NSTR

That's Army-speak for Nothing Significant to Report. Which is why I haven't posted.

I've settled into my routine and the weekly rhythm, and it doesn't vary much: up at 6:45am, work by 7:15, eat breakfast, work until about 11:30, eat lunch, gym from 2-3:30, dinner at 5:30, more work until about 9pm. Then I may go up on the roof and smoke sheesha, watch the helicopters, and trade war stories. Or I'll watch an episode of Lost or Dexter on my DVD player, bed by 11pm. It's hot, the wind blows constantly, it's dirty...it's summer in Iraq. Toss a handful of superfine sand and dust into a hairdryer, keep it trained on yourself on high, full heat, all day long, and that's about how it feels to wander out of the building.

People constantly come and go in our little work community, so there's enough change to keep it from abyssmal monotony. I keep getting handed more responsibility and more work, so I stay engaged the entire 13-15 hours I'm at work. Which is a good thing, it makes the time pass quickly.

And I love what I do. The long hours don't bother me...and when they do, it's flexible enough, I can kick off early and go hole up in my room. Which is what I'm about to do...it's Sunday night and it's been a long week. I'll write when something actually HAPPENS above and beyond the daily grind. Or I won't, if it's something I don't want ya'll to know...which is why most folks didn't know about the IED until I mentioned it almost two years later...

The Most Beautiful Words in the English Language...

...are not, "I love you." I stood in the office of the Agents I work with, and one of them asked, "Hey, are you, like, dropping a bunch of weight?!?"

All I could do was smile. Even wider when the beautiful new, bald, muscled one hollered, "Droppin' it like it's hot!!"

I'm down nine pounds and counting--little wonder, since I spend A FULL HOUR, six days a week, on the elliptical trainer with the resistance cranked up. That's 700 calories a pop! Then there's the fact that once I started seeing results, I quit eating junk food in the chow hall. My normal meal is exactly what they say it should be--about 2/3 vegetables, a little bit of meat, and I eat fruit for dessert.

It feels GOOD. My arthritic knee does not bother me one bit on the 5 flights of stairs I climb several times a day--it's been years since I've climbed stairs pain-free. I'm seeing it most in my face, which is also highly gratifying.

What's even better, standing in that office with all those good-looking men, they started in on a big hit-on-Kristen spiel. If they only knew how dangerous that behavior is right now...well, they'd do it even more, I'm sure. Another guy walked by and one shouted, "Hey, M, we're in here hitting on Kristen, wanna join us??"

This round of muscle-flexing, shit-talking, and teasing that ensued made all those hours in the gym and all those pieces of cheesecake I didn't eat all more than worth it. There's one...okay, two...I have my eye on. The way things are going, I might even get to choose. What luxury. I'm not used to having options.

If I could have my dog here, it would be the perfect job.

Beyond Thunderdome

It's Sunday morning, I'm enjoying a cup of Cafe de Monde (they ship over here if you ask them nicely), and I'm finally caught up (mostly) on all the work that piled up all week while my computers went berserk. So, a moment to post.

The building we live and work in took a direct hit from a US bomb, right down the middle, during the initial invasion. This is the result--a courtyard/rotunda that starts on the 5th floor and goes all the way up. The daylight filtering in comes from the giant hole in the roof.The infantry unit that lives here with us set up a boxing ring right in the middle of the destroyed center, and this is what Friday Night Fights look like.

If you look closely, you can see an American flag hanging in the upper left corner, and more muldoons perched up there. I'm on the 7th floor roof, smoking sheesha and watching it all. And no, sheesha is not a local term for any sort of illegal substance, despite the houka pipe looking for all intents and purposes like the love child of a bong and a turkish opium water pipe. The sheesha is fruit, molasses, and a smidge of tobacco, maybe 5%. I suspect my uncle the cop may have a cardiac on the spot when I bring one home and set it up right on the back porch. I bring it up onto the roof most nights and we pass the little hose around--my favorite flavor is orange and, despite our sweating like whores in church, it's quite pleasant up there at sunset.

This was to be the Grand Mosque, the biggest mosque in the world. For some odd reason, all construction stopped in 2003 and this crane-skirted bohemoth has stood here like a comatose elephant ever since. It's difficult to capture the view from the roof the way we're able to see it--the smog from the Dora power plant (coal) hangs over the city all day and night. I'll keep trying to take good shots--it looks so peaceful from up there. Until you start hearing gunfire and explosions...and there we sit like Roman noblemen above the destruction, smoking fruit and exchanging war stories. I'll miss the warzone story exchanges once I leave this business--it's a whole different telling when your audience doesn't speak the language. It just takes a bit longer to tell.

I've been a bit homesick these last few days--I dream of home constantly and I miss everyone, including my animals. I've come to see how, in an organization where people come and go as individuals as opposed to a unit, those who depart love to darkly predict our futures--our jobs will evaporate, our living quarters yanked from us, mortars and rockets will rain down on us. One guy even said, "This place is fixing to go to hell." They won't hire anyone else because the whole organization is going away, blah blah blah! Seems to me, no one knows anything about...well, anything, and it's a way for those who leave to pat themselves on the back at our expense on their way out the door.

Save it, fellas. No one has any knowledge of or control over events here. Worst case scenario, my company tells me to pack my bags tomorrow because the contract went away, it's not the end of the world. We'll all cross our own bridges as we get to them. I work for the largest defense contractor in the world and I suspect they'd find me another job, even if it's stateside, fairly quickly. My debts are all paid off (except the car, still working on that one) and I'm in a much better position than I was two months ago. Things have a way of working themselves out, and there's no sense in getting all spun up over rumors, as much as the Doom Mongers would like to watch us all panic while we congratulate them for having the wisdom to bail and curse ourselves for not doing the same.

For me, I don't believe a word of it. We're doing great things and our reporting is some of the best in theater; why would the Department of Defense suddenly decide they don't need it? And if I'm wrong, I'll deal with it then.

Major Distraction and the Downward Facing Dog

This environment is just soaked in testosterone. And this time, it's in a good way.

I once read that men think about sex once every nanosecond, women once each ten seconds, something wildly disparate like that. I think I've migrated more toward the nanosecond side of the scale. And who could blame me?

