Lazy Last Day

I've been blissfully hiding out here for three weeks, against my better judgement...after all, I'm about to be unemployed, and three weeks of leave would have paid a couple grand when I get the payoff from all my unused leave. But I've been running so hard for the last several years, I haven't taken much vacation...and therefore, even after these 20 days off, I still have fifty to sell back at the end of it all.

And this last week, I rediscovered my love of reading. I'm working on the fourth of the stack of books I bought, currently ass-deep in Walker Percy's The Moviegoer, set in New Orleans in the late fifties. The protagonist's aunt lives in the Garden District, not too terribly far from where I lived, and it's wonderful to read about it in Percy's capable hands.

The last several days have gone like this: up at around eight, breakfast and coffee, gym, and back to the house by about 11:00. Then the rest of the day is mine to spend sprawled out in my now-gorgeous den (the floors really do look amazing), the breeze flowing through the bank of open windows in the den to the screen door to the deck, and I spend hours intermittently reading and just listening.

After a year in the desert, I still richly enjoy the sounds of my home, yard, and neighborhood. The steady drone of some north-faring locust, a sound forever entwined with lazy summer afternoons. Crickets, the wind in the huge maple in my back yard, the neighbors getting to know their new puppy, faroff lawnmowers, and an ice-cream truck that blares a tinky-sounding rendition of The Entertainer for blocks before it crosses my field of vision. The dishwasher or washing machine completing a cycle. More wind. One amazing afternoon, I killed all the lights in the house (which aren't needed in the daytime at any rate--I get great light from the tall windows) in favor of a crashing thunderstorm, complete with hail and visible strikes of lightning to the ground.

I could be out of the Army on September the fifth. I'm hoping for October 31st, as two more months of pay and accumulated leave wouldn't hurt. But in my heart, three weeks from now would be lovely--never have I been in such a good position to leave the Army, with all the deployment savings.

Six months of reading, working to get my sculpture mojo back, and enjoying the seasons, followed by about four months of waiting tables. It sounds perfectly lovely. The thing I enjoy about waiting tables is this: at the end of the shift, your feet ache, your pocket bulges with straight cash, there's a cold beer and good company/gossip, and not a care in the world. After the many stresses of Army Officership and the attendant 24/7 weight of it all, a year spent this way sounds heavenly.

Springer Spaniel

My three weeks of blissful vacation are almost finished; I return to work on Tuesday. I managed to get some things accomplished--I've faithfully gone to the gym at least four times a week, and running is already much less painful, and I made some progress on the house. The horrid pink room is still pink and junky, but I'm about to have a great deal of time to kill while gainfully unemployed. The next State Police Academy I can get into is next August...I'll be eligible for 26 weeks of unemployment, which is not much but will get me through the winter with my savings. Then I plan to wait tables out in Sackets Harbor once the weather warms and the wealthy tourists reconverge on the town. So a year of pretending to be 25 again. No problem.

So today I'm spending the day on the porch with a book, The Devil Wears Prada, which is pure fluff and a great summer read. Like reality TV--bitchy and entertaining, devoid of any meaning or real quality. In the same book-buying frenzy, I bought Walker Percey's The Moviegoer, two titles by David Sedaris (you must read this man if you haven't already), Cormac McCarthy's latest (also a must-read: William Faulkner meets Charles Bukowski out west--not literally, of course), and Gabriel Garcia Marquez's autobiography. Plenty of meat in those dishes, I'm just having dessert first. I'll bring the other books to work and not feel embarassed to be caught reading them.

On the porch, reading about spoiled New York princesses I'd probably fight the urge to drop-kick if I actually met one, 98 pounds of flying fluff squealing EEEeewww all the way, I witnessed a real life princess in action. I'm sure, gentle readers, you recall my observations of my nextdoor neighbors, known to me and my friends and the other neighbors as the Springers. Drama from Day One. That fateful morning I moved in, when all my friends' cellphones rang because the notice of the Iraq deployment had just made its way from Rumsfeld to the 10th Mountain Division HQ, I got my first taste of the Northcountry's answer to trailer park trash. The matriarch, clearly sauced, stood on the front porch before us all, removed her teeth, and spat pure obscenity-laced vitriol at the patriarch...who, by the way, seems like an upstanding, agreeable man. Also recall my own latenight bouts of screaming obscenities from my window in response to their incessantly-barking dog, chained outside all night just beneath my window.

Fortunately, something clicked in the mind of the dog while I was away--it is now an angel. I have no decibel-related complaints about the NNY Springers. I have one aesthetic complaint--all the trash piled up on the side of the house, and the exposed Tyvec on one side. The combination means I cannot truly enjoy my deck--it's like sipping a Stoli martini in a junkyard. My plan is to build a trellis along the offending side of the deck, and coax morning glories up the side come spring, just block it all out entirely.

I digress. Today, the teenage son and his quintessentially Northern New York girlfriend appeared on the porch. Here we go, I thought, and focused intensely on my book while listening to their conversation. If you could call it that.

I've never heard this young lady speak in a volume under Pure Shriek, just as foul as her potential mother-in-law. Twenty years from now, she'll be standing on some poor bastard's porch in Daisy Dukes gumming obscenities at said poor bastard.

You don't make any sense! She screamed in that flat, almost-Canadian, nasal twang they have up here. Ten times more grating than any Southern accent I've ever heard. You been screwing around with a buncha skanky bitches! At least TELL me before you wanna go run around with those whores!

And just like with his dad, I can never hear his responses. Low muttering. When she noticed me on the porch, she really started railing, as if to impress me--looka here! I don't take NO SHIT offa NO ONE!

