I'm Sorry I Was Caught

CNN has obtained the June 11, 2007 police report detailing Idaho Sen. Larry Craig's disorderly conduct arrest in an airport bathroom.

And what's even funnier than a Senator prowling for action in an airport toilet? He presented the cop his business card identifying himself as a U.S. Senator, and demanded, "What do you think about that???"

"Do you know who I am??" rarely, if ever, works out well for the identification/business card-wielder. Just ask Mel Gibson.

Larry Craig is sorry. He's soooo sorry. That he was caught.

Michael Vick's apologists call the intense response to his abhorrent cruelty to animals "racist." It would somehow be more palatable to the public if it were a white guy torturing dogs? One guy on Fox News yesterday (and I hate Fox News, it's just all we can get sometimes) stopped just short of calling the whole ordeal (dogfighting and the attendant animal cruelty) A Black Thang, and shouted indignantly that the Duke lacrosse players hadn't been proclaimed guilty in the public arena before all the facts were in.

Really? That's not how I recall it. The prosecutor, the press, the university, and every talking head with a microphone decried the rich, white guys' behavior and could scarcely hide their glee in predicting long prison sentences. Larry Craig is white, and his career is outta here like last year.

This is all just the modern equivalent of being put in the stockade in the public square. Shame is a very powerful tool and I hope it never lets up for hypocritical, homophobic, self-righteous Senators or anyone with the stomach to torture an animal. When you accept a job or contract that places you in the public eye and you profit from the spotlight, you have to know that the seedy underbelly of that profit comes in the form of intense scrutiny, and that you can and will be open to ridicule and condemnation when you screw up.

Michael Vick is also sorry. That he got caught. I wonder if he asked the arresting officer, "Do you know who I am???"

Neither of these trespasses was isolated--the dogfighting wasn't something Vick got mixed up in, kind of by accident and just this once, and I cannot imagine Larry Craig learned the mechanics of soliciting gay sex in a bathroom kind of by accident and just this once. Neither of these yahoos can say they were drunk at the time and check themselves into rehab, thus garnering the public's sympathy. Does that ever work? Didn't work out so well for Tom Foley, as well it shouldn't.

Our legal system is far from perfect, and neither is the court of public opinion. But I rarely feel any sympathy for those convicted in either. The recent exception, of course, is the Duke lacrosse players--they really were handed a shit sandwich. But they really were innocent, and didn't apologize; why would you, if you're innocent? The only reason for an apology is to diminish public scorn...and that's usually spot-on.

Dirty (My Same Age) Man

I work with a guy who never ceases to scandalize everyone in earshot, damn near every time he opens his mouth. Just now, in the hallway outside my office, at full volume:

"She's (so-and-so)'s WIFE?? Now I really want my guy to fuck her in the ass!!"

Don't ask what the conversation was about. It's not important and anyway, I don't know.

I stared at him, blinking. The funny thing about this guy, is that he's not some testosterone-riddled, buzz-cut jock. He's kind of a dorky guy wearing most unstylish glasses and a full beard who has a photo of his family on his desk. Not unusual, only in this particular picture, D and his two young sons are wearing the same picnic-tablecloth checkered shirts with big collars. I swear I'm not making this up. It's very incongruous with the guy in the hall whose next yelled line was, "I want him to shoot his big wad in her ASS!!!"

I was deployed with the Infantry last time I was here and never heard such a thing. I ducked behind my computer monitor, laughing to the point of tears as he went on and on in this vein.

Don't believe that sanitized crap you see in Alias or 24. The intelligence field is largely populated by the weirdest people you've ever met.

I mean, look at yours truly!!

Kick (My Ass) Boxing

Several of the men I work with have noticed my workout, which is the following: 1 hour on interval setting on the elliptical trainer, which is two minutes at a higher resistance and two at a lower. You pick the resistance settings, and mine is 13 for high (up to 14 or even 16 for a couple of them, just to mix it up), 9 for the lower setting. I built up to it--I wasn't in very good shape when I got here, and it took about a month to build up for this ass-kicker.

Mike walked up to me as I was beginning this workout, and motioned for me to take my headphones off. I was rocking hard to some Lucinda Williams.

"Hey, I wanna do your workout. What is it?" I told him, and he took the machine next to me. I was about five minutes into mine.

I occasionally glanced over at him as the hour wore on--sweating profusely, bent over the machine, glaring at me, but determined to finish.

My hour ended and I went to the back of the room to stretch. Several minutes later, he joined me. "That kicked my ass," he said. "You do that every day??"

The next morning, he leaned on the stair railing and glared at me as I bounded past him. "Damn you to hell!" he called after me.

So I've been pretty confident about my fitness level, and agreed to join Terri, the petite, adorable 50-year-old admin lady with one of the best Southern accents ever, for kickboxing. One hour, taught by a very fit-looking young woman.

It started out easy enough, some running in place, a couple of pushups. Then began the "Jane Fondas." Spread your feet out past shoulder-width, toes turned outward at about a 45-degree angle, reach down and grab your heels, and bounce your ass up and down. Doesn't seem so tough, huh?

