The Sandbox

The Absent Blogger

2011-02-11T15:17:00.000-06:00

Thing is, I wasn't even thinking about this blog until a truly bizarre comment from someone I've never met (and likely never will) landed in my inbox for moderation:

Hey, you, nutjob. I care not if you're the gorgeous redheaded, kick-ass, super-dooper-girly in Wal-Mart who buys a slushy for your imaginary friend enjoying the feel of cotton. You go, girl!! Some people ain't wrong in the head. They're ZooIllogical, baby! And that's awe.some.cubed I love you! Let's enjoy the Extra-Corpus-Collosus-Outrageous-Splendour of God's Kingdom together. See you soon. God bless.

Kold_Kadavr_Flatliner is some dude in Topeka, Kansas, and I have no idea how he found my blog, or WTF buying a slushee in Wal-Mart means, but maybe the imaginary friend is God, who likely doesn't indulge in slushees.

Thing about slushees, every so often on a hot day, you may crave the hell out of one. Then you start in on it, and by the time you're about halfway done, you're grossed out to the point of wanting a shower. Kinda like reality TV, Entertainment Tonight, and anything even peripherally involving a princess.

At any rate, I'm glad Mr. Kadavr sent in the comment. Made me remember that I used to really enjoy blogging. Also, that I do not love Blogger, as they don't allow much customization at all. See how narrow the posting window is, and how one post will scroll down for miles? Yep, you cannot adjust the width without picking one of their bloodless new templates. And to add insult to injury, the "below the jump" feature doesn't work worth a damn.

In other news, I decided to stay in Oxford after accepting an attorney position with Tollison Law Firm. I'm still a low-rent clerk until bar results come out in September, but I have my own office and I've taken ownership of a criminal defense case. I can't try it, of course, but at this point the only thing I'm not doing for it is signing my name to the numerous pre-trial motions.

I've learned more while investigating this case than a whole semester at law school.

Lesson 1: Everyone lies, including (and especially) your client.

Lesson 2: When interviewing any witness you may call for your side, preface the conversation with the words, "If you have unfavorable information, that helps us even more than favorable, because if we don't know about the bad stuff, we won't be prepared when the prosecution brings it out. You're actually helping [client X] more by giving us the bad information." Until you speak those words, friends and relatives of your client won't tell you the truth. Period. And then you could find yourself at trial with some damning evidence staring you right in the face that you would have known about, had folks told you the truth.

But that's not going to happen in this case. I went back and reinterviewed a couple of witnesses after learning that lesson. It ain't like terrorist interrogations, these people actually want to help you prepare for trial. You just have to tell them how by giving them permission to tell you the truth without betraying their friend/relative.

My job at Tollison will involve general practice--wills/estates, property, torts, etc.--and criminal defense work. I had an excellent shot at an ADA position with the District Attorney's office in New Orleans, but it would have involved significant risk on my part, including many months without work and complete devastation of all my savings. I still plan to take the Louisiana bar next February, and I'm not completely closing the door on that possibility after practicing here for several years.

Several family members have expressed opposition to my soon-to-be practice defending the accused, although the two uncles to whom I'm closest, including a former police chief, are all for it. They get it.

The job is to ensure the client gets a fair shake and that any trial issues are preserved for appeal. In Mississippi, those two outcomes are FAR from foregone conclusions. You have to put up a helluva fight to avoid a Saddam-style conviction based on virtually nothing and decided by juries who will believe anything the prosecution tells them as a default position, especially if the defendant is black. I mean, folks fell for Steven Hayne and Michael West's bullshit for decades. People rot in Parchman based on insanity like a blue light exposing bite marks that don't exist and insect bites that pass for toothmarks. Even the retired police chief gets upset at the mention of Hayne or West. True believers in the Constitution and Bill of Rights understand that unfair criminal trials violate the very foundation on which this country was founded. Have a problem with that? Please re-read the Sixth Amendment and the SCOTUS cases interpreting it.