You can't swing a dead cat around here without hitting an athletically built man wearing a fitted shirt tucked into fitted cargo pants, many with a gun hanging off. AND they're smart, witty, driven, all the characteristics we ladies really like. Well, at least this lady.

I stare at their backs when we stand in line for chow, follow the lines of all those well-defined shoulders, picture the washboard abs. Watch them like a circling tigress in the gym. I'm undressing these men with my imagination with increasing frequency and intensity. It's both distraction and motivation; I spend at least 90 minutes daily at the gym and the two I like to watch the most are there at the same time I am every day. I'm never late and neither are they.

So is this what it's like for most men? To walk around in this state all the time??? If this is, indeed, the case, I'm beginning to understand some of the behavior that puzzled me in the past--why would X ruin his/her career and marriage sleeping with that brainless private?

It's different, though. What I'm understanding is the temptation. I only ogle the ones whose temperaments I find agreeable. The really young ones are out, no matter what they look like. Similarly, the guys who stare at themselves in the mirror and prance around the gym don't even warrant a lingering glance. But the barrel-chested Major (no wedding ring, a girl can look) with the face that's a little off, but when he smiles, transforms the room? The one who does his pushups right in front of my elliptical trainer, then spends about ten minutes stretching, complete with Downward-Facing-Dog, also five feet away? God help me. He has to know I watch him, I don't even bother trying to keep it subtle. If he minded, he'd move.

Like I said, not a very ladylike way to think.

I don't cross any lines that could lead to trouble with anyone who's married, period. There's always that point in these work relationships when a fun little daily flirtation could become more serious if you take the verbal bait that's dangled. I still ogle them, but I'm no home wrecker. The Agent who greets me with "Hey, gorgeous" every morning, to which I reply, "Morning, cowboy?" Married. "Cowboy" is all he's getting. He can do pushups and Downward Facing Dogs in front of my desk all day long, it's going nowhere.

Actually, the thought of this guy doing pushups and DFD in front of my desk, that's a nice visual...great, now my concentration's blown for the next two hours.

You Think YOUR Shit's Hot...

There are many little reminders, even ensconced in our thick, air-conditioned building, that we are indeed in a third-world country.

This morning I rolled out of bed at about 7am--yes, I get up at the late (for me) hour of 0700, since all I'm doing is walking downstairs--and went to the bathroom next to my room. As I sat down to rid myself of the gallon of water I drink each day, I noticed that the toilet was HOT. Not warm like someone else just got off the can, but like luxury-hotel heated hot. Which would be great if you're in Colorado getting ready for a day out on the slopes, but we're at a daytime high of about 110º here, and by 7am, it's already in the 90's. It just don't feel right. A toilet shouldn't be hot because sewage shouldn't be hot. Heat=fumes=dry heaves. It's just that simple.

I stood up and looked around. It was coming from somewhere, this wave of heat. It made the bathroom smell funny, and not in the luxury hotel way. I touched the pipe to the shower--it's always hot. Each day, you have to carefully test water temperature for both the shower and sink--one day, the left is hot (boiling hot, take your skin off hot) and the right is cold. The next day, it's the other way around. Or both cold. Or both hot, which means no shower.

Someone will have to explain to me how the physics of separate pipes translates to the daily switcharoo--is one of the Iraqis who works on the building swapping them out at the water heater, just for shits and giggles? I climbed into the shower one day, having cranked only the cold water after a long workout, and damn near skinned myself when the cold water cleared the pipe and the lobster boil was on. It only happened once, and that's all it took.

I touched the exposed plumbing by the shower, then put my hand on the top of the toilet tank to steady myself as I touched the showerhead. And lo and behold, the toilet tank was FLAMING hot.

We have boiling water in our toilets. I swear I'm not making this up. Unpleasantly fragrant steam wafted from the bowl after I flushed.

Then this afternoon, I spent an hour on the elliptical trainer. One more perk of working in this building in this job--I leave at about 2pm each day, work out as long as I want with my cellphone handy in case of emergency, then wander back in at about 4:00, work until maybe 9pm. So back to the workout--I was into it, and the hotty-body Major was in front of me running on the treadmill. Good music on the iPod and plenty of iCandy to go with it. Do you blame me for spending an hour on that machine??

I felt a vibration, and not the laser hottie rays from the running Major. Then another. And another. I took my headphones off. One. After. Another. I figured it must be building construction, we never get that many rounds of indirect fire (rockets and mortars) at one time. I put the headphones on and kept on staring at the Major's ass.

Found out very quickly--yep, it was mortars, over 20 of them at one time. You'll probably see it on CNN. We are not the target and no one here was injured.

Just another day in the Sandbox--steaming turds and raining mortars.

Tree Poker and the Gatekeeper Wench

I owe you a big post. I've been busy in a good way--I got promoted to a position of greater responsibility and I'm drinking from the fire hose from the retired Special Forces Sergeant Major who had the position here for two years. Big shoes to fill, but I can do it--I'm charged with managing a big piece of our operation, to include keeping it all within legal parameters. Great training for law school, I'm thinking. I hate to walk away from the job I was doing, though, which was working directly with the Agents on Jaysh A-Mahdi and Al Qaida to roll up some of the turds killing our brothers and sisters. Needless to say, that was very rewarding and often rather exciting, but they needed me in the new position more...what're ya gonna do? Salute smartly and cowboy up, that's what.

This looks great on a resume'. But the thing is, my resume' looks great for anyone in the intelligence business. It's damn near unintelligible--pun intended--to anyone else. I can't imagine what the Law School Admissions Office made of it, despite my best efforts to put it all in layman's terms.

And I just decided to do a whole year, plus maybe even a couple of months after that, to help pay for law school. I'm already so far behind, one year won't matter...and it could mean getting through without debt. I was only supposed to be here for a few months, back in time for the fall term. But this feels like the right thing to do.

I spent last night under a huge tree by the Embassy pool playing poker. This tree is amazing--the branches dip all the way to the ground, it's filled with birds, and there's a patio within this cool, green canopy, little lights all around, and salsa music playing from the pool area. It was right civilized, felt like Key West. They don't allow cameras in there, unfortunately, or I'd post pics.