And all I can think is, you poor girl. He'll be gone any minute now. Women like her feel that men are lucky to be with them because they're reasonably cute in an area of the country with a sky-high obesity rate. But I've never quite understood what any woman felt she would gain with shrill, self-righteous, nagging tantrums. Who would want to hang around? A man without other options, that's who. And as young as these two are, he still has other options. And I'm thinking, someone should tell her, maybe she'll learn. No one ever kept a lover by screeching at them night and day...me, it would take ONE interaction like that, I'd leave and never look back. If you can't handle life's day-to-day challenges without becoming histrionic, how would you handle the real problems in your life, the ones that blindside you at 4 pm on some idle Tuesday? Just fall apart??

But the fact is, they don't learn, ever. This town is full of them--miserable married couples, both of whom just look exhausted, hounded to the nub. It's the men, too--they talk to these women like they'd just as soon spit on them. Not the neighbors, mind you, these are the couples I see in the grocery store, or resignedly pushing baskets through Wal-Mart, dull and glazed-over, quarrelling visciously over some real or perceived slight.

This princess, she ended this row by spinning around on her flip-flopped heel and prancing to her car, her middle finger extended over her retreating shoulder. The boy just watched, at once puzzled and resigned. I went back to my book.

The Circling Sharks

Raoul, his wife Karen, and Mark. Friday night at the Brewpub out in Sackets Harbor. Mark traveled up here, rather unexpectedly, with this terribly unpleasant dude named Fred.

Mark and Fred arrived at about midnight Thursday, sent by their company to install some A/C unit on a piece of equipment on Friday. Mark sounded less than thrilled that Fred was along, told me the guy would get fired when they got home because he didn't know what the hell he was doing; their company is so desperate for techs, they hired this guy sight unseen.
And what a scary sight he was. One eye peered about forty-five degrees to the right and his eyebrows protruded at least a full inch from his temples. When Mark told me he'd been bouncing from job to job for years and would soon lose this one, I felt sorry for the old guy. Especially since he's from a town in Mississippi about one hour from my own.

But then he started in on the rants about "women drivers," while in the same breath declaring he spends his life fighting for "women's rights." Well, that term hasn't been used by anyone actually interested in that concept for many years. We won the vote, you know. No wonder he can't hold a job--I bet he spouts the same shit about "black's rights" whenever that's his audience. We got rid of him as soon as we could with any professionalism and/or relative civility. What a mo-mo.

We had dinner and drinks at the Brewpub before the Comedy Club (which was a blast), and ran into Raoul and Karen, owners of the 44-foot sailboat I occasionally get invited to enjoy. I thought perhaps it was my imagination that they both looked a bit, well...predatory as we sat and had a drink with them, and I attributed the sensation to a rumor I'd heard that they were, you know, swingers. But they're in their sixties, for chrissake, I'm thinking. Surely not.

But then they went on about how next time Mark is in town, we'll have to come sailing, just the four of us, and then my gay friend Eric later relayed the tale about how he'd been nearly ravished on their boat. "Always go in groups," Eric repeated, shaking his head. "Always, always in groups." So much for sailing...I was somewhat horrified. I cannot, for the life of me, imagine a more uncomfortable scenario. I think Mark was amused. I always knew Raoul was a dirty old man after he pulled my underwear that peeked out a bit in the back because all the ladies who wear the lower-waisted pants know, when you lean forward, the panties become a bit visible. Nothing too tawdry, just a little bit of fabric. But not something you want and old guy tugging on, not by any stretch of the imagination. But I adore Karen and I'm sorry I won't see her in the same light after not one, but two tales like Eric's are making the rounds.

Paradise Found

I got a map of New York State--a detailed map, the kind that differentiates the types of roads: solid red for highway, dotted double line for dirt, etc--and mapped out enough day-rides to last several weeks. That's the thing about northern New York--it's rural enough for this type thing, and here we sit at the foothills of the Adirondacks.

I write the directions on my left forearm because I can take my left hand from the clutch and read it while I'm moving--you can't really wave your right hand around on a bike, it's the throttle and the front brake, not to be abandoned, ever.

Sidebar: notice, if you get behind a motorcycle, that when another bike comes from the opposite direction, both riders lift left hands and point them down at a 45-degree angle. It's a salute, hey howya doin', and it doesn't matter what kind of bike you're on. Harley, crotch-rocket, whatever, we all wave to each other. Initially, I was too unstable to remove the left hand, felt like I'd hurtle right off the road with one wrong move, and I left many salutes rudely unrequited. I'm comfortable enough now, I always pay respects.

So today, I plotted a ride I figured would take about two hours, winding through the hills to the east of Watertown, all of it on small, paved roads. And it was amazing.

As soon as I turned off the main highway (itself only a two-lane), I knew I'd found heaven. I like to ride at about 6:30 pm, when the going-home traffic has reached destination and most folks sit down to dinner. It's cooling off, the breeze dies down, and I love that amber light. This far north, it doesn't go dark until about 9:00, which allows for a long, leisurely ride every day.

Out where I ride, there is no traffic at all--it's purely farmland, and what farmer has any use for a post-supper joyride? It's all rolling hills and winding roads, the shadows are long (no need for sunglasses, another plus), and I ride through cornfields, past rusting silos and old farmhouses. These are family farms, here for generations, and the land shows it--old growth hardwood forest, rolls of hay out in the fields, cows, gracefully aging barns, rocky creeks winding throughout. Closer to Adirondack Park, rock outcroppings and steep grades, absolutely breathtaking scenery. God's country. And when the leaves change in early October, it'll knock my eyes out with all that color--it's primarily maples up here, queen of the autumn, my favorite season.

