Only 17 Days...

...until I go on leave. Not that I'm counting or anything.

I put a deposit down yesterday to a plastic surgeon...that's right, folks, the AA's days are numbered. After 37 years of not being able to wear swimsuits and dresses I like, I decided that if you can't beat 'em, join 'em. I will NOT go to Vulgar Porn Boobs. Just proportional--and given my build, I think C's will be just right. Having lost some weight (I'm not skinny, but muscular and substantial now), I've had a hard time even finding bras that fit and are comfortable. So here goes.

I'm having it done in Memphis so I can recuperate in my house, rather than the five-star resort in Malaysia where I'd originally planned to do it. My time is worth the price difference, and I do not want to go on a two-week vacation while I'm in Iraq, or when I get home next June. I just want to be at home for as long as possible.

Traveling back to Iraq post-op could be a bit uncomfortable--I have two weeks to recuperate, but the journey into the combat zone is really, really long: four flights, several days, visa bullshit in Kuwait.

Disclaimer: The rant below constitutes my personal opinion, and does not represent that of any organization. It is not intended to influence--nor will it, given that I make no claim to any sort of institutional credibility. It's purely the opinion of a private, pissed off customer. If Travelocity records its customer service phone calls, it only gets worse for them. I got so frustrated I cried on the phone.

And in that vein, I will ***NEVER*** use Travelocity again. I spent about an hour and a half on the phone (to India, mind you, never could get a corporate manager who wasn't reading from a flow-chart, and never once spoke to an American) trying to fix the mess that they made of my return trip. Bottom line: they've outsourced their "customer service" to India where no one is empowered to address their own mistakes (in this case, I was outright lied to about flight availability--I could see it right on their own site while I was on the phone), you cannot resolve complaints by telephone, they don't answer or even acknowledge complaints on their website.

Just ask Dell. You outsource your customer service to Asia, then don't train/empower employees there to address complaints, you will lose market share. Dell never did recover from that.

My solution? If I'm stuck in Chicago for 6 hours I'd rather spend at home? I'll squat my ass right there in the Chili's in O'Hare and tip back about six Presidente margaritas, so I'll be chock full of holiday spirit by the time I board. We're not talking belligerent, sloppy drunk. I won't get kicked off the plane for lifting my shirt and showing off my new boobs. I'm a giggly, happy-buzz type, never an angry drinker. So I'll board very happily buzzed, then happily passed out, all the way to Frankfurt. Layover in Frankfurt? That's got Hefeweisen written all over it.

I'm thinking I should save some surgery pain meds for when I get to Kuwait and get to sleep on a canvas cot for a couple of days awaiting transport to Baghdad. And I could be hungover. Pass the oxycontin!!

Shake Your Fist at the Sky

How is it that I can stick to my 3-meal, 2-snack plan, work out like a madwoman for a week, lose about a half pound, then regain TWO POUNDS on two lousy pieces of greasy pizza in a moment of weakness?? And do you ever get tired of hearing people (men, mostly) talk about how they can eat anything they want and just spend a few extra minutes in the gym to compensate, and never gain a pound?

Or here in Iraq, my favorite:

Kristen: “Hey, Ryan, you look like you’ve lost a couple of pounds.”

Ryan: “Thanks. Since I can’t drink beer over here, it just fell off. I’ve dropped 15 pounds just from not drinking beer!”

Kristen: You go to hell. A pox on your house. "Oh, that’s nice.”

I sat up on the roof of our huge building last weekend, where folks gather to smoke cigars and/or houka pipes and look out over Baghdad. Since it cooled off, it’s been pretty pleasant up there. We discussed how hard it is to eat healthy here, how limited the options are. The leadership of my organization has access to the Embassy, and we lowly contractors do not.

T: “The Embassy’s been coming up with some great salad dressings! And they’ve had grilled fish. Why don’t you just eat grilled fish?” Grilled fish?? Our chowhall boils and fries everything beyond recognition. It distinctly felt like Let them eat cake!!

Kristen: “Thanks, rub it in.”

T: “Oh, well, you can eat some salad and stuff here.”

