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."

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.