This is what I had in mind when I bought the bike. I have no desire (blasphemy, pure blasphemy!!) to ride cross-country--long rides at highway speed have got to be exhausting. Put your hand out the window, hold it up straight next time you're on the freeway, and imagine your entire body subjected to that force of wind for hours at a time. I am still surprised by the force of it, even at 60 MPH. Freeways are not attractive by their very nature, and my truck would be much more comfortable. You can't eat or drink, or listen to music...although many bikers do, to me it just doesn't seem right...and you're at the total mercy of the elements, other drivers, and the large bugs that would take the paint right off your helmet at 70 MPH. Your eyes would feel like sandpaper, even with protection--just like in Iraq, the wind always creeps in, no matter what precautions you take. Doesn't sound like a good time to me.

Besides, I've seen this country and quite a few others, I've been from one coast to the other and back again, several times. And it's mostly strip malls, tacky car dealerships, fast food joints, and most freeway towns look the same. The real living is along the country roads, dotted with little mom and pop ice cream stands and cider mills.

I learn something on every ride, such as face-shield placement: if you know you'll travel at over 40 MPH, it goes all the way shut, no anti-fogging crack needed. Plenty of wind still circulates through there, and any more than the bare minimum sets the eyes to watering. And in my case, it mixes with the sunscreen, they water more, and then I have to pull over and wipe my eyes because now I can't see shit.

Also, even though it might seem silly to pull into a gas station and put one gallon in the tank before a long ride, do it. I actually ran out of gas today, out in the middle of bum-fuck nowhere. Guess that little low-fuel warning light is either non-functional, or an extra I didn't pay for. It's in the owner's manual, but at any rate...it's pure jackassery to run out of gas. And of course, I had no cellphone along. Fortunately, Harleys have a reserve fuel valve, with about a half-gallon. More than enough to get me back to Burrville's Mobile station, which was *blessedly* open.

Another event that would ONLY occur out there in the land of no people--I picked up where I'd left off on my route after gassing up, and as I made the left onto 162, there was an old dude on his porch, completely naked. No shit. He sat beneath a blue umbrella-thing, which he moved to shield his face as I rode past. I probably wouldn't have even seen him without the blue flag movement...but all the guy wore was a baseball cap and some house shoes. I giggled inside the helmet. There's no mistaking my gender out there--I mostly wear a lavender long-sleeve t-shirt, and no guy I know would wear lavender.

More adventures to come, I'm sure. When the leaves start to change and I have my saddlebags, I plan to ride up into the Adirondacks, find the scenic routes a couple of hours from here, and fully indulge in the "leaf-peeping" ritual (peeping? Why the hell "peeping?") I'll ride until I get tired, and stop at one of the thousands of bed-and-breakfasts up there.

*Sigh* I feel like myself again, not that bitchy, stressed-out, watered-down version in Iraq.

YIKES!!!

This, in my Army email box just now:

1. A reservation has been entered in the Army Training Requirements and Resources System (ATRRS) by the quota source manager controlling the subject course for the following soldier/student: XXXXXX, KRISTEN E, O2, XXX-XX-2948, MI BN MI CO GS, 0110 MI BN CO GS, FT DRUM, NY, 136020000, UIC: WDR5D02. FOR: School Code 301 Intelligence School - SC: 301, Fort Huachuca, Arizona 85613-6000, Course Number: 3-30-C22, Phase , Course Title: MILITARY INTELLIGENCE CAPTAINS CAREER, Class 003,Report date 2006-03-05 End date 2006-07-27, Class Location Fort Huachuca, Arizona 85613-60003. O2 XXXXXX, KRISTEN E. has a valid reservation in ATRRS under quota source OPMD - HRC ALEXANDRIA, VA. The copies of the soldier/student reservation are posted in ATRRS under the Class Roster Function for the subject course and the Reservation by Soldier/student function on the ATRRS Portals...blah blah blah...

SHIT! What this means: I'm in the system for attending my Captain's Course in March...and yes, I should be out by then. BUT, if they generate orders based on this slot, I will not get to leave the Army. No kidding. Yes, they can do that. And, since everyone is on block leave (except, of course, the office that issued this email, they're in DC), I can't even start to fix this until August. So I have to hope that they won't shit out some orders. Damn it!!

I have one last hope for fixing this now--a civilian who handles officer personnel issues at Division. Here's to hoping civilians don't get block leave...

Have Harley, Will Travel

How I'm Spending My Time

"I've never owned a bike before." Me, at the dealership, signing the final papers.

"But you are a rider, right?"

"Of course!" Yeah, as of last Saturday at 9am. I figured they wouldn't let me leave the parking lot with it if I provided that tidbit of information. I joked about it being a starter bike, a little bike, and the guy peered at me over his glasses.

"You know, I hear people say that, and it's just crazy...we're talking a bike with almost 900 cc's! It is NOT a little bike. And many people get Sportsters saying it's a 'starter bike,' and never buy another one." All said and done, it's the second-fastest bike Harley makes--first being the 1200cc Sportster. Because they are lighter than all the rest, they jump.

They walked me through all the peculiarities of the Family of Harleys...starting with the choke, the wierd kickstand (called a "jiffy stand," which sounds too sissy for a Harley part, if you ask me), the maintenance schedule, how to clean it without ruining all that chrome, the Harley Owners' Group (HOG, get it?) automatic membership, group rides, welcome to the family, etc.

Then I mounted the bike. At 550 pounds, it ain't the little 250 I learned on, not by any stretch of the imagination. I must be out of my damn mind.

I fired her up...holy shit you should hear this baby roar. I can't even move it in neutral unless I stand up and lean into it. And did I say, you should hear it. Pure power. I sat there, with a growing nervousness, feeling all 883 cc's firing away, as it warmed up. I gave it some throttle, still in neutral--it felt like it would jump out from under me.