Kristen: “Well, yeah, that’s what I’ve been doing, but I had to order dressings online. And they usually don’t have healthy entrees–I eat about ten sandwiches a week.”

T: “Well, I eat to live, I don’t live to eat. Anyone who wants to can manage it.”

Kristen: Practices admirable restraint in not dumping her cup of grapefruit juice on his sanctimonious head.

America, I was bumperstickered. Hit with a slogan from a dead standstill on a 7-story roof right in the middle of an active combat zone.

Don’t talk to me about how to eat here when you haven’t been in Iraq long enough to get tired of the crap food and can always skip on down to the Embassy for a grilled chicken wrap at any moment. I’ve lost 15 pounds since I got here in April, and still, a lecture by way of a bumpersticker slogan.

We can all go on and on about how unfair everything is, and how hard it is for us to lose weight. How smug and self-righteous most people who’ve never struggled with weight tend to be. How life continues to throw obstacles in the way. While it’s gratifying to gripe about it and a constant test of our patience to deal with the Sanctimoniously Skinny, it doesn’t make any of us any thinner.

So I laughed with a girlfriend about the bumpersticker mini-lecture and promptly resumed my small-portion, heavy-exercising ways. I’m on a bit of a plateau right now, but I won’t give up like I have in the past when dealing with plateaus. I’m still retraining my brain, but discipline is like a muscle–the more you use/train it, the stronger it becomes. Every time I pass up the care package overflowing with crap in the hallway, the easier it is the next time. And the next.

Burning Down the House

Weellll, this was just one hell of a day.

We had a meeting with some Special Forces guys this morning. Imagine my grin when I walked in to find that a couple of them were HHHHOOOOOTTTT!!! Movie star hot. Mantasy hot. Perks my Groundhog Day existence right up when this type thing happens.

I didn't have much to say during the meeting and the Hottest of the Hotties talked the whole time, so I got to just sit and watch him. They came into my office to chat a bit before heading out to another meeting, and some kind soul had placed my mail on my chair--a large package of Dr. McDougall's soups...yummy and better for you than chow hall crap. We talked as I removed the packing slip, put it on my desk, and began unpacking the little cardboard bowls into my file locker/pantry.

I turned from the cabinet to find my desktop on fire. And no, the beautiful men weren't sitting on my desk in their skivvies. The small stack of papers on the desk was On Fire.

I yanked the papers onto the tile floor and stood there sheepishly as it burned out. While my attention was focused on trying to look suave while rattling off some witty repartee', I had tossed the packing slip onto the girly little scented candle du jour I always have burning on my desk to chase off the smell of Enclosed Facility with Little Air Circulation.

No getting those cool points back. That's right up there with laying my Harley down at a gas station after forgetting to put the kickstand down.

Something Old, Something New

I'm still cranking it at the gym--intense 15-minute interval session on the elliptical, then about 45 minutes of heavy weights comprised of two sets of total muscle fatigue, then back on the elliptical for 30 minutes of endurance work. I do this at least 5 times a week, and the total calorie burn is about 650-700 calories. I don't think you should quit sweating when it's time for weights...in fact, I sweat more lifting than during the intervals. I'm not in there to waste time.

I just added the weights about five weeks ago, and the transformation is amazing--I see it most in my shoulders, where I'm already seeing MAD definition. It's a beautiful thing. I'm still losing about a pound a week without feeling terribly deprived.

Here are some of the items on my workout playlist, guaranTEED to get your blood pumpin' and your booty shakin':

Beck: Elevator Music, Cellphone's Dead, Strange Apparition, Earthquake Weather, Beercan

The Clash: This is Radio Clash, Untitled (Stand by Me)

The Cult: FireWoman, Wildflower

David Byrne: Make-Believe Mambo

Treme' Brass Band: Gimme My Money Back

Rebirth Brass Band: Do Wacha Wanna, Grazin' in the Grass

Lucinda Williams: Bleedin' Fingers

David Holmes: $160 Million Chinese Man

Dr. John: Blues in the Night, R U 4 Real, Sweet Home New Orleans, Good Night Irene (Trippin' Live)

James Brown: Sex Machine 1 & 2 from Dead on the Heavy Funk 1975, Funky President, Gimme Some More

Led Zeppelin: I Got A Woman, Fool in the Rain

It's a start, about 10% of what I've got loaded. I have a couple of hours of this stuff on the nano so I don't get bored, but these are some of the songs that make me forget that working out is supposed to be work.