Now do a couple hundred of them. And jump up, do pushups, lift some 5-pound weights over your head for 50 counts, more pushups, more punches, lunges, and repeat this sequence for about forty minutes in a 95º room.

After about the second sequence, I could barely lift my arms. I had to ditch the weights. Terri, in front of me, kept plowing right through it, never even went to her knees on the pushups.

It was like a Basic Training flashback, only no one yelled, there was music, and several other first-timers just plain quit, most of them male. One of our Infantry guys on the security team actually puked. Well, I thought we'd get through this one without anyone puking! the instructor singsonged, barely having broken a sweat. Happens all the time, apparently.

Then came the "cardio." This is my lane, I thought, I'm home free.

Not so much. There were all kinds of sequences and turns and hops involved, punches and kicks, like a dance routine. I fumbled through them best I could, but I felt like a horse's ass. I took Tae Kwon Do in Korea and could not quit putting my fists by my sides, and that screwed me all up. I kept bumping into people, as the group moved together up and down the length of the room like a school of fish...with one fish all screwed up and going the wrong way. I started laughing...it felt like a movie or a stupid sitcom. I kept trying and kept not getting it, laughing the whole time. Everyone around me was also laughing, fortunately, although I'm sure several of them were annoyed as hell.

The next day, I could not even sit down in my chair without grabbing onto the arms like an old lady lowering herself into her Hov-A-Round for a quick spin around the South Rim of the Grand Canyon. Stairs? Forget it. I live on the fifth floor in a building with VERY tall ceilings, and had to drag myself up the 100+ stairs.

I saw Terri bound up the steps as I leaned on the railing, groaning and pulling. "Damn you to hell!" I called after her.

It's Working...

I'm still losing weight. I started right around June 1, and I'm down 14 pounds. It feels wonderful and I know what the difference is this time: when I plateau, I know it's temporary and keep at it. The last 20 times I've tried to lose, I'd get discouraged and give up when I didn't see the hard work pay off. It felt like too much work. I tried Weight Watchers, Jenny Craig, Slim Fast, you name it. They're all great programs--Weight Watchers is by far the best one, as it teaches you what portions should look like and how to feel fuller on fewer calories.

It took a sea change in the way I think that's making the difference. And that took changing my lifestyle and sticking with it when it felt like torture--I stuck with it, and suddenly, it felt right. It took about about a month to go from having to fight myself off the hot apple cobbler in the chowhall to feeling like it's okay if I have a small portion every so often and I'm not in danger of going back for a bigger portion once I get a taste.

At one point, I weighed exactly the same, to the decimal point, for two weeks. I kept pushing, and sure enough, one day I got on the scale and started dropping again. It goes in spurts--two pounds down, steady for a week or even up a pound, suddenly another two pounds down.

I read Thin For Life, which is a book based on folks registered in the NWCR, the National Weight Control Registry, and most of them said their mindset had to change for meaningful weight loss to occur. And it's absolutely true; I'm starting to view what a meal looks like differently. Same with snacks. Something just clicked and it doesn't feel like deprivation the way it used to--it feels natural. Which it is. This is how humans were designed to eat--not gargantuan portions and gobs of fat and sugar.

About the NWCR: in order to register, one must have lost at least 30 pounds and kept it off for at least one year. The average weight loss among participants is 60 pounds, and the average time they've kept it off is 5 years. So these are the people who know what they're doing. In addition to reading about them, I'm reading studies conducted by the National Institutes of Health. The prevalence of common themes is striking and all roads lead to the following truths about weight loss:

--You must exercise. Period. I heard Oprah tell a complaining guest that she also hates it. Oprah hated it this morning, in fact. The thing that changed is that now, it feels like something that just gets done every day, like brushing my teeth...I don't always "feel like it," but I do it anyway. I do an hour of moderate-to-intense cardio, 5-6 times a week, and lift weights 2-3 times a week. Sure, it's a lot, but look at the payoff...I used to spend three times that long in front of the TV. That's why God made DVR--you only watch what you're really into, and you can record it to watch when you do have time. Right now, I have two Baghdad Boyfriends--do you think I miss TV??

Not exercising means not losing weight. It's just that simple.

--That piece of cheesecake isn't the last on Earth. I somehow reached the point where food doesn't have such a grip on me--I MUST eat those fries!! Not eating the cheesecake now does not mean I'll never eat it again. That sense of urgency has faded considerably.

--A meal does not have to take up a huge plate. I've had to change what looks like a meal--for instance, last night I had two small, baked chicken breasts and some peas, and that was plenty.

--Not eating carbs is stupid. I tried it in the Army--I did lose weight (quickly), but I felt like I'd landed on a planet with twice Earth's gravity. However, replacing some carbs with lean protein means you feel fuller and stay that way longer. I've cut way back on simple carbs, because they have no fiber and have very little nutritional value, and upped the protein considerably. It works. Where a plate of vegetables alone leaves me feeling like I've only snacked, a big slab of chicken feels like a meal. Most side dishes are the kiss of death--potatoes, rice, all that stuff. Big calories, small payoff.