So the mechanic and the sales guy, both very evidently old-school Harley dudes, watched as I shifted into first and began testing out the friction zone in the clutch...you know, that sweet spot where it catches...trying to find the balance. Again, it felt as through the cheetah was fixing to leap out from under me, and I'd be left astonished on the pavement, squarely on my ass. All I could think about was the highway that led home--20 miles of two-lane, and me trembling on this monster.

I spent about half an hour in the parking lot, stopping, starting, figure 8's...nothing like the little class bike. The weight makes the cornering feel like tipping over. But all the instruction came back immediately--keep your head and eyes level, and you won't feel like you're going over. Look through the curve, not at the ground. Roll some throttle to gain traction when cornering.

Still somewhat intimidated, but determined to get 'er done, I left the parking lot, baby bird flying from the nest. The first few stoplights and turns were a bit tense, but then I got it, started to get the feel of it. The wind at 50 MPH (max speed in the first 100 miles of break-in), plus unstable weather patterns, definitely had me gritting my teeth on the highway. Some jackass tailgated me until I slowed enough that he had to pass, not allowing him to rush me.

I took it to the empty lot at the high school close to my house, more figure 8's, more quick stopping, up and down-shifting, etc.

That was yesterday. And today, I rode it almost all day, despite the threat of rain. And now it feels more like an extension of my legs than some external beast. I'm relaxed now--not completely comfortable, mind you, but relaxed. This afternoon I headed toward Lake Ontario on one of the many gorgeous 2-lane highways around here, and just rode, no particular goal in mind, just out for a Sunday ride. It was amazing. I came to one of the little villages by the lake, ate lobster at a quaint little restaurant, and a couple crusty characters saw my helmet, connected it to the Harley outside, and sat right down.

I told them it was my first bike. They grinned ear-to-ear, welcomed me to the Family, and proceed to regale me with bike stories--Sturgis, St. Augustine, cross-country rides that veered up into Canada's mountains, etc. The Harley dynamic--it's truly a brotherhood.

They had me follow them a bit, one guy behind me and the rest out front. They showed me a great little road to ride, and told me to stop back in anytime I find myself back out in Clayton. And again, as I rode home through Watertown, singing in my helmet (perfect acoustic environment, by the way), pulled up next to another hog-rider at a stoplight, had another great little conversation, waving to each other when I veered off onto my street.

There are motorcycle riders, and then there are Harley riders. A friendly, unpretentious lot they are. They do not look down on my smaller Sportster, it's all in the family. What a great thing, to have bought this bike on a whim with encouragement from four Harley riders I worked with in Iraq. I knew I'd love it.

So now it's time to order some saddlebags...carrying everything in the back pocket is less than ideal. I need someplace to put the sunscreen, wallet, waterbottle, etc.

Zoom zoom.

Here she is. I've put almost 300 miles on her in two days--only 200 more miles until the break-in period is finished. I can't go faster than 60 until I hit 500 miles...but honestly, 60 is plenty fast right now.

Hog-tied

I go get my bike in a couple of hours...I had to wait almost a week. They say you need a couple of hours--they go over every inch of the bike with you (which I like), and there are papers to sign, saddlebags to buy, etc. I didn't know what my work schedule would look like this week (it looked like this: sit around and stare at each other until 5 pm each day--a total waste of time, but there you have it); I made a 9am Saturday morning appointment knowing I could make it, and spend the rest of the day playing on the bike. AND today is Day One of a three-week vacation period for me. Three weeks of working on the house, riding the bike, and job-hunting.

And I have found my perfect job. No, really. I did finally decide (again) to leave the Army. I can't even abide the garrison crap--we had four formations yesterday, during which the Sergeant Major stood up there eating a sandwich and screaming about the same shit he screamed about the last formation. And the one before that. And the one before that. And mind you, our weather right now is exactly the same as MIAMI--92 degrees and humid as hell. So we're all standing out there getting soaked, my sunscreen running down my face, annoyed as hell. And earlier this week while standing there like that, I had an epiphany: my heart is just NOT in this anymore.

So my perfect job--get ready for this one--New York State Police. Yes, I want to be a State Trooper. It pays extremely well, I think I would like the actual job, and the work week is a huge plus. See, one week you work 60 hours, or five 12-hour shifts. Say you have Tuesday and Wednesday off that week and work the rest. Then the next week, Tuesday and Wednesday are the only days you work! So it averages to just over 40 hours a week, 12-hour days are nothing, and you get these great chunks of time off all lumped together. AND, going in with a Bachelor's means you can go Investigator after two years, with the attendant $15,000 raise. Good God!

The first assignment may not be terribly desirable--downstate somewhere--but then I could get back up here, keep my house, and live happily ever after. I take the exam on September 25, and after reading the study guide, I know I will ace it. Easy stuff. Nothing like the FBI. Actually, this sounds better to me than the FBI--fewer hours, better pay, less stress.

I will definitely post a photo of myself in the grey uniform when/if the time comes. But for now, today is Hog Day around here. Now, I just need to find a parking lot where I can go practice without feeling like an idiot...oh, and the bike is really loud. It is, after all, a Harley.

You'll Never See a Motorcycle Parked Outside a Psychiatrist's Office

I have a confession to make: until yesterday at approximately 9 am (in the pouring rain, I might add), I had never been on a motorcycle. Yes, I bought a Harley and had never ridden a bike.

But I knew I would love it. I took the Basic Rider Course, taught by state-certified Rider Coaches, and the program was worth every penny of the $275 I paid for it. Even guys who'd been riding twenty years said they learned a great deal.

The day began with how to start the motorcycle--I mean, this was basic in the beginning--and by the end of today, we were cornering at 30 MPH, quick-stopping, swerving to avoid obstacles, shifting up and down while scanning for the stop signal, all of it. Me? I took to it like a duck to water. I loved it. AND I passed my New York State road test with flying colors--scored about the same as the experienced riders. The coaches said it was because I didn't have any bad habits to unlearn, and I did exactly what they told me to.