Speaking of work--and none of this is classified--I finally finished a Counterintelligence Analytical Summary on some aspects of foreign influence here in Iraq that was due today. I spent three days researching it, all day every day, then banged out the first draft yesterday. Tweaked it this morning and sent it up...and was met with WOW, knocked it out of the park. It was good. It's always a bit daunting to present an analytical paper--so much is based on opinion. But if you've researched it and explain what led you to draw conclusions, it's what decision-makers WANT. They don't want journalism, they want us to use our brains, contribute to the dialogue. Good commanders do not want you to tell them what you think they want to hear.

Sometimes this job is incredible, and working at this level can be really exciting. I'm actually being moved out of my job as an operational manager to an analysis-pure position, acting as our organization's point person on Jaysh al-Mahdi, the biggest militia operating here. It's infinitely more interesting than management.

And I took the rest of the day off. I like writing point papers, but staring at a computer screen for three 14-hour days is exhausting.

Seasonal Sun Outages???

As I try to do every night, I'm watching Jon Stewart. Tonight's poker night with the Massachusetts National Guard crew that handles our security. I have a 12" screen, little bitty thing I watch maybe half an hour a day, Jon Stewart or one episode of The Shield.

Jon's interviewing--very cordially, I might add--Lynne Cheney, the Second (?) Lady. We get Armed Forces Network out of Germany and Italy. Check out this somewhat puzzling screen shot:

The full text: "Seasonal sun outages may interrupt TV and internet service until October 14."

What? The sun's going out? Is it taking a little break? Is it the holiday season for life-giving, gaseous orbs?

Ponder this while I go "play cahhds" with the Massachusetts muldoons.

I was thrilled to see that Belle de Jour found my last entry, and asked if she might link my blog. I'm honored, and quickly consented (although her site has no email link), and then Googled her to see what popped up, what's being said.

There is only a rare mention of her material for its quality, only the more sordid aspects of the content. Mostly, the commentary is pure garbage, tabloidesque speculation on her identity, musings as to whether or not she even exists and was truly a callgirl, and pc-fueled speculations that the British TV series based on her blog and novels "glorify prostitution."

Baah! What crap! It's perfectly acceptable to glorify murder, violence of all stripes, and adultery in many of the movies and games for the kiddies to play, but horror of horrors, how DARE you portray prostitution as anything more than the default career for beaten-down crack whores. It's somehow outside the realm of plausibility that a high-end callgirl could love Jimmy Choos, have an advanced education, and still like men at the end of the day.

And as for her identity, if she was ever a callgirl? I couldn't care less. It's great writing, I enjoy reading it. What's the harm, and why spend so much time spinning up the sewing circle on the topic?

Which leads me to another point--it pisses me off when prostitution and pornography are described as "objectifying" and/or "victimizing" women. "Victim" suggests the women involved lack the maturity, wits, or intellectual capacity to know exactly what they're doing, and the risks involved.

I did a series of sculptures of prostitutes (back in The Day when I was a sculptor in New Orleans) called Hey Father Flannigan, featuring some sassy-ass mommas flashing their boobs at all the proper folk on the street. It didn't scare up the kind of controversy that Beauty Pageant did, and in a city like New Orleans, no one batted an eye.

Beauty Pageant, by the way, was my art school final show in Athens, Georgia. It was born one night in The Globe, a sweet little bar in Athens, when this bitch in a wheelchair swiped the skin off my achilles, didn't apologize or even look at me as I stood there in excruciating pain, and reacted with pure shock when I lit her ass on fire (verbally, of course). She screamed FUCK YOU and charged off through the crowd, injuring at least two others. The world, it seemed, clearly owed her something.

I was later informed that she was Miss Georgia Wheelchair.

I laughed my ass off, "Miss what? No way that exists."

But oh yes, it does. And as I stood there with my beer, I hooted and hollered, "What the hell is next, Miss Georgia Glass Eye? Miss Georgia Pegleg?? Miss Georgia Prosthetic Arm???"