--People who weigh themselves frequently tend to lose more and keep it off more successfully. I weigh myself every morning. You can correct mistakes quickly this way...oh, hell, I'm up a pound, guess that lamb schwarma at the Iraqi restaurant last night was a little too much. Better make sure I get to the gym today. Then that pound is gone the next morning. I no longer have that feeling of, well, I already screwed up by eating that cake for Melissa's birthday, I might was well have some onion rings. I guess the bottom line is, it's the way I talk to myself that's changing. The more success I see, the easier it all is.

It's changing everything. I love to get up in the morning and choose a cute outfit. Looking good feels amazing and my mood is much improved, all day every day.

I can't wait to go shopping when I go home for Thanksgiving.

The Dreaded Tigris Pink

S is one of my co-workers. He scratched his eye somehow, and it swelled, turned red, and just generally looked--and felt--dreadful. Being somewhat of a jokester, he told C, another co-worker, that it was pinkeye.

"You better not give me that shit," C said.

"I can't help it, it's the Tigris Pink," said S.

"The what?!?"

"The Tigris Pink. Highly contagious, hurts like hell. Doc says I might lose some vision."

"No shit??? Man, you better stay the hell on your side of the room, buddy."

S came into my office and told me about the joke. "Wait here," I said. I walked down to their office on the pretext of needing some information on a report.

I peered at C. "Are you okay?" I asked.

"What?"

"No, I mean, your eyes look red. Did you just wake up?"

C just looked at me with his mouth open. "Well, hope you feel better," I said, and walked out. I told S what I'd done. He walked into the bathroom and C was leaned in over the sink, staring at his eyes in the mirror.

"They're not fucking red," he muttered.

Your High is My Low

The lows are in the 90's. And it ain't even August yet--it'll get at least five degrees hotter. I always had the feeling that people don't completely believe me when I say it gets up into the 120º's.

Man Camp

My friend brought me to a compound for an organization outside the Department of Defense so that I could meet some folks outside my workplace. A breath of fresh air, a little variety, some new faces. Sounded lovely.

This particular compound is within the IZ, and requires an escort. We waited at the gate until our contact met us and signed us in, following the round of introductions. We passed through a second guard shack, another ID check, then through the door to the interior of the compound.

And stepped directly onto Mantasy Island. A gender-reversed Playboy Mansion.

Muscular men in varying states of disrobe wandered freely about the patio area, playing pool, drinking beer, talking shit. Music played. Steaks grilled.

I stood there and blinked. We were the only women visible, and all those tanned, smiling faces turned our way. Drinks and steaks appeared. We were led to a table, our body armor whisked away. Biceps, chests flexed, backs rippled, laughter. I wore a very cute above-the-knee green skirt and sandals, and every hour I've spent on the elliptical trainer paid off right then and there.

I've been back twice, and bought a cellphone to keep in touch with my secret, new land. There are texts in my phone every time I leave my desk. It's intoxicating.

And I haven't whispered a word about it to any co-workers. It makes my days much brighter to have a secret life of my own, separate from work. I don't drink there--that's just too risky--and I'm not breaking any rules.

Just a bit less sleep and great company. I feel as though I've been handed the keys to the wardrobe with the mantasyland on the other side.

Haunted House

We live in a massive, concrete builing, like a large city block with all kinds of sections, floors, and interconnecting hallways that snake through the dark and spooky innards of the building. There is no way to know what went on here back in Saddam's day. Since we bombed the shit out of it, there are large chunks of concrete hanging from rebar threads all over the outside, rubble everywhere that hasn't been rebuilt.

The hair on the back of my neck always stands up whenever I sprint through the pitch-black cave that leads to the gym--the alternative is to walk all the way around the giant city block in the white-hot sun, and I'd rather take the short sprint.

R is the new guy. He looks about twelve and must endure a great deal of ribbing: Does your mamma know you're here? All in good fun--we really like him. R was on the other side of the building in our sister organization's office spaces, and realized he was late to a meeting with some big Sergeant Major. He asked someone over there how to get through the building back to our side, and they pointed to a door.

R went through the door into total darkness. He turned around to go back, just as the door clicked shut. He stood there, let his eyes adjust, and looked for the light. He made out a door to his left, and walked through it...also into total darkness, and this door also clicked shut.

He stood and listened. There were faint clanking noises and he could hear heavy breathing. He could tell there were people in the dark there with him--not ghosts, but people rustling around, clanking things, breathing. He had that same hair-raising feeling I get in the gym tunnel, unsure if these sounds were the result of his wildly racing imagination, and if not, what the hell were people doing in a pitch-black passageway?

Finally, he raised the courage to speak. Uh, is someone in here? Someone chuckled Yeah, of course, as if stating the obvious.

Just then the power came back on. He was in the gym.

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.