And if ya don't get it, I'll not waste my time explaining it. And I bid you good day, accompanied by a dismissive little wave. Since when have I made career decisions based on

Also on the agenda--a real garden, finally. This is the first summer since...um, about 1995...that I'll remain in one place long enough to plant, care for, and harvest the fruits of a real garden. I don't count Arizona, you can't have a decent garden there. I already started my tomatoes and strawberries indoors.

Next on the agenda, which I hope to start this weekend with a much-anticipated warm spell: raised beds. Given that I no longer have a roommie and don't start making real money until the fall, I can't pay someone to build these beds. Gotta build them myself. It's not the building that intimidates me, it's filling them with good dirt. I don't have a truck or a muscle-man, and will need to shop around for something much cheaper than those big bags of Miracle Gro garden soil. I'm hoping to find some cut-rate compost and mulch.

Stay tuned. I'm a true gardening novice, even after compulsive research and many hours listening to the Gestalt Gardener on Mississippi Public Broadcasting. How hard can it be? Stick stuff in the ground green side up, right?

Ask me how simple it is in August, when it's too hot to work outdoors from 8am to 9pm and I'm fighting off rabbits, deer, and insect plagues.

2010-04-30T15:52:00.001-05:00

If I'm ever pathetic enough to revenge-blog on Huffington Post about how I fell for a 50-year-old guy whose divorce was "pending," spent almost $30K on fertilization treatments, then got pregnant and dumped, put me out of our collective misery. That's an order.

I get it. I understand how it could happen to the best of us. She loved the guy, desperately wanted a child, and it seemed like the perfect situation. Except that he was STILL MARRIED. And yep, he sounds like a Grade A, card-carrying douche. So now she's very publicly suing him, rightfully so if it's for child support. But I couldn't help but notice he talked her out of working, and my empathy just dried right up.

Why anyone would give up their livelihood before their second (wedding) anniversary with someone promising lifelong support (while "divorce-pending"), is beyond my ability to comprehend. And she's suing him for that, too, because now she can't support herself? I would sooner pull my eyes out and soak them in lye than entrust my survival to someone who's married to someone else, for God's sake. And if I ever did end up there (following a prolonged kidnapping, no doubt), you can believe no one would know about it, because I'd keep that shit as far under wraps as I could get it. Have you no pride???

But that's not the most pathetic part. This is. And this. On Huffington Post? You know, if I had a blog on HuffPo, I doubt very seriously I'd fill it with humiliating revenge-posts that go on and ON about this dickhead. I'm embarrassed for her.

This woman's a life coach? Holy crap, I suddenly feel so...healthy. Well, if that's how she made her living before all this dirty-laundry blogging, no wonder she can't find work. Who the hell takes life advice from someone whose rage swallowed her pride?

Baby-hysteria turns smart women my age into pathetic, hystrionic banshees. I feel blessed--my clock must be digital, cause I don't hear a damn thing out of it. I hardly ever think about babies, despite the near-constant bombardment of messages from the media that there's something "wrong" with me for not having them at 39. Why sit around and think about whether I'd like to have a baby, when I'm content with the way things have worked out for me right here and now, thank you very much?

This is one gift that keeps giving since I left the Army--all the little, "You're single?!?" spoonsful of shit, dealt out by military wives who hated me on sight because I worked and deployed with their sorry-ass husbands, they're gone. I can't even remember the last time I remembered what I'm "supposed" to be doing. This feels like what I'm supposed to be doing.

I just don't have any of that pressure here, no one reacts like I've just offered them a crack pipe when I tell them I'm not married, they don't immediately wonder if I'm gay. "But why?" one guy asked me a couple of years ago, "Why aren't you married?"

Why? Well, I haven't exactly made marriage a priority. I know plenty of women who just don't do well on their own, without a boyfriend/husband/married guy they're doing/whatever. I'm just not one of them. Never have been.

Then there were all the years I struggled with depression, during which I was surely no picnic to hang around. And then, the ten years with the Department of Defense, during which I moved, deployed, or went off to training a couple of times a year, all the while surrounded by men with whom I had little in common, as many of them didn't think I belonged there. Not a majority, but you knew that guy when you saw him, and there were several in any crowd.