And then it hit me. Series. Wall-hung sculptures. Miss Georgia Fill-in-the-Blank.

When I finished, they were all over one wall of the art school's gallery. Most people laughed...Miss Georgia Pegleg's talent portion was in full swing as she flung Miss Georgia Prosthetic Army around in a spirited foxtrot. They were doll-sized, with different animal features (rabbits and goats, mostly), all having a high old time.

A letter to the editor hit the stands the next day, slamming me for making fun of handicapped people. I responded, "You completely missed the point. I'm making fun of pageants, not handicaps. Had you actually seen the show and not just the review, you likely would have understood."

*Sigh* Sometimes I really miss that life. But then I remember the months when I had to call the landlord and tell the nice man that I would, once again, be late with the rent. Which was only $400 a month, so you can imagine what my finances looked like. I went into default on my student loans and had to scrounge through the sofa cushions to find enough change to get onto the streetcar when my truck broke down to get to my job waiting tables at one of Emeril's restaurants near downtown. The starter went out on the truck, and I ended up removing the old one myself, putting it into a backpack, riding to AutoZone for a new one, and putting it in myself. My credit was in the toilet and even when I showed and sold work, I was so far behind on all my bills, I could never buy new clothes or go out to a nice restaurant for dinner.

That shit, I don't miss.

It wasn't all bad. There was a little dive on Magazine called St. Joe's Bar and I don't know if it survived Katrina. That section of town didn't flood, but so many businesses became casualties, even if they didn't get water. It was our destination after spending 16 hour days on our feet at Delmonico. It was dark and the interior was voodoo red, but the best part was the courtyard out back. Lined with banana trees, beautiful lanterns and the sounds of frogs and crickets made this place a very special hangout. Pair all that with 15 cent oysters, the place was heaven.

But anyway, I digress. Now that all feels like someone else's life, and if someone had told me then that I'd go to law school with the intent of becoming a federal prosecutor, I would have laughed. But then I would have taken another slug of the Abita Purple Haze and thought about it. Federal prosecutor with the Department of Justice? Kick ass!!!

Great Minds Think Alike

It's amazing, how the universe at large delivers the occasional message. This one reads loud and clear: everyone has the one little thing they think makes them freakish, and many women my age have it much worse than I do in the Marriage Pressure department. From the lovely Belle de Jour, the wicked British former-callgirl and current modern lit sensation:

My mother's a savvy woman, she gave up long ago straight-out asking when I was going to settle down and produce a family like L***** (perfection itself expressed miraculously in the form of my little sister). No, she's moved on to working that rich seam all mothers in our family since time immemorial have mined so well, the passive-aggressive guilt.

And in such matters, she is but the padawan learner to my grandmother's Supreme Master Yoda.

So it's late, and me, my mother and grandmother are sitting in the kitchen, eating chocolates - you know how it is. They manouevred themselves into the seats closest to the door, which in retrospect was my first mistake.

'It makes you think about things, doesn't it, this time of year,' Granny says, exmaining her stockpile of sweets. She's bagsied all the strawberry cremes since 1972. It's family law.

'Mmm. Yes, it certainly does.' My mother skips over the last dark chocolate caramel, favourite of both of us - she NEVER does that - and hands the chocs on to me. I pluck the caramel from the box triumphantly. Mistake number two.

'I always reassess at this time of year.'

Mum nods with considered thoughtfulness. 'You can't help but do.'

'I look back over my life an wonder about this or that little thing in the last year that made me angry or fretful.'

'Mmm.' (At this point, it starts to dawn on me that their purring exchange is not necessarily for the benefit of each other.)'But it's all put in perspective - you can see now the things that really matter.'

'Family,' my mother says in agreement - and the caramel sticks in my throat halfway down - she never says anything like that. My mother is not a Stepford Wife. She rode motorbikes and smoked hash in Morocco and flashed her tits at a university don. Her youthful misbehaviour drove her family to prayer and countless men to despair. She is a good person, but was most emphatically never a Good Girl.

My eyes dart round, panicked, wondering where the pod people got in.