I am now a fully licensed motorcyclist, and can pick my bike up whenever I find someone to take me to the Harley dealership. I'm not going to be stupid about it--I'll spend as much time as I need to in the Harley parking lot until I'm comfortable with my bike before I take it on the road to my house. I learned on a 250cc bike, and mine's an 883. It'll take some getting used to, to say the least.

But that course was so great, I honestly feel well prepared to get the bike and practice around here, get better and better. And I'm signed up for an Advanced Rider Course in August, where I'll learn even more.

I knew I'd love it. I just knew it.

Don't Kick the Baby!

Hurricane Claire

I'm trying not to kick the baby, but she's so tiny and always just underfoot. She has definitely imprinted to me--she does not leave my side. In fact, as I type, she has concluded another dizzying rampage around the house and collapsed, exhausted, in my lap. She's so tiny, you can barely see her under my dining room table. And here you can see a bit of the destroyed hardwood floor, soon to be replaced.

Esther and I were so saddened by the Oscar Incident that we went and got this tiny new roommate. She behaves as if the folks at the shelter taught her how to be conspicuously cute for her new owner.

Wish me luck on the FBI Field Agents' Exam on July 27. I'm actually having to study for it--it has been many, many moons since I deigned to address any math above basic square footage calculations...I've got my work cut out for me. I don't suck at math, I just find it terribly tedious and I'm easily distracted.

Independence Day, a Retrospective

4 July 2004...Yes, Iraq looks like this. Trash and random animals everywhere you look.



4 July 2003...big fun, our own sanctioned Pirate Day, out sailing on Lake Ontario, terrorizing the Yacht People with water balloon artillery volleys and threats to scuttle them one and all...one of these philistines called the Coast Guard and we were subjected to a Stern Lecture.


Independence Day 2002 It looks more fun than it is. 10-mile ruck march with 45 pounds plus weapon and gear...this was Officer Candidate School, fourteen weeks of hell, at the end of which, you become An Officer. Which I thought I would love and maybe I still will, but right now I'm wishing I'd stayed a Staff Sergeant.


And this is what I'll likely end up doing today. ;) No, really. I was supposed to go sailing, but the owners of the big boat got called back to Montreal. So I'm going to a big family barbeque with my excellent nextdoor neighbors. Drink beer, maybe some Redneck Horseshoes...no, wait, I'll be the only redneck there.

Sneaking Suspicion

Downtown Baghdad, Election Day

Just thought I'd throw that one in there; besides, I wanted to try out the other method for posting photos. Good picture, and one of the scant few positive experiences I had during that year. This was taken from the roof of the Al Khadra Iraqi Police Headquarters the evening of the elections--I didn't stay out there long, what with all the celebratory gunfire and all.

I've been thinking about Oscar all day, running through what I could have done differently to keep him alive...and there's nothing, he had a very happy life. But here's my sneaking suspicion: four days after he disappeared, I walked by the road next to the heavily wooded south end of the park, whistling for him. My neighbor from two doors down was out watering his yard.

"You looking for the black one?" He asked. (How would he know that???)

"Yes, have you seen him?"

He scratched his head. Old guy, pushing seventy or maybe even eighty, standing out there in dingy shorts and a stained tank top, hose in hand. "Well, I saw him a few days ago, he wandered into my basement and was locked in there for two days."

"But you let him out?"

A pause. "Yeah, that was a few days ago. I haven't seen him since."

Now I'm thinking he'd been locked in there long enough to die, and this crumbly just put him in the ditch across the street to make it look like he'd been hit by a car. I hope I'm wrong. How could he be in there for two days, though? That cat did not have a soft little polite voice like Esther has--rather piercing and annoying, actually, so how do you not hear that for two days?? I really think that may be the case--the old guy looked rather uncomfortable, and took a rather longish time to answer when I asked about letting him out. My gut tells me he was lying, that my little panther died in his basement...and knowing what a prolonged, excruciating death it must have been makes me feel much worse than if I'd found him visibly run over.

Rockets' Red Glare

This is how I spent the day…cluttered with crap and hot pank to boot. The previous owner of my home, in her infinite wisdom, painted my third bedroom hot pank with battleship gray trim and this conspicuously bucolic lighthouse border. AND the wench didn't bother to cover the 1910-installed, original hardwood flooring in doing so. Because as we all know, battleship gray carpet is much more attractive than original oak flooring. Good lord. This is what I'm dealing with here.

The mess, though…all mine. Just before I deployed, I piled everything I didn't immediately need in this horrid room, shut the door, and walked away. Honestly, if I lit the whole thing on fire and danced around the flames, would I even miss any of the crap in there? I waded about halfway through this garbage yesterday, and at about 5:30, poured myself a glass of sauvignon blanc and stepped out onto the porch. It was a perfect northern New York summer day—low 70's, no humidity, blinding blue sky.

Except that it wasn't exactly blue at that point.

Thick clouds of black smoke boiled into the sky from what must have been a massive fire, seemingly only scant blocks away. I strolled out onto the street, where a small group of my neighbors gathered, and asked, "What the hell is that??"

One neighbor, the one across and down three, openly glared at my wine glass, as if the moral fabric of the neighborhood was suddenly threatened by this open display of hedonistic consumption. She's no prize herself—every recessive gene in her evidently shallow pool manifests itself in her: Coke-bottle thick plastic-framed glasses, eyes slightly crossed (or perhaps it's an illusion), pasty skin, wormy, downturned mouth, thin, broken-off hair…I guess if I looked like that, I'd be bitter, too. No, actually, I'd put my ass on the treadmill and get some color, find a good eye doctor, and learn that tank tops are not for everyone.