Don't get me wrong. I love men. I would actually very much prefer to have one around. But I live in a college town, there are no available men here. Period. What in the hell would I want with a college boy, and vice-versa?

One thing about getting older, though, is that I just care less and less what people think. I seriously doubt anyone who knows me sees me as a spinster or a cougar or any of the other derogatory terms that keep popping up, referring to women over 35. And I even more seriously doubt anyone I know would describe me as lonely or unhappy. Quite the opposite, in fact.

What is that so hard for some people to understand?

One More Week of Sleep-Deprived, Zombie Law School Finals Hell

2010-04-26T00:16:00.004-05:00

Well, it seems Blogger won't let me use the "below the fold" feature unless I ditch my template. Which I like too much. I tried adding the little piece of code into the template html, but I'm sure the instructions only contemplate a different kind of template, the sort they want me to adopt.

If they force you to give up your pretty green template, the terrorists have truly won.

Any suggestions?

If you're not a law geek, stop reading here.

I'm writing a 30-page paper on prosecutions after Melendez-Diaz v. Massachusetts, which put an end to prosecutors' introducing certificates of analysis at criminal drug trials without satisfying the accused's right to confront witnesses against him. Doesn't sound like a big deal, but it really is. Even though only around 5% of drug cases go to trial, states report huge spikes in demands for analysts at trial, posing a significant strain on state resources already reeling from record budget shortfalls. Producing an analyst at every drug trial, especially when the defense so often opts not to call them to the stand, constitutes unconscionable waste.

On the other hand, every week seems to produce another crime lab scandal, another forensic method proved unreliable, another case of crooked crime lab employees, bad-faith prosecutors, and factually innocent people ending up with life sentences. The best means for ensuring reliability of these all-important certificates is to subject the analysts to cross-examination, keep them on track and within industry guidelines.

And it's VERY important. These certificates identify the substance the cops pulled out of your pants pocket, and the weight of the sample. The substance and weight (among other factors) determine the range of sentence you may be facing. A one-gram inaccuracy could get you 10-to-life for powdered cocaine under the federal guidelines, as opposed to 5-40 years. How do you reckon you'd take it if some bozo just wrote up a certificate after eyeballing your baggie without subjecting yo' shit to a single test? It's called "dry-labbing," and it's part of the reason we sorely needed Melendez-Diaz.

It's a tough balance to strike, and my paper tries to find ways to balance defendants' constitutional rights with the needs for states to utilize their scant resources efficiently.

Just incidentally? The Mississippi Supreme Court mandated confrontation for certificates of drug analysis way back in 1994, long before Crawford or Melendez-Diaz. Every so often, my little backwards state gets things right...at least, in the courtroom.

I will be highly amused if this pops up in Google searches next to some of the really excellent academic work out there that has saved me many hours of research. Except that I only found these open-source pages after conducting all the analysis myself, on Lexis, painstakingly Shepardizing each case to get to the bottom of the Abiding Questions After Briscoe:

Who Must Testify? Probably someone who directly participated in the analysis, drew their own conclusions from tests that may have been performed by someone else.

Chain of Custody? Probably not.

Harmless error when forensic analyst doesn't testify? Great question, wish the Supreme Court would take it up.

What about notice-and-demand statutes? That's a much longer answer, but it seems that Briscoe tells us these things have to happen: Defendant must receive notice of prosecution's intent to use the certificate, a copy of it, a window in which he/she must object, and his failure to object constitutes waiver of his right to have that analyst appear, if that's the case. If he does object, the prosecution must call the analyst during his own case in chief.

And that's about all it really says. The rest is up to the lower courts to muck out.

It's due tomorrow night. I'm on page 23. I haven't slept much and I'll probably delete this post tomorrow when I wake up. It's too damn long for any right-minded person to read.

End of Second Year

2010-04-14T19:51:00.004-05:00

So it seems I've somehow made it through two full years of law school, with one to go. And it's been one hell of a ride.