'Yes, I could worry about what I might or might not have achieved in life. But when I look at my children -' glowing smile for Mum - 'and grandchildren, and now, great-grandchild, I know, that is really what this is all about.'

Now, for those familiar with my books, this would ordinarily be the point at which my father comes in and rescues me from this. But, my parents are now divorced. There will be no saviour. I'm on my own here.

'I think my mobile's going,' I say, pushing up from the chair.

'Oh, honey, it's the holidays,' my mother says, all eggy puddings and sweet wine. 'Whomever it is will understand if they have to ring you back. Here, have another caramel.'

I don't remember much more of our conversation that night, but recall that mentions of JDate were made. Also some nice fellow with a son my mother saw in town recently. Also the cost of freezing eggs. I think someone - probably me - uttered the words bride price. I don't know for certain.

All I know is, next time, I'm staying at a hotel.

posted by belle @ 12:00 PM

I have to give my lovely family credit where it's due--they've never cornered me, pressured me, or insinuated I wasn't living up to anyone's expectations. Maybe it's because I'm the only one who made it out of my immediate family alive and fully functional, and that's better than what was likely expected, especially given the direction it looked like I would take early on. My mother, rest her soul, expressed pride to other family members that I had taken control of my life and found a career I enjoyed and in which I excelled. I never heard her or anyone else, even my once-ultraconservative father, express anything that remotely resembled disappointment. I honestly don't even recall being asked if there was anyone "special."

It's not family that's the issue. It's all the rest of the nosy world. And in all honesty, it's a dynamic that's much more prevalent in the Army than in the rest of the world. The Army pays you more if you're married and/or have children and put you in barracks like a college kid if you're not, age immaterial, so it's easy to understand how that message would get translated to the bias that drove me nuts and ultimately drove me to civilian life.

In the end, I'm glad I was so uncomfortable in the Army. I'd no doubt be here in Baghdad as a Captain on a 15-month rotation with the Infantry, feeling miserable, angry, and out of place.

I'm interested to see how (and if) that dynamic plays out once I'm completely divorced of the military.

I'll keep you posted.

All this having been said, have I mentioned that I would agree to an arranged marriage with Jon Stewart without ever having met him, and would even agree to pay him a sizable man-dowry?

October already, which means a mere six weeks until I get to go home. I’m thinking seriously of taking three weeks instead of two…I’m pretty burned out right now, and my investment accounts (where I’m dumping all my savings) are actually making a fair amount of money.

I broke it off with Jay, and I definitely could have handled it better. I did like him—he’s a very sweet, smart man, nothing at all wrong with him. But it just wasn’t there. And the way he was talking all about a big future together, the more I felt that if I let things progress, I’d just end up making it worse. On the other hand, I kept thinking that something would click and I’d suddenly be “on board” the way he was…I know myself better than that. I know within the first three minutes of talking to someone if it’s “there,” so I don’t know why I thought it would appear magically.

I wanted it to. I really did. He had all the makings of a great partner and the help with finances and, well, LIFE, was extremely appealing. But I can’t fake it. Some women can, many marry just because it’s what you’re “supposed” to do, and if you reach a certain age (which I’m now way past) without having married, there’s “something wrong with you.” Yeah, I guess there is something wrong with me—I won’t settle for halfway, I can cope on my own, and I’m not so worried about what other people think that I’ll take the easy way out and marry someone whose company I only kind of enjoy.

Don’t beat yourself up too much over your life’s position, or congratulate yourself, either. Most choices are about 85% chance anyway. I can’t remember who said that, but it rings true.

Maybe when I finish law school, I should gravitate to a mid-sized city either in the Northeast or Pacific Northwest, where it wouldn’t be considered so freakish. Or I’ll just marry some guy who looks good on paper, but bores me to tears.

Naah, I’ll stay on my current course. I don't want anything that I have to fake.

A Fool and his Money...

...soon part. I came across this guy on Diet Blog, which I like to read for motivation and the discussion boards. I also read Advice Goddess for the same reason--hilarious!

Kevin Trudeau is a snake-oil salesman who has gotten very rich selling "natural cures" for everything from obesity to average-memory to cancer. He's an idiot. Seriously. One of his natural cures for obesity: walking around barefoot and staring at the sun eliminates the need for food. The sun doesn't cause cancer, but sunscreen does.

