamed I stood outside the big tent where we work, and watched several mortars come in, all in very slow motion. It was as if someone had gently tossed them from just over the wall. One landed right in front of me and I said out loud, "Well, shit! I'm glad that one's a dud!" And I think it was the sound of my voice that woke me up...good thing I don't have a roommate.
Tuesday, March 29, 2005
Showered in Filth
I got up at 5 this morning, ran in the perfect spring dawn through date tree groves while birds chirped and cooed. I felt good. This place where I am right now, out in Baghdad near the Tigris, is very nice--trees, grass, local shops, the River, just beautiful. The base where I live normally, looks about like El Paso--only military buildings and trailers and people. Oppressive as hell.
So I finished my run, fumbled around in the dark room where all three of us females sleep for my towel and shower accessories, strode out the door to the female shower facility. Locked. Damn. I looked under rocks and bricks for the key. Nothing. I asked a guy walking by. Nope.
There's an old shower upstairs I can use. Okay, I'm sweaty and not feeling picky, growing more irritated every moment.
But this shower? Filthy. I think the male soldiers piss in there at night, too lazy to go downstairs. The stench of urine was so strong I had to concentrate on not gagging. I stepped in with thick flipflops on, wincing as the grey water inched up to my toes. Quickest shower of my life. And I dropped my towel on the blackened floor just as I reached for it, wet, dripping, and pissed off.
But it is such a beautiful day out there. The smell of lilacs is almost as strong as the urine in that shower. And I got to sit here and watch movies all day--Love Song for Bobby Long, which made me even more homesick because it was filmed in New Orleans. Four episodes of The Sopranos. Two of Alias. Read Runner's World and reminded myself I have three more days to hide out here and avoid all the stupidity going on at my workplace right now. Well, not right now, always.
I'll spend all of July and August working on my house. Which sounds like heaven, honestly.
So I finished my run, fumbled around in the dark room where all three of us females sleep for my towel and shower accessories, strode out the door to the female shower facility. Locked. Damn. I looked under rocks and bricks for the key. Nothing. I asked a guy walking by. Nope.
There's an old shower upstairs I can use. Okay, I'm sweaty and not feeling picky, growing more irritated every moment.
But this shower? Filthy. I think the male soldiers piss in there at night, too lazy to go downstairs. The stench of urine was so strong I had to concentrate on not gagging. I stepped in with thick flipflops on, wincing as the grey water inched up to my toes. Quickest shower of my life. And I dropped my towel on the blackened floor just as I reached for it, wet, dripping, and pissed off.
But it is such a beautiful day out there. The smell of lilacs is almost as strong as the urine in that shower. And I got to sit here and watch movies all day--Love Song for Bobby Long, which made me even more homesick because it was filmed in New Orleans. Four episodes of The Sopranos. Two of Alias. Read Runner's World and reminded myself I have three more days to hide out here and avoid all the stupidity going on at my workplace right now. Well, not right now, always.
I'll spend all of July and August working on my house. Which sounds like heaven, honestly.
Monday, March 28, 2005
Deja Vu
I'm back out in Baghdad. And I've concluded that all Iraqi buildings look exactly the same on the inside. The ceilings are high, they are badly in need of a new coat of the bland, putty-colored paint that is just yellow enough to look like white gone dingy. The tile is either irrevocably stained or just hasn't been scrubbed since Saddam assumed power and declared a war on tile filth. And always, always, the six inches of tile space next to each and every interior wall, no exceptions, is coated with grey, sooty spooge.
I watched an Iraqi clean the floor today. He dumped water everywhere and used a squeegie. He carefully avoided the dirty strip by the walls, steered well clear of the corners. Then he used a mop for good show...and mopped filthy water right onto the edge of the Persian rug, as evidently every other local hire before him had done. This gorgeous rug, it sports the same filth stripe as the tile, only it's in the middle of the room where the mop hits it.
As bad as this deployment has been, at least I get to go home at the end of it. This country is depressing. Say what you want about Greenpeace nazi's, I'm glad they're around. This is the alternative: trash blows around any and all open space. Raw sewage clogs the ditches and sides of some streets. Packs of filthy, snapping dogs roam unchecked, howling like coyotes at night and eating everything that the trashpicker children missed. Even in the wealthier areas of Baghdad, trash and filth line the yards. Any if you think Americans wouldn't do exactly the same thing in the absence of stringent environmental laws and the threat of back-breaking fines, I am inclined to disagree. And Korea, it was just like here. Filth, sewage, trash, pig manure everywhere you look.
I watched an Iraqi clean the floor today. He dumped water everywhere and used a squeegie. He carefully avoided the dirty strip by the walls, steered well clear of the corners. Then he used a mop for good show...and mopped filthy water right onto the edge of the Persian rug, as evidently every other local hire before him had done. This gorgeous rug, it sports the same filth stripe as the tile, only it's in the middle of the room where the mop hits it.