It's every Friday night, so I can keep playing, provided the nasty control-freak civilian wanna-be-General broad chooses to bestow upon me a coveted Embassy badge. At this time, I have to have an escort--and this gatekeeper broad doesn't allow just anyone to escort, either. That's an additional privilege on the original golden badge, and handed down like a gift from Divine Providence. There seems to be no codified system for the award of such badges and privileges--you have to catch this woman on the right day and suck up to her with just the right amount of obsequious shuck-and-jive, for if she refuses you once, you are forever damned to eat the horrid chow we have on my little compound.

Hell, even the Sphinx gave folks three shots before damning them to hell.

This environment promotes huge egos, nepotism, and general silliness in all things related to quality-of-life. All the chow halls are in one big pissing match--you have to have a badge for each specific one, and ours is the worst of the bunch. It all started with the Embassy and their gourmet fare--they decided that eating there was not a right (despite the fact that Lockheed Martin pays huge money for me to eat over here, and it's the same rate for everyone, regardless of where you eat), and tightened the noose by yanking all badges by personnel who don't live/work right there in the Embassy. So then all the other chowhalls followed suit, as if anyone would want to eat in most of them, and now the International Zone is one big can of spiders--shake it up and watch everybody eat each other.

It's like one of those psychology experiments where the subject is given a red button to push to torture a prisoner under their control, and they ratchet it up just because they can. And we are under the control of the select few wanks in the Embassy who are The Deciders--we're a captive population, and all of our quality of life details are in their hands.

One more example of how this can make things Extra Stupid: AAFES, who runs all the American shops, has a local manager here who has taken it upon himself to quit cashing checks. There are no ATM's in Iraq. The only other place to cash a check? Oh, yeah, that would be THE EMBASSY (see issue #1). Why? Well, AAFES doesn't want you to have cash, because then you'll spend it someplace other than in AAFES shops. Instead, you can get an Eagle Card, which allows you to spend your money in...yep, you got it, an AAFES store. But how this ludicrous Eagle Card differs from a good ole debit card, someone will have to explain to me. Oh, here it is--you can get a whopping $20 cash back when you use a debit card--which leads to long lines as we all buy one bag of chips at a time until we have all the cash we need. No cash back on an Eagle Card

CRANK THAT ELECTRICITY, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, IT'S GONNA BE A HELLUVA RIDE!!! WATCH THE PRISONER WRITHE AND HOLLER!!!

It all makes about as much sense as a shampoo cocktail and goes down about as easy.

Planet of the Apes, Part Two

OK, back to the tour. I did a little research for your edification. I found some "before" pictures...that is, before we bombed the shit out of everything. Al-Rashid Hotel: this was as close as I could take pictures; the hotel is a huge target, so no photos are allowed on the grounds. Shame, too, because it's considered Iraq's finest hotel, but the once-grand gardens are clotted with weeds but the rose bushes are coming back nicely. You can see a little of the pock-markedness of the facade, but it's a bit chilling up close: the rockets and mortars have clinked out dozens of windows. The hotel was built in 1983 and was named after Harun Al-Rashid, an Abbisad Caliph, who reigned from 1135-1136. After the Gulf War Saddam had a tile mosaic of President George H. W. Bush’s face, as well as the inscription “Bush is Criminal,” installed in the floor of the hotel’s entrance, requiring visitors to step on his face to enter the hotel--a grave insult in Arab culture. They must've gotten the prototype photo from one of those "Separated at Birth" bits. I won't venture to guess who/what the "twin" was. Within days of the coalition taking control of Baghdad in 2003, U.S. Soldiers removed the mosaic. The shops in the lobby are wonderful--I bought a painting that reminded me of an Arab Renoir--beautiful light. Shocking, because most of the artwork you see around here is stiff and painfully cliche', like Native American paintings for sale in a second-rate tourist district in the Southwest. I paid sixty bucks for it. I'll go back for one of the exquisite, hand-woven silk rugs once the United States sees fit to allow me to get my own money out of my checking account...no ATM's here and they act like they're loaning you the money when you try to cash a check at the Embassy. But that's another gripe for another time.Believer's Palace: Yeah, you better have been a Believer if you were inside when this muldoon got hit. It reportedly housed regime officials. Actually, it's not really a palace--it's just a shell for the bunker below, which was built by a German firm for protection against Iran. Despite being heavily bombed in 2003, bunker remained relatively undamaged. The 3-level sprawling bunker was large enough to house 250 people, had an air filtration system and large kitchen, and was fully prepared for an attack with biological or chemical weapons. It could also generate 3 megawatts of power. Between the palace and bunker is even more protection, a two-floor "plug," which served as a reinforced helmet to make up for one of the bunker’s shortcoming of being only 50-60 feet underground. Worked, evidently.14th of July Statue: Named in remembrance of the 14th of July Revolution. On July 14, 1958, Arab nationalists led a coup that killed King Faisal II and his family, which ended the British monarchy’s reign in Iraq. This revolution should not be confused with the bloody coup on February 8, 1963, also known as the 14th of Ramadan Revolution, which brought the Ba’ath Party to power and eventually led to Saddam’s reign of terror. Iraqi Biker Bar: Sorry, I couldn't resist.

Stay tuned, more to come...these photos take time to upload, with our less-than-snappy connection. Not complaining, just statin' the facts, ma'am. Still trying to get the "before" pictures to work...

Planet of the Apes, Part One

In at least two parts, because I have to go back to work, and my connection, while wireless, is slow.

Bob has been here--Iraq--for two years. He's a retired Special Forces Sergeant Major. So when he offered to take me on a tour of the Green Zone, of course I accepted.

This is the palace Saddam built for one of his wives' mother. That is, the mother of a favorite wife. It caused great jealosy among the other wives and mothers. But how loudly can you protest to the guy who assassinated his own son-in-law? Note that we bombed the crap out of it. Now it's some sort of military headquarters. We've concocted an elaborate episode of While You Were Out for the Ba'athists.

That big structure on the right is the Mahmun Tower. I'll edit this post when I find out what it was and is.

Everything here has that eerie, Planet of the Apes feel to it. I'll have to post a photo of the gym in the building where I work--it's like hitting the elliptical trainer in an abandoned Roman bath, all marble and columns.

Same building, closer up. The three guys in blue are, indeed, vogueing for the shot.