She didn't answer, still openly glaring at my gorgeous glass with guileless contempt. The other guy out there, he lives one house down from her, answered that it was a factory downtown. And just then, the power went out—you could hear the fans and televisions simultaneously power down.

I relished a long sip of wine, exaggerating the whole act for Lady Miss Contempt's benefit, and took my time strolling back inside. I was barefoot to boot. Screw you, moron, I more than earned this glass of wine.

So Miss Esther, my obese little kitty who is very saddened by the recent departure of her brother and has not left my side since his demise, curled up in my lap on the porch. And we dozed off. Every home on the street boasted barbequing masses—we live at the base of the city park's steeply wooded hill, and the Sunset Symphony celebration was underway. So from our houses, you could clearly hear the orchestra.

Then there was a chest-thumping explosion unlike anything I've heard since the 122mm Chinese rockets impacted our base in Iraq and killed about a dozen soldiers. Esther clawed my left leg to shreds on her six-foot launch into the air and subsequent barreling into the house, all the way to the basement. I instinctively dove belly-down onto the floor of the porch. And then remembered where I was…and that the Sunset Symphony culminates in the big fireworks display. The neighbors directly across the street stopped what they were doing, staring at me and whispering among themselves.

I dusted myself off, feeling pretty damn stupid, and called out, "Sorry! I just got back from Iraq!" They laughed. My hands shook for about fifteen minutes…which explains why the pictures came out so wonky:


Backyard Bombardment

The best view was from the back deck, so I poured myself another glass of wine, propped my feet up on the café table out there, and donned a sweater. It went down into the forties last night.

After the grand finale, you could hear every American in town cheering and honking car horns…every back yard for miles, plus the crowd in the park, all screaming their heads off.

Power was restored about an hour later, and I did something absolutely asinine…that damn computer, the one that has been a piece of crap since I bought it last year, once again gave me the Blue Screen of Death, eating a rather large blog post I'd just written. Furious, I slammed my fist onto the keyboard…and killed it. It felt damn good. But it definitely proved to be the fatal blow for that miserable excuse for a $1500 laptop…and when I went back to the one I bought back in 2001, I wasn't even very surprised to see that it works ten times faster. I tried fixing the stupid thing all last week—ran all kinds of diagnostics, ensured it wasn't infected with spyware or viruses, etc.

I'll get that damn thing fixed (maybe), but I forsee getting rid of it one way or another—since Dell has miserable customer service and wouldn't take it back even three weeks after I bought it without the unethical "restocking fee," I'll likely just sell it for parts, consider it an expensive lesson in consumer wisdom. And NEVER even CONSIDER buying another Dell product, ever.

RIP Oscar

Oscar baby picture

I hate this computer with every bone in my body. I bought it when I got back from Afghanistan, not knowing I would deploy shortly thereafter, and left it here. My 6-year-old desktop works better than this overpriced boat anchor, courtesy of Dell. And in the grand tradition of their abject failure at customer service, they wouldn't take it back even thirty days after I bought it without charging me a $600 "restocking fee." Never, never, NEVER buy anything from Dell. It locks up constantly, it has dropped this post four times already, it loses DSL connectivity after only a few minutes...I mean, just a ridiculous excuse for a "premium laptop." As soon as I find the system disks, I'll try to reformat and reinstall XP, see if this piece of shit will stay in service. If that doesn't work, I'm getting rid of it one way or another, go back to my old "outdated" machine, the one that actually WORKS.

Rant complete.

Oscar, my sleek little mini-panther, in my household since March 2003, seems to have met an early demise. Both he and Esther are indoor/outdoor cats, and were both here when I rolled into the driveway last Monday. They instantly recognized me and spent the better part of the night curled up next to my head. Then Oscar vanished. *Poof*

I went looking for him...he's never been away this long, not even while I was gone. And on the other side of the street between my house and the park where he likes to hang out, I think I found his remains. I wasn't about to investigate fully, but it did look like him. Poor little guy. He was an awesome cat--he had this great way of hopping into anyone's lap and just settling right down, paws hanging over knees.

Rest in peace, little buddy. You are already missed.

Here is the Dining Room. Off to the right you can see a bit of the destroyed wood floor. Yesterday I arranged all new wood floor for the dining room, den, and foyer. Expensive as hell, but it's all investments in the house and the value goes up each time I do something to it. Note the gorgeous lillies--sent to me as a welcome home gift. I send myself flowers regularly--why not? They look so much better coming from a florist and I enjoy the hell out of them. But these were sent by someone else.

I know, boring home improvement talk.

House

House

Well, I guess I only get one photo per post. Fine.

This is why I was in such a hurry to get back; home ownership is a wonderful thing, and now I finally get to enjoy it.

View from my front porch

So, I'm sitting here on the porch in the chair barely visible on the right, and my cell rings.

"Hello, I have a dead deer to report?"

"Sergeant Harritt?"

"No. I have a dead deer to report."

"Yeah, funny. Who is this?"

"John Conroy. This is the number they gave me."

I have a talent for getting phone numbers recently abandoned by entities who received many, many calls on it. My landline was K-Mart and I finally had to change it. Now my new cell is the Dead Deer Hotline. I explained to the well-meaning citizen that this is my personal cell, they must have changed the number.

"Oh. Well, it's on Route 11 heading towards Syracuse."

"OK, well, sorry for your trouble. I'm in the Army, I don't handle dead deer."

A pause. I can hear the confusion swarming around inside his cranium, all way over the network.

"So you're not gonna take care of the deer?"

Insomnia

I haven't slept a full night since we returned and fully intend to call in the Big Guns...a sleeping pill, tonight. It's 5 am and I have to be on base at 9, so I'm about to drag my arse out of bed and go for a much-needed run.