He's a convicted felon (credit card fraud) who was kicked off of the infomercial circuit for quackery. He holds no advanced degrees, yet advocates shooting up with Human Growth Hormone. Together with a 500-calorie-a-day diet, you can CURE OBESITY.

Sounds like the Keith Richards diet.

That's about what you'd look like if you followed his advice, only too-cool Keith Richards got there with the benefit of 35 years of hard partying as a rock star. You can get there by starving yourself and staring at the sun. Barefoot, of course, and no sunscreen.

Here's the Washington Post's take.

So on the discussion board, this illiterate wench wrote:

joanSeptember 20, 2007 5:51 AM

IT IS A CURE and IT DOES WORK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!DON'T LISTEN TO THESE FALSE ACCUSATIONS -- ANYONE WHO HAS OTHER FAD DIETS DOESN'T LIKE THIS ONE BECAUSE IT ISN'T A FAD AND YOUR STORED FAT DOES COME OFF QUICKLY AND EVENLY -- YOU LOSE WEIGHT AND INCHES!
I HAVE LOST 28 LBS IN 40 DAYS I AM KEEPING THE WEIGHT OFF -- AND IT IS EASY. I HAVE BEEN ON SOOOOO MANY DIETS -- THE STUPID STARS, THE MIAMI, ETC, AND DIDN'T LOSE 1 LB BUT GAINED!
THROUGH MENOPAUSE I GAINED OVER 50 LBS -- AND COULDN'T DO ANYTHING TO LOSE IT. MY BACK HURT, MY JOINTS HURT, I HATED IT! THIS WAS MY LAST TRY. SURE I WAS SCPETICAL. WE READ UP ABOUT IT AND MADE A DECISION TO TRY IT, ONE PERSON AT A TIME. AFTER, ONLY 2-3 DAYS INTO THE PLAN I WAS SHEADING THE WEIGHT 1 LB A DAY JUST AS KEVIN SAID. I AM EATING LESS BECAUSE IT DOES WHAT KEVIN SAID IT WOULD DO! IT RESETS YOUR BAD BODY AND BRAIN HABITS.
THE WEIGHT LOSS CURE, DID IT FOR US, MY BROTHER AND MY SISTER-IN-LAW -- WE HAVE ALL TOGETHER LOST 95 LBS, AND COUNTING. WE FEEL GREAT!!!
IT WORKS PEOPLE...KEVIN IS TELLING THE TRUTH!!!LOSE THE WEIGHT, YOUR LIFE WILL CHANGE, YOU WILL GET A NEW LEASE ON LIFE...IF WE CAN DO IT, YOU CAN TOO!!!
JOAN ;-)

My response:

Kristen in IraqSeptember 23, 2007 5:57 AM

Anyone who spends 30 bucks on a book that tells you that walking around barefoot and staring at the sun eliminates the need for food, deserves to lose the money.

Seriously. Read this: http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2005/10/22/AR2005102201272.html
I suspect that Joan works for this nincompoop and spends her days Googling his name so she can SHOUT IT FROM THE MOUNTAINTOPS and earn her $9/hour. She's probably the same rube who defends this assclown on Wikipedia.

Proof positive that a fool and his money soon part...lucky it's only 30 bucks and not a retirement fund.

I'd be willing to bet she's an employee. The post reads like a trumped-up testimonial. As for this punk-ass Kevin Trudeau, I hope he ends up in ass-pounding prison someday, just for being such a turd and getting rich that way.

Blogger is screwing up my posts, eliminating the line spaces. So if this one comes out with extra spaces (or none at all), bear with me until they just PUBLISH WHAT I TYPE without altering it.

Your Temper Has Brought Great Dishonor on my Happy Mooshoo Palace

I tried to watch Balls of Fury just now...it was just too silly for my tastes. But there was the great line about the Mooshoo Palace. It's a keeper.

One scene, though, brought back a flood of memories--when the ping pong master headlines at a nightclub, and the audience sits out there in the audience, all stuffing their faces and not paying any attention to the rube on stage.