The Tigris. Source of all civilization. If it looks brown and shitty, that's because it's brown and shitty. That's Baghdad University on the left. I saw a wonderful documentary about the Fertile Crescent that went into how some civilizations developed more quickly than others, about how it all started here because wheat was indigineous and contains protein, and hence there was enough surplus energy and food supply that some members of the society were free to experiment with tools and invent stuff. This area is where the first farming took place, then spread along lines of latitude (roughly) to Rome, India, China, and points east and west. Then the Fertile Crescent held the most advanced of all civilizations due to guys who could get away with not hunting or gathering. Until they overfarmed it and there was a climate change, not sure which came first.

But the wealth all dried up (until oil came along) and left them with this barren, hostile place. Entire cities and civilizations burned, fled, who knows what.

And with that, I have to get back to work.

Back in the Box

The first half of the trip, the commercial airliner bit, went smoothly and without event. I slept for most of the 20 hours we spent either in the air or at the several refueling points. The bird was roomy and comfortable and the nasty cold I picked up in El Paso started to subside.

We hit Kuwait and the Duffle Bag Drag ensued. I had Basic Training flashbacks as I hauled the two huge bags and my carryon across the dirt and rocks, wearing the bulky, heavy flackvest and kevlar helmet. The setting immediately spawned more flashbacks--we spent almost a month in the Kuwaiti desert training up to move north last time I was here.

I remembered the fear. The loathing--that would be the Commander who seemed to take real pleasure in debasing me and undercutting my authority every chance he got, just to ensure I always understood that he was In Charge. Ostensibly, anyway.

But that's another story and it's all on the May 2004-June 2005 postings. I deleted quite a few of those posts on returning Stateside--not because I feared they'd be read (they were), but because it was the low point of my life and brought out the worst in me and everyone around me.

This trip through Kuwait proved painless, and I found myself, once again, breathing a huge sigh of relief at being a civilian. I marveled at how relaxed I felt, and had to chuckle to myself--it's because I'm not in charge of anything but myself and my own affairs. My supervisors are about as competent and easy to work with as I've ever seen.

In other words, a complete turnaround from my last jaunt in The Box.

Every time I've flown into Baghdad, I have puked mightily--it's that combat spiral into the airport that does it. I ate very little all morning pre-flight in anticipation. Smart move--less to puke up. I did, once again, loose it into the little plastic barfbag.

After we landed and I hitched a ride to the next stop, where I would await transport into the Green Zone, I had long since acquired that nasty, been-travelling-for-days, filthy feel. My hair, in a ponytail, stuck to my head, my side-bangs glued to my forehead. My pants, already a bit too big, felt sloppy and stiff.

My old unit is headquartered on the same FOB where I awaited passage to the GZ. I considered walking around to find it, catch up with old friends, but decided against it. I was so dirty and at this point, sleep-deprived. I felt, in short, like a slug, and who wants to see anyone in that condition?

But then a soldier I'd worked closely with all that year came walking into the waiting area. It was good to see him--and he immediately commented that I looked great. I stared at him, utterly puzzled. He said it was the stress--all the signs of it were gone. I told him I'd considered walking down and catching up, but felt filthy, etc. He laughed and said, "Right, ma'am, like I've never seen you like that before!"

He has a point. I felt silly for caring about that.

We had a couple of hours to wait for the Rhino, the big, armored vehicles that move folks around Baghdad. I heard all about my old unit--this one got married, that one got promoted, a guy from my platoon lost an eye earlier this year in an IED strike.

It felt very odd being in that environment without a weapon and wearing just a t-shirt and pants--no gear or uniform. Their living conditions are worse than we had it--everyone's three to a room, and now they've been extended to a 15-month tour. Morale is in the toilet, as you'd expect. Everyone wants out of the Army.

We climbed into the Rhino for the ten-minute trip to the Green Zone. Everyone started out laughing and jovial, but as soon as the door closed, it grew silent. Even with all the armor and gun trucks, and even for a quick streak down the highway, we were still outside the wire, and the mood grew somber immediately. I watched out the ballistic window as the date trees and crumbling buildings slid by silently in the dark, remembering all too well the trip I'd taken through the streets of Abu Ghraib with the Colonel when we got IED'd, how everything changed in that slightest instance when the explosion rocked the vehicle and sparks showered down with the pieces of cement and shrapnel.

But that was then. As soon as we crossed all the checkpoints and sped into the safe area, the laughing and shit-talking started back up. My supervisor picked me up and I slept for almost 24 hours straight, waking with a pounding headache and hungry as a hostage in my new digs.

We live in a massive, thick cement building--it's very cool inside, and quiet as a tomb. The AC masked any and all sound from my roommate, a drop-dead gorgeous forensic scientist named Amy. She's great to boot, warm and funny. There are twenty gorgeous manly-men in the security detachment who roll all over Baghdad every day, and I was introduced to them via a late-night poker game, where I played well and raised some eyebrows. The male-to-female ratio here is probably about 20:1, so an average-to-cute lady like me can land a hottie who would be out of reach at home.

Yes, I'm thinking I'll be happy as a pig in shit here.

***W*H*E*W***

Four monkeys, one football, can of Crisco. That's how the last three weeks have felt. And now I'm in a very nice hotel in Crystal City (Washington, DC), in a food coma from the amazing meal I just ate at Jaleo. The chef/owner competed against Bobby Flay on Iron Chef America, and won. I've never eaten at one of Bobby Flay's spots, but I know that he does not lose challenges often at all. This was just scrumptious.

Last night it was Legal Seafood, where I slurped down the sweetest, plumpest raw oysters known to man and drank a stiff margarita. As I finished my beautifully grilled mahi, jalapeno polenta, and sweet potato fries, and older couple sat at the table to my left, which was close enough to touch and shared the bench seat. "Oh, you poor thing, sitting here all by yourself," the woman said, laughing. I told her I was in DC on business and we got to chatting about Iraq, as is always the case when I tell anyone what I do. Turns out, they were endangered Bush supporters. It's been so long since I met anyone who still admits to supporting that nincompoop, I was startled. They were warm people, though, despite their penchant for spouting bumpersticker slogans disguised as insight, and we actually had a friendly discussion and parted on good terms.

I can do that, you know, talk about something controversial without getting shrill. Not always, but it's there. Depends on the other guy--these folks weren't looking for a fight and neither was I. And there's nothing wrong with eating at a fancy schmancy restaurant alone...there's no "poor thing" about it.

So here's the whole point to this ordeal:

My house in Mississippi. My little corner of paradise. I got all my crap out of storage and into the new place.