At this hour, I'm working on a 25-page paper on the Fourth Amendment--specifically, the Patriot Act's amendments to the Foreign Intelligence Security Act (FISA). FISA works as the vehicle for intelligence agencies to access the personal information, including electronic surveillance, of suspected "agents of foreign powers."

I began this paper with scathing commentary on the erosion of the Fourth Amendment's protection against unreasonable search and seizure. The Patriot Act amended FISA to allow approval of wiretap warrants without any real protective process. Investigators can now attain virtually unlimited permission to invade the privacy of U.S. citizens through not just wiretaps, but physical searches (called "sneak and peeks"), access to any and all bank/financial records, placing bugs in your bedroom--you name it, they can do it. Whatever information they gather, they can distribute to other federal agencies, and you can be prosecuted for crimes completely unrelated to terrorism.

And all they have to assert is that they *may* be interested in you for a terrorism investigation--no need to establish probable cause you've committed a crime, no need to specify limited places and things to be searched and seized, just pure carte blanche to comb through the most minute and intimate details of your life.

Most people argue, "Well, I haven't done anything wrong, what do I care if they listen to me talk to my mother?" Which sounds innocuous enough.

But what about a listening device in your bedroom?? Think it can't happen to you? Think again.

As always, I'm ambivalent. The Fourth Amendment has become a polite fiction in the wake of 9/11. Most of us are somehow okay with that, as we don't fit the profile of folks most likely to suffer astonishing privacy intrusions. Anything perceived as an aid to fighting terrorism has become a third rail in American politics--a "soft on terrorism" charge will sink many campaigns, even at the expense of our precious Constitution.

As I get deep into the federal court cases that seek to balance the interests of citizens' privacy rights with the ultimate governmental interest of protecting the nation, I'm getting less scathing in the analysis. I have no question, on purely Fourth Amendment grounds, the current FISA configuration is unconstitutional.

On the other hand, having worked extensively in this field, I understand the need for near-instantaneous access to information in detecting and preventing terrorist attacks. Brandon Mayfield's case represents a rare (albeit egregious) violation of a U.S. citizen's rights. Is the occasional Brandon Mayfield the price we have to pay for protecting the nation?

I firmly believe there exists a middle ground, a means of doing a better job protecting Constitutional rights while still affording intelligence agencies the kind of quick access they need to accomplish their mission.

If I identify this middle ground in the course of writing this paper, I'll post about it. Right now, I'm left with a glaring question mark hanging over my head.

Lost All Comments

2009-12-02T13:51:00.001-06:00

I just realized that when I changed to the new template, I lost six years of comments.

Damn.

WEEK 5: Disaster Pie, or Butterscotch Cream Pudding Cookie Shit

2009-11-30T12:56:00.007-06:00

Wednesday, November 25, 2009 at 6:10pm--copied from Facebook note.

**WARNING**: Rated FB-MA LV. Mature audiences only. Strong language, brief violence. Don't bitch about my goddamn language if you keep reading. It's been THAT KIND OF DAY.

After watching the Good Eats episode on pie crust about four times, I figured any pie woman worth her flour must make beautiful crust. From scratch. Refrigerated pie crusts are for sissies, and don't even get me started on that lifeless, frozen, crust-in-a-tin shit.

I copied the recipe onto an index card, straight from the show, in which Alton Brown used science and special effects to create the perfect crust. Two little pugilist puppets, one sporting an F for flaky, the other T for tender, popped up from behind to beat the shit out of AB at strategic moments as he explained coating flour molecules with butter and how to perfectly roll it all out. I had that goddamn show near memorized.

I awoke obscenely early, excited to bake the butterscotch cream pie recipe that came out so well a couple of weeks ago for Thanksgiving Day dinner tomorrow with the fam. Except instead of the vanilla-bean whipped cream on top, a vanilla-bean meringue would put the fresh whipped cream to shame.

I stuck my nicely chopped, flour-coated butter chunks into the fridge with the dry ingredients and the metal bowl and the rolling pin, and allowed everything to get cold while I reread the recipe six times.

The first sign of trouble: the food processor didn't have enough torque to chop up the cold butter. You're supposed to pulse, since running it steadily heats up the motor and melts the butter. There goes any hope for the fucking Flaky puppet.