The Ontario Playhouse is a little comedy club in the adorable upstate New York town of Sackets Harbor, where I lived for the short timeframe when I wasn't deployed with the 10th Mountain Division. Josee is a 5-foot-tall firecracker, just a wonderful woman, a Captain in the Engineer branch, and was my closest friend in New York. We worked together when I was the Intelligence Officer (BN S-2 for you military types) for her Combat Engineer battalion. We're still in touch and she's just one of those people everyone meets through the course of life--a keeper. Josee and I loved to go to this little comedy club, even if the acts were bad--they'd bring you drinks, and it didn't matter that the waitress tended to be snotty and one time refused me service. She thought my Louisiana driver's license was fake. I know it was dark in there and I look young for my age, but I was 34 at the time, and I don't think any reasonable person would seriously think I'm under 21.

Our favorite evening included dinner at Tin Pan Galley, an amazing little restaurant on the same adorable little Main Street, a show at the Playhouse, then more drinks at the Sackets Harbor Brewing Company, where my next-door neighbor was the General Manager and would get off work at about the time we'd leave the club. It was wonderful--I loved upstate New York. It was quaint, every town filled with historic homes and little mom and pop businesses, and then there was the natural beauty of Lake Ontario and the Adirondacks only an hour by Harley to the east. I still miss it, but the winters were utterly brutal--30-below and snow measured in feet.

But there was a true comraderie under all that bitter cold and lake-effect snow. We'd stomp the snow off our boots in the brewpub and belly up to the bar, which used to be a train depot back in the 19th century. I've always loved historic districts, homes, and businesses, and since Sherman didn't burn New York, it's everywhere up there.

Back to the night in question. Anyone who's ever been to a comedy club can attest to the fact that shows tend to be rated R. That's just the way it is. Most of the comics came up there from New York City and offered no exception to this rule. One night, Josee and I were seated, ordered drinks, and waited for the show to start. They filled the seats from front to back, so you had to get there a little early if you wanted a decent seat.

The place was suddenly very crowded. Sackets is a small town outside Watertown, and large crowds are not the norm. Josee and I craned our necks to see what the commotion was all about. It appeared a full nursing home had taken up residence in the back of the club. I'm not kidding. Mind you, the shows don't generally start until about 10pm and last until about 1am--they don't have all the puritanical alcohol laws that Mississippi has, and bars can actually stay open late. Hence our brewpub follow-on plans.

About a hundred elderly men and women were led into the club, complete with walkers and ventillators, nurses and chaperones. Since we were seated against the wall, we could see both the stage and the folks seated behind us. It did seem a bit odd, given the hour and the general rowdiness of this place. We ordered another round and settled in.

The club owner took the stage. Steve was one of these small-town bar owners who clearly enjoys his big-fish-little-pond status, and loved to man the stage for a little pre-show banter. He always said the same thing, some inane little monologue about turning your cellphone onto vibrate and how you could give yourself a little thrill. There was some lame joke about his kid which should be burned in my brain, given the number of times I heard it. It was so lame, I can't even recall it from rote.

The comic was a black guy who started out innocently enough, a couple of jokes about the weather in Sackets Harbor and how it was like the four horses of the apocalypse. Everyone had to comment on it--when you drive in through CANYONS of snow on the interstate, it's a bit striking for the visitor.

The nursing home folks, they laughed a bit. We noted that they were not drinking.

Then he got down to business. He told a dirty joke. The front half of the room laughed, the back half did not. I nudged Josee and pointed to the back of the room, where they all sat stiffly, clearly not amused. We quickly discerned that it was much more fun to watch the room dynamics in conjunction with the comic.

More dirty jokes. The separation between the front and back of the room, which Josee and I straddled, began to feel like the Maginot Line. A DMZ. One guy behind us sat with his arms crossed over his chest, working a toothpick around in his mouth in silent fury behind thick glasses.

And the comic? The more pissed they got, the dirtier the jokes. He crossed over into NC-17 and toyed with the idea of softporn. Finally, the nurses and chaperones reached their smut limit and began shuttling them out. Chairs clattered to the floor as they exited as loudly as they could.