I cannot express how glad I am to have wound up the AZ job so I can get back here to my dog, my cats, my family, my home. I hope I never have to go back to Arizona. I hate the desert. All the pretty mountains in the world mean nothing to me if you can't grow tomatoes in the yard.

No Move Would Be Complete Without...

...a fiasco or two. I'm driving away early tomorrow morning and I still have kind of a lot of manual labor yet to complete. I'm meeting my (now former) co-workers at a sports bar for a couple of drinks. I could use a good margarita...my feet are swollen and painful. I've been running around and carrying heavy things on them for several days now. And after this last fiasco, I need a drink, without a doubt.

And this is only a partial move--my stuff is already in Mississippi, albeit in storage. There will be pain getting it from point A to point B, but I'll have plenty of help.

Done Deal

I finally got off the fence and signed a contract today. Green Zone, four months, working Counterintelligence analysis for a strategic-level CI cell. And that's all I'll say. It's with Lockheed, so I'm staying with my company. I go to DC for ten days--hotel in Crystal City for ten days? Woohoo!--reporting April 9. From there, a processing station for contractors--probably the one in El Paso everyone hates. I'll just tote my knitting around like an old lady and be patient.

Oh, I guess I haven't discussed knitting--it's become quite the hobby for me when I'm not packing or cleaning. I'm still working on my first sweater--but I get it, you know? I think I understand how to make a sweater, whereas during my first knitting stint (1992), it looked more like magic than something I could learn. Not so much. It's rather medidative. I love the idea of picking out yarns and being able to knit without a pattern, just make it up as I go. People do that, they actually DO that.

Go ahead, call me a spinster. Then run before I kick your ass.

I teach all day tomorrow. Then I have Sunday and Tuesday to get everything done, the house cleaned up to the landlord's specs--Monday's a half-day at work and the other half will be taken up getting a hitch on my car. Turns out, Altimas just aren't designed for a big honkin' trailer ball. I hope I can take it off without incurring a penalty by way of a fee for removing it.

I'm in (mostly) high gear right now, getting packed up and ready to watch Arizona disappear in the rearview mirror. I never intended to stay here. And it's lasted longer than I'd wanted...if only I could make a living in Oxford, I wouldn't have to keep coming out here to Hell.

Buried

I've been a bad, bad girl. I plan to atone for my wickedness (not blogging) once I have something interesting to say. It's just been back and forth, getting things done for work in Arizona, trying not to leave anything undone before going back to Mississippi.

The house looks like hell. I'm being awfully nice to J's landlord. A guy's coming over tomorrow to haul stuff away, do some landscaping, paint the back of the house exterior, and stain/seal the patio.

But I'm excited. A little terrified. I don't have an Iraq job locked in 100%, but there are three for which I've been approved, just awaiting offer letters and security verifications for my clearance. Until I have the offer letter(s), though, it feels a bit like jumping off a building with a parachute that will most likely open. Thank God for home ownership and the attendant fat tax returns.

I've done this before, though. In fact, a few times now. There are days when I think I'm fickle and immature, changing life courses so many times in my 36+ years. But then, each change has made life better and infinitely more interesting. I don't regret not knowing I wanted to be an attorney when I was 21.

Buz Lahrmann said, "Don't worry too much if you don't know what you want to do at 25. The more interesting people I know didn't know until at least 35, and the most interesting people I know still don't."

So all the chaos will be worth it. I have that same feeling I had when I left the Army--a little spooked, but confident that it's the right move, giving up the financial security of the job out here without having the four-month Iraq gig locked in.

Gonna Leave This Town

I'm ready to leave this town...just like in the Professor Longhair song, it hadn't brought me nuthin' but heartache and sorrow, child. I'll spend a little over a week in Oxford, then it's wheels-up to Iraq or Afghanistan; I'm still fielding offers, the most promising of which is in Kirkuk working with the Air Force. Ole Miss is giving me grief on my residency status--and without residency, no scholarship. I'm still awaiting their decision on my status. If, by some miracle, I'm declared a resident and offered the Grand Poobah scholarship, I'll fly back to Oxford in late July. Not sure what I'll do without a scholarship...debt's the last thing I need to deal with a g a i n.

While I truly dislike Sierra Vista, I will miss this house. It's filled with sunlight all day and the big, bright windows and skylights funnel it all in. Still, the house in Mississippi needs no big work, other than paint and an eventual kitchen upgrade. The kitchen is considerably smaller, but then some restaurant kitchens are smaller than the one I have now.

Nothing more to say at this moment in time...just treading water until time to load up and push off for the last time.

GLM

America, the GLM, or Global Language Monitor, has released its hit-list of Most Politically Incorrect Phrases from 2006. I swear I’m not making this list up; it was in today’s edition of the Stars and Stripes, right on page 2. The definitions and commentary, however, I did make up.

And the winners are:

• menaissance [ MEN·eye·sans ] n. the return of manliness following the zenith of “metrosexual” fashion. Offensive because any reference to men is seen as offensive by The PC censors.

• flip chart (plural flip charts) n. visual aid: a visual aid consisting of a large pad of paper mounted on an easel, used to present information. Offensive to Filipinos. Can’t mention them either. You can no longer “flip someone off.” You must now “show them (language Nazi's) your middle finger.” The irony here is that I never even knew the word "flip" as anything referencing a nationality, group, etc. So they actually introduced me to an exclusionary/inclusionary term. Bravo.

• herstory [ húrstəree ] (plural her·sto·ries) n. 1. history from women's perspective: history as it affects women or looked at from the point of view of women, especially in contrast to conventional treatment of history, seen in feminist terms as having favored men 2. life experiences of woman or women: the study or recording of the life experiences, achievements, or expectations of a particular woman or group of women [Late 20th century. < history, as if his- were "of him"] Offensive because if you can’t reference men, you can’t reference womyn either, without the charge of (shocking!!) bias. I heard this term in the late ‘80’s in a Women’s Studies class, and even then I thought it sounded absurd and angry. So now PC even extends to words created earlier to advance the PC cause.

• black coffee [blak·COF·fee] n. coffee without cream or sugar. Offensive because black is no longer a color. So “black ice,” (now “non-Caucasian ice”) “Black Friday,” (“Friday of Color”) “little black dress,” (“small, feminine garment that would match clothing worn by Johnny Cash”) they’re all out. Yes, I’d like a cup of non-cracker coffee. Gimme a cup of that ethnic joe. I’d like some coffee of color. I’ll have the non-porch-honky coffee, please.