As bad as this deployment has been, at least I get to go home at the end of it. This country is depressing. Say what you want about Greenpeace nazi's, I'm glad they're around. This is the alternative: trash blows around any and all open space. Raw sewage clogs the ditches and sides of some streets. Packs of filthy, snapping dogs roam unchecked, howling like coyotes at night and eating everything that the trashpicker children missed. Even in the wealthier areas of Baghdad, trash and filth line the yards. Any if you think Americans wouldn't do exactly the same thing in the absence of stringent environmental laws and the threat of back-breaking fines, I am inclined to disagree. And Korea, it was just like here. Filth, sewage, trash, pig manure everywhere you look.
Sunday, March 20, 2005
Men Will Do Anything for a Ribbon
I did get put in for that Bronze Star, which I had all but written off. Truly, all I want are redeployment orders, the rest is gravy. I also wrote four Bronze Stars for folks in my platoon...it looks like they went through, and the four people are very pleased to have been submitted. Even if they don't end up getting signed, at least I cared enough to submit them.
And someone spooked the cat away. I'm not asking what was done to discourage an underfed cat from returning to a place where she was fed. What's done is done, and it would only enrage me. The last thing I need now is more rage. I have enough of a time suppressing what I've got!
I'm putting my resume' together--I think the smart way to tackle the discomfort I'm feeling with regards to leaving the Army is assuming I have to wait until I get home to start job hunting in earnest. The FBI has dozens of counterterrorism analyst positions open in cities all over the country, for which I am superbly qualified. The deadline is in about three weeks for application, and it requires a resume'...so if I put in about half an hour a day putting mine together, I can knock this thing out. Confirming my marketability will go a long way to pushing me out the door, back to a life where I can wear my own clothes and stop pretending to enjoy slogging around in forty pounds of gear. I don't enjoy it. Never have.
And someone spooked the cat away. I'm not asking what was done to discourage an underfed cat from returning to a place where she was fed. What's done is done, and it would only enrage me. The last thing I need now is more rage. I have enough of a time suppressing what I've got!
I'm putting my resume' together--I think the smart way to tackle the discomfort I'm feeling with regards to leaving the Army is assuming I have to wait until I get home to start job hunting in earnest. The FBI has dozens of counterterrorism analyst positions open in cities all over the country, for which I am superbly qualified. The deadline is in about three weeks for application, and it requires a resume'...so if I put in about half an hour a day putting mine together, I can knock this thing out. Confirming my marketability will go a long way to pushing me out the door, back to a life where I can wear my own clothes and stop pretending to enjoy slogging around in forty pounds of gear. I don't enjoy it. Never have.
Sunday, March 13, 2005
Hundred-Year Flood
Good God. The last time I wrote was just before all hell broke loose here. It kept raining. The water rose and came into our office. We had to evacuate. The water was turned off for four days and I had my first shower in quite some time this morning. It will take a month to dry out--there are still full-blown ponds all over the base.
Thursday, March 10, 2005
Somebody Build Me an Ark
There has been much discussion around here of the man who was mauled by two chimps. Mark insists he would've kicked their asses, but I set him straight--them sumbitches are strong. And they ripped his nuts off, for Chrissakes. How mission-capable do you expect you'd be after that? One guy opined that now the man would grow man-boobs and get fat, due to the lack of testosterone, doncha know. I'm having a hard time with that one, and it spawned a lively debate about man-boobs and what it takes to get them. Good times.
There was much discussion about balls. The male consensus was that they may not wish to go on living if a chimp ripped off their balls. I tried to explain that women don't care about that, he should be much more concerned about losing his nose, the great gaping hole in his face, the fact that he would forever more look like one of those dried-up little men they pull out of the ice from a million years ago. And the men? Stated they'd rather lose their nose!
The next morning, Mark told me he dreamed I came at him like a chimp, arms flailing and teeth bared.
Yesterday, a great hail storm crashed into Baghdad, and it has rained steadily since. This place is positively submerged. Josee and I ran in it this morning, and it was actually quite fun jumping in the standing lakes of water and mud. There is literally no route you can take from any Point A to any Point B that doesn't involve sinking in mud up to one's knees. And it's raining still. Desert?? I don't think so.
There was much discussion about balls. The male consensus was that they may not wish to go on living if a chimp ripped off their balls. I tried to explain that women don't care about that, he should be much more concerned about losing his nose, the great gaping hole in his face, the fact that he would forever more look like one of those dried-up little men they pull out of the ice from a million years ago. And the men? Stated they'd rather lose their nose!
The next morning, Mark told me he dreamed I came at him like a chimp, arms flailing and teeth bared.
Yesterday, a great hail storm crashed into Baghdad, and it has rained steadily since. This place is positively submerged. Josee and I ran in it this morning, and it was actually quite fun jumping in the standing lakes of water and mud. There is literally no route you can take from any Point A to any Point B that doesn't involve sinking in mud up to one's knees. And it's raining still. Desert?? I don't think so.
Wednesday, February 16, 2005
Back Out in Town
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.
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.
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.
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