Josee and I watched them leave. I was sorry for them in a way--this was clearly not what they'd signed up for--and I had to wonder what their administration wonks must have been thinking. Turned out, it was a bus tour, a "surprise" tour, where the patrons didn't know where they were going until they arrived. A 10pm show at a comedy club in bucolic Sackets Harbor, NY, likely sounded like a fine idea on paper, clearly planned by someone inexperienced in the general conduct of the stand-up comedy routine. Hell, even if you just watched the comedy shows on HBO or Comedy Central, you'd have to know there was risk involved.

We laughed about it over 1812 Ale at the brewpub later. I wondered if some well-meaning planner lost his/her job over it. The older businessman from Montreal I've posted about before (the predatory one with the sailboat) was lit when we got there and bought us all drinks.

A month later, I'd be in Afghanistan. Then I'd be sent to Iraq for a year after only a couple of months at home. It was hard to leave the Army after that nightmare, but it was even harder to leave northern NY--I had an adorable house and good friends, but no way to make a good living without the Army.

Maybe I'll get back up that way again, or maybe I'll decide I missed Oxford all these years and stay there. If I've learned anything in the last twenty years, it's that my life will always be filled with drastic career and geography shifts, and it's fruitless to surmise where I'll be in five years.

Which is how I like it.

I've been a bit remiss in detailing any of my dealings with the men over here. I still go to Mantasy Island every couple of weeks, and there were three interested parties there.

Kevin. Too young. Not much to talk about. Hung out with him once, then let it fade out.

Juan. Nothing wrong with him...except that I found out after I'd been over to see him a couple of times that he's MARRIED. No ring and they have "an agreement." Yeah, I do too, with myself: No Married Men. Ever. It can only end badly and with unwelcome (though not unsolicited) drama. The take-away: even if they don't wear a ring, never mention a wife, and come on strong, a girl's gotta ask.

Jay. Herein lies the one with potential. He's a paramedic on a VIP's security team, lives in Atlanta, divorced with three kids, 42 years old. He's already making noises about coming to Oxford to see me in December. No games, no ambiguity. It's refreshing, but also a bit overwhelming...he was talking this way on our first date. He's a really big guy, bald, and a total teddy bear. As I tend to do with all relationships, I'm taking it one day at a time, not putting too much pressure on the whole thing. He's also half-black, which is new for me and took a little getting used to. I was a bit apprehensive about telling my family, because I just never know how anyone will react--no relatives have brought home black boyfriends, at least not to my knowledge. As I expected/hoped, no one seems to take any umbrage with it at all. We're not all dumb rednecks in Mississippi, despite all evidence in the media to the contrary.

But then, since Dad and I don't talk much (he's in the VA Hospital with alcohol-induced dementia and phone conversations are pretty tense), I'll have to tell him about it before Jay gets into town. Dad's always been pretty racist, but in a stunning role-reversal, I completely punk him out these days. He may not say a word. I don't doubt he'll be polite to Jay, now that he's not drinking (by force). Five years ago, if I'd brought a black boyfriend home?? He likely would have straight lllloooooossst it. He seems to think I'm gay, despite my telling him that I would not hide it if I were, due to my not having married at the ripe old age of 37. So maybe ANY boyfriend is a relief...but in the world of a hell-bent, Limbaugh-loving conservative, which is worse? Your daughter with a black guy or your daughter with another chick?

I'd say ask Dick Cheney, but he never talks about it and would likely throw some "executive privilege" statute at you. From his rolling milkmaid stool inside the Legislative Branch, doncha know.

Great googley-moogley. Is it September already? And I'm 37 years old?

I'm not alarmed. September means it will start to cool off in about six weeks (I wish I were exaggerating), and I take leave in eleven weeks, three whole weeks in Oxford with the family, pets, and that sweet house. And turning 37...no sweat. Everything seems to get easier with each passing year. Every crisis (and they're fewer and farther between) looks remarkably similar to one I've already handled.

I just read a wonderful article about a German guy who sold a bunch of bottles of wine allegedly owned by Thomas Jefferson. The most expensive bottle of wine ever sold at auction was counterfeit. This story is full of international intrigue, ex-spies, forensic analysis on the wine and the bottles...it's got it all. Highly recommended, even if you don't like wine.

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.