So I need to send the venerable GLM my own un-PC word, one I invented and bandy about the office on a daily basis because I’m usually the perpetrator:

• hisassment [his·ASS·mənt] n. Inappropriate remarks or unwelcome advances of a sexual nature directed at the male of the species. Just plain offensive.

How to Lose Fat

Kinda says it all, doesn't it?

Greetings from the South Rim

I'm so glad I did this. Here's my first look at the Canyon:

From here, I rode the shuttle to the steepest trail on the South Rim, the venerable South Kaibab. I linked up with a festive group of German tourists, decided we'd tackle it together, and down we went.

From the trailhead:

If it looks cold, that's because it IS...when I started out, it was 13º with a stiff wind. I wore four layers, including a North Face Summit Series jacket I bought in Afghanistan. By the time we were halfway to Skeleton Point, I stripped down to a t-shirt and wore all the other layers around my waist...somewhat cumbersome, but it worked.

My legs shook uncontrollably after the hour of straight-down to Cedar Point. I kept looking up at how far we had to climb back to the top:

This is after only 15 minutes down. See those tiny black specks? Those are people.

From the same point, looking down...we still had a LONG way to go.

The way back up was the most gruelling Stairclimber workout you can imagine. But I surprised myself--I consistently got far ahead of the Germans, and felt like I could have gone all the way to the bottom. After my bum knee started to stiffen up, however, I knew that I'd done the right thing stopping where we did.

This was definitely a Christmas to remember.

Grand Canyon, Part One

I wanted to go home for the season, but with classes lining up just before and just after Christmas, it didn't make sense to spend the money. I got to go for Thanksgiving, so everyone understands.

I spent several hours at the office this morning--we have nothing to do right now, so I surfed the Web and bought some meds for Moonpie, looked at my credit score--which is pleasingly high, right up there. We ordered pizza and I became impatient at noon--I had a long drive ahead of me, and wanted to approach the Flagstaff area while it was still light. So I left obscenely early, put Moonpie in the car, and started driving.

It began to rain in Tucson. It was pouring by the time I got to Phoenix. I spent two full hours creeping through that damn city at about 10 MPH--it rains so rarely here, everyone freaks out and goes straight into Gramma Mode behind the wheel. It changed to snow just north of Phoenix, just as the scenery began to get really spectacular. Then it got dark.

Even still, I could make out the astonishingly massive mountains, sleeping behemoths on both sides of the road under a forest of humanoid saguaro cacti. The drive between Phoenix and Flagstaff is straight up, the right lane populated with straining tractor-trailers and those unfortunate souls not sitting on a big, 260-horsepower engine. Times like these, that car is worth every dime--it drives beautifully in these extremes, hugging the curves and sprinting up the steep bits.

Sedona--I can't see much right now, in the dark, but the snow will glow amber in the morning light. One quality I love about the high desert is the light--the entire state of Arizona turns amber, then periwinkle, then glows blue as the sun sets. The moon was a thin, luminous fingernail hanging at eye level and close enough to touch.

Here's the only picture I was able to take, Moonpie's first yellow snow:
He is, by the way, quite the man-magnet, especially in his spunky leopard-print coat. Every time we walk through the hotel lobby, every man in sight is all over him like they're all grammas and he's a baby in Gap.

I'm having room service for breakfast--absurdly early for a vacation--then driving to the Canyon to hike the South Kaibab Trail. I hope there's snow--I can't imagine how it will look with all the contours highlighted with white.

I will, of course, take many, many pictures.

Christmas Vacation

The thing I don't like about not going home for Christmas are all the charity-case invitations...you know, "I'm inviting all the single people over," always with the best of intentions. But I'd rather stay home than be the Christmas charity invitee. So I'm stuck in Arizona, determined to save money to buy a house in Oxford pre-law school.

Which is why I made a reservation for Moonpie and myself at the Grand Canyon. Yep, I'll spend the whole weekend hiking with my dog and exploring northern Arizona restaurants, then drive home Christmas morning. I have two day-long hikes planned out on the South Rim. It's a bit cold, but I'll be layered up, carrying water, and no, I won't have to get rescued. It's a national park and it's not THAT cold. Besides, if they pull your dumb ass out of the Canyon, you pay for it, every dime.

Although I've seen J several times now and I know he wants to go with us--he keeps dropping not-so-subtle hints--I think I'd rather not bring him along. I don't know him well enough for a romantic getaway on Christmas--it's just too weird. And there's the fact that I'm not sure I like him enough to spend three uninterrupted days with him, truth be told. He's smart, attractive, and has a lot going for him, but I'm a little taken aback by how much he talks...the stories that should be five minutes long drag on for twenty. I'm sure I'm guilty of the same thing from time to time, but I'm also okay with just shutting my piehole--which is a good thing, with this one. I get the distinct feeling he's uncomfortable with silence and feels he has to fill it up, and content is immaterial. He is clearly not a keeper and one of us will quit calling the other any day now.

I know myself--I learned the valuable lesson about travel partners when I got to spend some time in Germany while deployed to Afghanistan. I met this other female officer--I found her slightly annoying from the get-go, when she relayed to me a tale about how she drank with her soldiers in Iraq, which is completely against my leadership philosophy (not to mention dangerous), but there you have it. I decided to get on the train and see the sights, final destination Munich. She asked if she could come with me, and a little voice in my head told me to say no.

But I didn't want to be rude. Lesson=better rude than miserable with the wrong traveling companion. She rattled on the entire trip about how great she was, and by the time she got to the part about how Active Duty soldiers should get crammed four to a room so that the National Guard officers (herself included, of course) could get their own rooms when getting ready to deploy, I had my forehead pressed to the window, trying hard to convey that I didn't want to hear it by not responding and staring at every passing blade of grass with intense concentration. Which only seemed to make her more determined...on and on it went.

Finally, in the middle of Munich, she prattled incessantly about how she could keep up with Special Forces in the 17,000-foot Hindu Kush in Afghanistan, 100-pound ruck and all, when she'd complained when I'd taken the stairs at the train station too quickly, and I was done. I handed her the map and her return-trip ticket and told her we would now have to separate.