I pulsed that goddamn thing like 50 times. The asshole butter, most of it in its original size and shape without discernible shape change, mocked me from inside the plastic bowl. I could picture the gluten molecules forming as I kept pulsing, the ones that would toughen the dough. And there goes any hope for the fucking Tender puppet.

So then the recipe demands you drop it all into the chilled bowl. I knew the tablespoon-sized lumps of butter were probably not right, so I pulled them out and broke them up manually. I hit the top of it with the spray bottle, correctly filled with crushed ice, water, and frozen apple juice concentrate. Then you fold the cold water/juice in with a rubber spatula, spray, fold, repeat, until you can grab a handful of it, squeeze it, and it holds its shape.

On the show, AB squirted/folded I dunno, four times. I was up to ten and had refilled the squirt bottle when I figured I just wasn't squeezing the handful hard enough. So I gave it another good soaking, compacted it all into a ball, and chilled it for 20 minutes, after which it was supposed to magically emerge looking and behaving like dough. AB said the resting period gave the moisture a chance to get all up in the molecules, or some such shit.

I pulled it out, and it was still dry. It didn't make sense. I'd FAR exceeded the water content in the recipe. And I was sure there was enough overhandling-produced gluten at this point to make pretzels out of it, but soldiered on. I soaked it again, put it back in the chillbox, and pretty much said Fuck It when it still felt dry 20 minutes later.

This shit was getting old. The lump of "dough" looked about twice what it should have, enough for at least two pies. I rolled it out.

See this shit?? The edges are dry as fuck, and if you look, you can see the rolled-flat butter pats.

I tossed it in the pie plate, did what I could to make the dry edges look pretty, lined the inside with foil, and tossed in the pie weights for the blind baking phase.

After 10 minutes, I pulled it out and removed the foil/weights. Holy fucking shit, are you fucking kidding me? There sat a pool of butter, right on the crust. I kicked the dog. Back in the oven for the rest of the pre-bake, no going back now.

Would it make YOUR momma proud? If so, slap that bitch and tell her to stick to sissy crust. It looks like a fucking Lorna Doone some retard burned in the toaster.

I sampled a bit—very buttery, actually tasted pretty good. So I said Fuck It again, started in on the butterscotch and meringue.

Having made the butterscotch before, I actually know what I’m doing there. You cook butter and brown sugar together, then add evaporated milk, then add a separate mixture of more evaporated milk, hot regular milk, egg yolks, vanilla, and cornstarch. You stir this on medium for about 13 minutes, until it’s thick and silky. It’s pretty damn good and don’t even try to keep your fingers out of it.

I have these perfectly lovely vanilla beans from Madagascar, but they're about three years old. Rock hard and bone-ass dry. I had to simmer them in the butterscotch milk for about 15 minutes to soften them up enough to split and scrape out the seeds. At this point, I've been making this goddamn pie for a couple of hours.

I’ve never made meringue, let’s be clear on this point. Seems simple enough, you beat some egg whites, a dash of cream of tartar, sugar, plus seeds from three vanilla beans in my version, until you get stiff peaks. Spread that shit on top of the butterscotch, bake until the top gets all golden-delicious.

Ladies, do you remember that nail polish when you were a kid that you brush on, then it peels right off? Did it ever cross your mind that 30 years later, you'd make a pie that would remind you of that shit?

I swear, this shit was only in the oven for about five goddamn minutes. I peeled that goddamn meringue off to find some shit had gone all liquid on top of my prized butterscotch and soaked all the visible crust. I sopped it off like you do with a greasy piece of pizza, dabbing at it with a paper towel.

The kitchen looks like some asshole opened up a fire extinguisher. It’s now almost noon. I’ve been at this shit ALL MORNING. Out of curiosity, I looked up the recipe online. And it was TOTALLY DIFFERENT. Apparently, the 2.5 sticks of butter from the goddamn show was about half a stick too many. My hero failed me!!

I opened the trash can, poised to toss the whole fucking mess in. But then I looked at the butterscotch. I took a taste. Nothing wrong with that, nothing at all. Rich and silky.