It is 42 degrees outside, right now, on the twenty-third of JUNE. And after 125, I'm snuggled down under a thick down comforter in very fine, high thread-count brushed cotton sheets. My room is pretty nice, if I do say so myself--light sage green walls, cream trim, dark matchstick shades, paintings and black and white photographs on the wall. Although, right now it's a bit of a mess, boxes piled in a corner from the DSL kit that came in the mail.

Strawberry picking--I'm bringing a thin laundry bag, since I don't have a bucket. Strawberry season here is a wondrous thing. The U-Pick place is about ten minutes from my house, and the berries are luscious. Store-bought cannot compare--they are picked while still somewhat green and don't absorb the full sweetness of a fully ripe berry. I intend to pick about ten pounds, make strawberry jam with about half of it, freeze some, EAT some, make a strawberry-rhubarb pie, and just generally enjoy the hell out of it.

I spent all day yesterday focused on plants--mostly houseplants, but then I also planted late-blooming gladiolus bulbs in the front yard. I spent a great deal of money on plants--orchids, foliage plants, a jade tree, a ficus, and a load of purple African violets for the kitchen windowsill. I'd forgotton how much I love plants--or maybe this is the first time in years I've lived someplace with enough light to accomodate. My dining room has French doors that open out onto the deck, and gets a ton of direct sunlight. I painted the room a soft purple that complements all the new plants beautifully. The house is really coming together.

I don't have cable but have not missed it at all. I'm too busy fixing up the house. I start painting this weekend and tackling the bigger projects--pulling up more nasty carpet, finally imposing order in all three bedrooms. I must learn how to post photos to this site...I'm like a proud mama.

Jeff the Playa

So one of the things we had to do on the way home was sit around a room full of folding chairs for twelve hours on "lockdown," meaning, we'd already been through Customs and had to be sequestered until the flight time, just in case someone doesn't really want to go home and would prefer indefinite tenure in Iraq by attempting to smuggle a pair of fingernail clippers on board the aircraft. Spades tournaments, computers for movie watching, junk food, guys removing their boots and sleeping on the floor. Mind you, my platoon is the only non-infantry group; we number 23 and four of us are female. That's four females to a couple hundred guys. Talk about spending three days in a fishbowl.

I have a mini-DVD player, the kind with a flip-up screen, and found a 110V plug (miracle, they're almost always 220). I settled in and watched The Aviator. I enjoyed the hell out of it and made no secret of it.

As I prepared to pop in Three Kings, one of our infantry brethren asked if he could watch it with me. I'm a friendly officer and I figured this guy must be a Lieutenant--he had removed his DCU top (the camo thing with name and rank) and so wore the brown t-shirt. I, however, wore my DCU top and my rank was clearly visible--that's my armor, and usually keeps the knuckleheads at bay. He was extremely young--I mean, this guy's waving bye-bye to the turnip truck as it pulls away from the curb. His voice even cracked.

I didn't really want to share--not because I'm selfish, but because the screen on this thing is about five inches wide and not terribly conducive to mass showings unless you're on very familiar terms with fellow movie watchers. Then I definitely figured he was a Lieutenant when he introduced himself by first name--officers do that, call each other by our first names, not sure why but there it is. During the movie, he directly started to get cozy, arm around the back of my chair, leaning deep into my personal space, you know the M.O. I'm thinking, Great, I'm probably old enough to be this guy's mom. I also suspected it was largely for the cool points he stood to rack up with his buddies. Harmless, we're on our way home and nothing can piss me off at this point.

So the movie ended, and "Jeff" stood up, smiled at me, and said, "Well, Kristen, I've enjoyed our first date." OK, that's a bit much. I gave him the what, did you bump your head? look and said, "Yeah, right."

Moments later, the Air Force guy announced we were moving out to the flight line. Sleeping heaps began to stir, everyone began putting on boots and tops...curious, I look at Jeff, who was visibly putting off the DCU top/rank disclosure until I wasn't looking. So I pretended to get very interested in waking up one of my platoon's team leaders, who was prone on the concrete floor. I went out to use the filthy portajohn and walked back through the crowd, shouldered my assault pack, computer bag, and rifle, and looked at Jeff. And ole boy was a Private First Class!!!

I had to sit back down, I was laughing so hard. I shared the story with my Platoon Sergeant, who directly asked this kid, Have you lost your damn mind?? But laughing. That was undoubtedly for the benefit of his buddies. Harmless. And amusing.

HOME AT LAST

Molly (roommate I mentioned) and I sat around the room, reading and napping, thoroughly enjoying ourselves last Friday. There was a knock on the door--TK, the Executive Officer, with the message, "The Commander needs to see you right away."

Crap. Now what? On the way to the headquarters, TK and I sifted through any potential landmines--I came up with exactly butkus. Funny, getting summoned to the HQ always feels like the Principal's Office...what did I do? What did one of my soldiers do?

LTC D, the Brigade Operations Officer, passed me in the hallway, and I issued the customary greeting, "Afternoon, Sir." He stopped. "Don't be smiling yet, LT." And the look on his face told me something was dreadfully wrong. "Actually, why don't you come into my office here, get some mentoring." Shit!

"Let me talk to you about drinking and safety..." Which one of my soldiers was caught drinking...damn it, we were so close to going home without any trouble...

He then went into a lengthy discussion about a safety brief I needed to give. And that's when I started getting confused. We discussed the possibility of soldiers getting passes for the 3-day weekend starting next Friday. I'm still confused. Then his expression changed. "You have no fucking idea what I'm talking about, do you?" He grinned.

"You have 45 minutes to get your platoon packed and on the bus--you're going home tonight." WHOOOO-HOOO!!!