She was aghast. "But I don't speak German," she gasped. I speak just enough German to get around or elicit enough of a sympathetic response from English-speakers to get help and directions.

"But you're Special Forces," I was already walking away. "And you have the map. It's just urban land-nav, shouldn't be an issue for a Special Forces-caliber soldier."

I know, it was horrible. But I just couldn't listen to another minute of it. J is nowhere near that bad, and if I left him in the Grand Canyon I have no doubt he'd beat me back to the top and not look back...but that voice is telling me not to bring him.

So just me and the dog. I'll take LOTS of pictures.

Adventures in Online Dating

I went out with a very attractive soldier last night, another pilot. We met on a dating site, exchanged photos, and he asked me to come over and watch a movie. I liked that he was so forward, because you can often talk on the phone or exchange emails for weeks before you actually meet someone online. I prefer to invest as little as possible before sitting down face-to-face and discerning if we have anything to talk about.

So J ordered pizza, I brought wine, and I followed the directions to his house. His pictures were typical guy--J snowboarding, J in uniform, J shirtless (very nice) on a motorcycle, J's dog, a picture of J's dog poking out from under a porch--not sure how the dog did this, but here it is:

This date was decidedly one of the stranger ones I've ever been on...and there have been many. His house is also typical guy...cluttered (but not dirty) and plain, heavy emphasis on the electronics--surround sound for the movie in this case. I noticed that his laptop was beside the couch, and every few moments, his email program would make a loud Ting and he's lean over to check it. It didn't take long for me to figure out that he was trolling several other dating sites, and taking messages from all the interested parties even as I sat there. Same thing with his cellphone--text messages, ringing frequently...he mostly just looked to see who was calling and sent it to voicemail, or replied to the texts. I teased him about fielding all his other ladies while one's at his house, and he stopped looking at his email, quit texting back.

The pizza came and we sat on the floor to watch Pulse. I kept dropping pizza toppings on his carpet, which I could tell he wasn't happy about, so I ate one piece and switched to the wine. By now I knew we had little in common.

Pulse is a horrible movie, completely trite and sophomoric with the worst imaginable acting, about a computer program gone wild and making everyone commit suicide after infiltrating their dark and shabby apartments through their computers, all in this relentlessly grey setting. Even outside in broad daylight, no real color. All to make sure you get it...it's an apocolyptic landscape, trash and newspapers blowing around the deserted city streets, buildings afire, the howling wind. And we watched some of the special features afterwards, and a confederacy of dunces paraded onscreen to explain how this very thing could happen...hairy old guys holding seminars on the paranormal, more rubes sitting rapt, nodding in agreement, yes, computers can take over and suck out our collective will to live.

And to J's credit, we made fun of the movie all the way through, shouting insults at the screen, then I closed his laptop and put it beside the couch so we wouldn't go hang ourselves from the ceiling fan in the bedroom. The man's no idiot, he's just not that great at picking movies.

I asked him where the dog was, the one from the pictures, and he said, "Oh, he died." Now I was a bit surprised...I asked if it happened while he was in Iraq, and he said, "Korea, actually." So I'm not sure if the dog was with him in Korea and died, or something happened while he as in Korea.

And then I remembered that picture, the dog's head by the porch steps...holy whore of babylon, is that head attached to the rest of the dog?? And why post pictures of your deceased dog, even if it is still alive in the photo?

I didn't ask. We talked for about another hour--we've had many of the same experiences in the Army--and then I left. He said he'd like to see me again, and I said, "Sure, call me." I won't be surprised either way, if he calls or doesn't.

But it was an interesting evening, to say the least, what with that picture of the doghead in my brain for the second half of the night.

Modest Proposal

Well, here’s something crazy…I’m considering a jaunt in Iraq to help pay for law school. I can go for four months with option to extend. I am determined to get through law school debt-free, and this looks like the only plausible way to make that happen.

I can do it this way, or I can potentially borrow and/or run up credit cards during school and start practicing law at age 40 with a crapload of debt. AND the bar often looks very unfavorably on bad credit—they figure if you can’t be fiscally responsible, you likely won’t make such a great lawyer. I do not want to put myself in the position of limiting my practice of law to the highest-paying option out of the need to repay debt.

Patience now will pay big rewards in the long run. And I’m not just talking smack when I say that going over there as a civilian is a whole different ballgame. The job they’ve offered me is something I teach and have a great deal of expertise with—I could do it very well, make a strong contribution to the effort.

Throw Imama from the Plane

I read an article today about the Imams ejected from the plane in Minneapolis/St. Paul (and the entire airline, turns out) after "an anti-American remark and ostentatious Muslim prayers just before boarding the plane," (as it was reported) and how they've hired lawyers in hopes of effecting a great public outcry about their civil rights. I didn't pay the story much attention until we began discussing it in the office, and did a little research. *Caveat*: I know, the internet is a mixed bag when it comes to reliability, as is any medium.

And something I found astonishing—turns out, according to the police report, they didn’t just say a little prayer, stand up, and quietly queue up to board the plane. No, they changed their seats to a pattern that would aid in a hostile takeover, requested superfluous seat belt extenders (which could be used to choke a victim), shouted anti-American, anti-Iraq war slogans, and made a big, loud production of the prayers—which is completely contrary to my experience with the Muslims I know who don’t want us all dead...which is 99.99%. Prayer is a more private affair, certainly not something for ostentatious display in that setting. Why would someone behave this way, knowing how it looked, the risks involved? It’s like joking about bombs as you go through security. It just isn’t done by anyone sane. So then you have to question motivations and possible desired outcome(s).

It seems the likely scenario here was that the whole thing was absolutely deliberate, for one (or all) of the following reasons: 1) They wanted to make an issue of it, get the airline in the hot seat, so that others might be more reluctant to remove suspect Muslims from the plane in order to avoid the profiling/racism charge, 2) It was a reconnaissance effort, meant to probe reactions of airline officials, fellow passengers, and our media as part of the planning phase of an attack, or 3) The most benign of the three, they wanted to make noise for the sake of making noise. Hence the follow-on protests…unless that also ties into reason 1. Note that before the plane even landed in Phoenix, these gentlemen's lawyers were already talking to Jesse Jackson and the press.