So I extracted the soggy bits of crust, wrapped the pan, and stuck it in the fridge. The butterscotch has to set up overnight.

The aftermath. It looks like someone's goddamn stuffed animal that spent a year outside in the rain. Oh, and that other pie pan in the background with shit all sticking up out of it? Was the first pie crust. The one I rolled out before putting the second asshole back in the fridge with more cold water. It tasted great, and so became dog biscuits. Moonpie and Balzac were very pleased.

In the morning, seeded three more vanilla beans, added some sugar, and whipped up some fresh vanilla cream. Great thing about that shit? You can make enough to cover Disaster Pie all the way to the edges, just cover that shit right up. I called it a backwards-ass cobbler and brought it to Thanksgiving anyway.

Where it was devoured. Folks even went back for seconds. That butterscotch soaked into the butter-laded trainwreck, and with the cream on top, tasted pretty damn good!

Here's the other project for the day: TURDUCKEN.

I've never roasted one before, and it took ALMOST SEVEN HOURS. Thing about turducken, it's solid meat and stuffing, compacted together, all 15 pounds of it.

It emerged from the oven after we'd eaten the other turkey and finished dessert. As soon as it landed on the kitchen island, all the men descended like buzzards to poke and pick at it. It more or less fell apart when we lifted it from the pan to a serving platter, which was quite the operation in and of itself.

WOW it's good. I'm still devouring the copious leftovers.

The Pie Chronicles, Weeks 1-4

2009-11-30T12:28:00.002-06:00

I've been baking pies, one a week, since mid-October. Well, and there was this one September pie when peaches were in season.

It turned out so well, I vowed to bake more. Most of September, however, got sucked into a Moot Court competition, during which there were no pies, just a lot of late nights in my little garage apartment/office.

I became somewhat obsessed with pies in October, during which it rained over 9 inches, setting records, flooding cities, and driving us all indoors to seek comfort food.

I started with a lovely pumpkin pie, for which I roasted a sugar pumpkin. Have you ever roasted a pumpkin? Best to don your fencing getup, complete with heavily-padded gloves, facemask, the whole deal. Slicing that bitch damn near put me in the hospital and entailed a comic display involving some pretty colorful language, several knives, the countertop, and the floor, which worked best of all for finally smashing the damn gourd.

I think next time, I'll just put the whole goddamn pumpkin in the oven, slice it once it's softened. It's not the same as a jack-o-lantern pumpkin--sugar pumpkins have much tougher outer flesh. I ate the entire pumpkin's seed content (roasted, of course) while working on the rest of the pie.

Most pies made from canned pumpkin look and taste roughly the same, which is to say, pretty damn good. But after all that drama, this pie better be fucking amazing.

It was. The roasted pumpkin bestowed a much richer flavor and a toothy texture you don't get from canned. I whipped cream with powdered sugar and Amaretto, and dobbed it on top.

Then came the butterscotch cream pie. The recipe came from Cooking Light, and involves actually making the butterscotch--no nancy-ass, ice cream topping bullshit here.

The pie came out much better than the picture, which simply cannot do the vanilla-bean whipped cream topping justice. The butterscotch tasted silky and rich, despite my using that Splenda brown sugar for baking stuff.

Then on to chess pie, which I haven't had in years and reminds me very strongly of my late mother. She baked amazing chess pies, and in the chaos that followed her death, I never found her little box of recipes.

For the uninitiated, chess pie is a Southern classic. It's like the filling in pecan pie, that fabulous, gooey, set-your-mouth sweetness. You're supposed to serve it with strong coffee, which makes a gorgeous contrast, two completely different richnesses.

I couldn't decide between lemon and classic chess pie, so I made one of each. I prebaked the crusts, and MacGuyvered a little trick to keep the edges from burning:

Alligator clips.

I won't waste good chess by contaminating it with lemon again. The lemon overpowered all other flavors, the crust went gummy, the filling a bit watery, and there was just no redeeming it. I gave a little away and nibbled at it, then tossed it.

The classic chess pie, though, a whole 'nuther story.