Seats had opened on a flight with an Infantry battalion, the flight we were scheduled for (which was the very last one) was overbooked...who cares why, we're getting the hell out of there!! I literally threw everything I had into my bags and barely made it on time, and the next three days were a blur...briefings, customs inspections, at one point we sat in a room for over twelve hours and that's where the next little story begins. But that will have to wait because this damn website ate the long post I just spent half an hour typing. Short version--I'm home.

Addendum

That last post? Yeah, I was in the public Army internet cafe', and made the mistake of hitting the "View Blog" button after I'd posted. Normally, I go into the Internet Options and clear the history and cookie files, so my beloved blog doesn't become pure gossip fodder...it would be pretty obvious who I am. But these jive turkeys at MWR, they have blocked access to the Tools. So I couldn't clear the history.

There it was, right at the top of the Address pulldown menu, and nineteen websites after it. CRAP! I had six minutes left on my time. So I opened four windows and furiously typed in every single website I could think of...we're talking every store, every magazine or newspaper. I was digging deep.

And *whew*, I succeeded. I managed to enter enough websites to drop mine off the pulldown. So I'm back at the MWR internet cafe, and will NOT read the Blog.

My Reserve/National Guard soldiers will get to demobilize with us, while we're going through reintegration training and taking half-days. I'm already planning a big send-off barbeque at the crib for them. Wish I could get the damn floors done before then, but that's pretty ambitious. They're terrible, though, covered in paint splatter and whatever godawful treatment someone applied. I think I'll try to scrape off the paint spatters, so it will lose that "you need to sweep" look.

We leave in five LONG days. I just finished "Naked" by David Sedaris--it is one great read. This guy is like T. Coraghessan Boyle without the hostility--funny, smart, outrageous. Run right out and buy it.

Untitled

When I'm angry or upset about an event that likely looks trivial to an outsider, I don't sleep well. Given that I'm angry AND upset about my OER, I'm a walking zombie. And it has led me to spend some time trolling the internet for jobs once again--I just don't want to ever repeat this year again, and I'll switch careers to avoid it.

I found one prospect for which I am perfectly qualified and I would take without hesitation--Intelligence Officer in the Air Force Active Reserves. It's the same job I have now, only I would work as a civilian most of the time, and put on the uniform for drill/mobilization. I'd keep my commission, still promote to Captain, and concentrate on the intelligence rather than all this peripheral mess. I would certainly get deployed, but the Air Force only deploys for four months at a time. Talk about ideal. I'm plumping up my resume and will call the contact number the first week we're back Stateside.

One other development that makes me grin from ear to ear, several times a day--I have lost a total of 12 pounds. I haven't been this thin since Basic Training. And I already have a strategy for keeping it off when we get home--all the great projects I have planned for my house. It'll keep me from sitting in front of the TV--I have wood floors to install, ceiling fans and a chandelier to pick out and have installed, plants, a trellis by the back deck to block out the white-trash neighbor's yard...projects to last months. The honeymoon phase of being home will last for quite some time, I'm sure.

And I've made arrangements to go sailing on the Fourth of July, sit out in the Bay and watch the fireworks with champagne in hand. Lord knows I've earned it. And this Independence Day has special meaning--I have never felt so blessed to be an American. I plan to kiss the ground when I'm able to drop my baggage (both literal and figurative).

Hot. And. Bored.

It's already up into the 115º + range, and walking anywhere just leaves you smoked and soaked. We had to move to another location in preparation for scooting out of here at some point (hopefully soon), and I now have a roommate: Molly, a West Point basketball star, a sweet-natured (although becoming less so as the crap piles up around her) Connecticut blue-blood. She works from about 8am until after midnight, the same schedule I had for months when we first got here, and I don't see how she does it day after day. Especially now that I'm chillin' in the Company HQ thoroughly enjoying the 12-hour day. After the 15-18 hour days, this feels like nothing. So poor Molly comes stumbling in at all hours, she tries as hard as she can to be quiet, and I've already adapted to the point where I stir briefly and go back to sleep. Initially, I'd lie awake for hours after her arrival...not angry, mind you, it isn't her fault, and I already sympathize mightily with her horrid schedule.

It's so hot, the animals don't leave the shade. It's face-melting hot. And folks have already gotten so bored, they're making bets on silly shit like how long will it take Ant A to reach the pavement versus Ant B. Mark and TK made a bet, the spoils of which are coffee brewed fresh and delivered to the winner's door at 6 am sharp. The bet? Who could throw a rock through the palm tree outside our hooches. Seriously. TK was a pitcher at West Point, and very cocky anyway. Mark has played basketball all his life and is no slouch. They even went into "double or nothings." Mark still won. So TK has to get up early, come all the way down to the headquarters (we live about a MILE away now), brew the coffee, and deliver it to Mark's door--Mark still lives down here. So directly ensued the much talking of shit throughout the day, every day. It keeps things lively.

And since we moved so far away and I have to walk for miles each day in this unspeakable heat, my appetite is gone--I can only eat ice cream for lunch, what a shame. And so I've lost a few pounds. Nice. And while it's only about ten pounds total, it feels like a LOT. Clothes are looser, my face is thinner, I feel better running. I'll gain it all back when I get home and inhale all the foods I've missed--I can't stop thinking about real EGGS, soft-boiled eggs with buttery wheat toast and real bacon...oh MAN...

Counting down

These last few weeks drag on endlessly. Home is all anyone can think about, and there is the obligatory discussion of extending us by several weeks. They should take our ammo away if that happens.

My future is still so uncertain--I'm back to thinking I should stay in another couple of years, but I know what would happen. I would finish school, come back to northern New York, and get right back on the plane--probably with this same brigade. And repeat this year all over again. Sure, I'd be a Captain, and the chances of landing in an organization this screwed up are pretty slim...but it's out there.

Oh, We Got Jokes

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.

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."