Now, granted, I understand that of course profiling was at work here. If a white dude hollered out some “Praise Jesus,” told everyone around they were going to hell, and loudly protested the war in Iraq, chances are he would’ve boarded the plane. But until a zealot Baptist blows up a plane or executes suicide attacks on civilians, that dynamic is reality. Yes, yes, Tim McVeigh…but that was a tiny group of wackadoos and we’ve not seen that type attack happen before or since. Hence, isolated. And that same behavior in a Muslim country? A day spent answering questions would be the least of your concerns, daddy.

Not all Muslims are terrorists—in fact, the vast majority doesn’t entertain the possibility. But in this particular point in time, the terrorists hell-bent on mass-murdering Westerners are Muslim. And all the media coverage, cultural sensitivity, and propaganda to try to “win hearts and minds” falls on deaf ears—once someone has reached that point in their hatred for the West, there is no going back. Period.

Kudos to the airline for standing firm, to the passengers for raising their concerns, and to the employees who had to make the tough call, at the risk of being labeled racist, xenophobic, etc.

And to anyone who would put this PC bullshit over the lives of American citizens: keep that naïve attitude until another mass attack takes place on our soil. We live in an era when the effective application of security measures will cause some folks to get offended because their civil rights are compromised.

You know what offends me? Dead Americans.

Illusion

My biomom’s (I was adopted as a baby and found them back in ’96) family in Tennessee is a hoot. My bio-uncle and aunt, Ed Neil and Carolyn, drove over on Friday for (my second) Thanksgiving dinner. The discussion turned to a hill near where they live that’s one of those illusory hills, where you can put your car in neutral and roll uphill. Carolyn expressed amazement, all wide-eyes and raised eyebrows.

“I declare, you roll right up that hill. Wonder how they do that?”

Someone said, “It’s an optical illusion.”

“Why, no it’s not, you’re really movin’!”

I hope she didn’t think I was laughing at her.

Homeslice

Driving all over northern Mississippi (or Misipi, if you're a native) taking care of business for my law school application turned out to be a revealing little slice of my home state.

1) Drivers are exceedingly courteous here. If you're making a left against traffic, it will not take long for some kind soul to stop and wave you through. Same with backing out of a parking spot into the street. And then there's the Finger Wave...as you pass an oncoming vehicle on a small road, there is this funny little one or two-fingered salute from the hand on the wheel. Hey, howya doin'.

2) The convenience stores do not carry half-and-half, you know, to use for coffee creamer. I stopped at five last night as I drove in...not one had it. That's the exclusive perview of the grocery store, whereas in NY and AZ, every convenience store carries it. I don't care to speculate about "what it all means."

3) There is no DMV. To change over my license and registration, I went to two distinct offices--the "driver's licence" office out on the highway, and the tax assessor's office downtown. While a bit inconvenient, would anyone lament the demise of the DMV?? Long lines, screaming kids, "take a number"...I didn't wait at all in either office.

4) At the "driver's licence" office, in huge, hand-scrawled letters on the wall behind the ladies processing your forms: "PUBLIC PROFANITY IS A MISDEMEANOR. VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED!" I must've been there on a good day, no one looked like they were fixin' to cuss the ladies.

5) I love barbeque. I miss barbeque. It's sloppy, it smokes for hours, it runs down your chin...I adore it.

6) Southern hospitality is not a myth. Everywhere I went today, everyone greets everyone else, even the cop at the social security office took the time to get me pointed in the right direction.

I can't wait to permanently finish up with Arizona and get back to Oxford without having to leave all the time. I always dread coming back out here--Arizona's just not home.

Made My Bed

Joe stood up, glared at me, and stomped out, slamming the door behind him. He'd already declared that he would never play in another hand against me again--he's a good player, but I always seem to have a slightly better hand when we end up in a pot. It's not that I'm a better player, it has just worked out that way every time we've played--I've taken him out every game for the last couple of months. It happened twice last night--the first hand of the night, he went all in, and I called...I had a pocket pair that made for a full house on the flop. Why the hell wouldn't I call? He also had a full house, but mine was higher--I had eights over tens, he had tens over fours. I don't know how that computes, but there you have it. And then it happened again later, when it was too late to rebuy--that was when he stomped out. He's a good guy, I don't take it personally, but he really hates to lose, especially to the same amateur player, every damn time. So now he hates me. Or not me, per se, he hates playing against me.

Wow. I took first place last night in the Poker League tournament...the one that's generally much tougher, where I just made it to the final table last week for the first time. Pretty nice little pot of money, too. This was an especially gratifying victory because I was down to nearly nothing TWICE and came back to win it. The guy who took second had a veritable mountain of chips all the way to the end--I managed to whittle away at it when we got to the final table. That's the thing about No-Limit Hold'em, why players maintain a love/hate relationship with it--fortunes can reverse in just a few hands, for better or worse.

Of course it's fun. Anything you're good at is fun. And when there's money involved? Even funner. Hard to believe I just started playing in August--now it's a big part of my life, I play at least once a week. I look forward to it all week.

And I'm convinced that being a woman can be a huge advantage at the table--we had a new player last night, some old guy who apparently wins at casinos all the time--who tried hard to bet me out of a huge pot. I had a feeling he was playing bully--when someone bets huge with 4,9,7 on the board, they are either bluffing or holding a high pocket pair. And in the case of a pocket pair, you wouldn't want to bet enough to scare the other player out--you want them to call, so you'll get their money. So I called and sure enough, my little pair of 7's held up. I really think many guys naturally assume you're a weak or timid player if you're a woman. It doesn't work anymore with the regular players--only when someone new shows up. The regulars have all played with me enough to know I'm more likely to call a big bet than walk away.

I hope I'm right about that. But I can't help but notice that there are never any women at the final tables at the World Series of Poker, and they have a separate "Ladies' Event." It's not that women aren't allowed to play in the main event, there just aren't many who do, and then make it that far. I watched the WSOP Ladies' Event and quickly decided I don't care to play in those tournaments--these bitches hissed at each other the whole time. The commentators kept referring to a "catfight." Talk about insulting and demoralizing.

I'd rather win as a poker player than as a Female Poker Player, in any event. And why a ladies' event in the first place? Poker isn't like running or doing pullups, there's no advantage that would necessitate separating the genders.

Like the question posed last night: Can Siamese twins play in the same poker hand? It shall remain a mystery.