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 If that doesn't work, I'm getting rid of it one way or another, go back to my old "outdated" machine, the one that actually WORKS.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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.