It was perfect with coffee, but a tiny slice at a time proved all I could handle.

*Sidenote*: These pies get distributed throughout Oxford, mostly to my family. I've brought them to the law school and to work. Last Christmas, I gave my Uncle Gene a gingerbread-of-the-month club, and it wasn't one of those always-disappointing mail clubs. Gene got gingerbread little cakes (FABULOUS ginger cookies), several variations on gingerbread, and anything else I could think of. I bought several large packages of crystallized ginger to use instead of raisins, with very tasty results.

I got busy and kind of fell off, and then came the DC summer internship. I was behind on my promise. So he's gotten at least 1/3 of everything I've done, all fall, from the peach cobblers to all the pies, and I always bake up a storm of biscotti during the holidays. He seems to really like the steady supply, and it all stays off my ass.

Onward to Week 4, key lime pie. There isn't much to note on this one--it's so easy, a refrigerated pie, came out well enough. It's basically just lime juice/zest, sweetened condensed milk, egg yolks. Nothing to get all excited about, as you can really only do so much with bottled key lime juice. I'll work on this one when the weather warms back up and a cool key lime pie will refresh the palate.

This pie met an unfortunate fate. Determined not to break my pie-a-week goal at only four weeks, I made it the night before driving down to New Orleans to meet up with an old friend for the weekend. I left a slice for my cousin, and put the key lime pie in the back seat.

It didn't travel well. Thing about a refrigerated pie? It needs to stay in the refrigerator.

The crust bugged the shit out of me. It was a store-bought Nilla job, and completely fell apart on top. The product design and quality are just piss-poor. You have to ruin the edges just to get the plastic cover off the top. Total crap.

I've also had some issues with the refrigerated pie crusts. They are a bit too wet, and shrink up during the pre-bake. And they just don't bring anything special to the party.

This Nilla crust bullshit was the last straw. NO MORE, I vowed. I have purchased my last crust. Week 5=CRUST.

What I'm Doing This Summer

2009-07-12T12:32:00.009-05:00

As I'm down to posting about once a quarter, I thought I'd post about my experience as a law clerk in the Department of Defense's Office of the General Counsel. I'm in the Legal Counsel division, which puts out the considerable fires that inevitably crop up within the highest legal authority for the world's largest employer with two active combat operations underway.

The section as a whole deals primarily with Guantanamo. Which, as one could easily imagine, looks about like four monkeys, a football, and a can of Crisco. I had a couple of research projects supporting it earlier this summer, but lately I've focused on KBR litigation.

For those of you who aren't familiar with DOD's alphabet soup, KBR is the Halliburton subsidiary that provides logistical support to the military in Iraq and Afghanistan. There are a whole passel of personal injury actions against them, the latest of which involves environmental exposure.

One line of cases stems from their operation of massive burn pits. Plaintiffs allege KBR burned any manner of toxins in there, and those exposed now suffer from a host of respiratory problems (including lung cancer, in a couple of the cases), allegedly resulting from their prolonged exposure to the noxious smoke and fumes.

The other cases arise from a restoration project in southern Iraq of a water plant that was, Plaintiffs claim, covered in hexavalent chromium, a highly carcinogenic compound. The National Guard soldiers tasked with providing security for the restoration project have sued for medical care expenses, past and future, and other personal injury damages.

Political question doctrine is a judiciary mechanism supporting constitutional separation of powers. In a nutshell, it means if you get injured/killed by, say, a plane crash caused by an F-16 that clipped your wing because you flew into protected / no-fly national defense air space without filing a flight plan, you're out of luck. Reason being, the court would have to question the wisdom of sending out the fighter jets to visually identify your aircraft as friendly, and the tactics employed by the pilots. Which means, decisions made by the Executive branch. Not allowed.

Battlefield contractors have often employed the political question doctrine as an affirmative defense to these suits, with mixed results. Most recently, one case (Harris v. Kellogg, Brown & Root) arose out of the electrocution death of a soldier in the shower in Iraq. It was all over the news, you know the case, Staff Sergeant Ryan Maseth.

Political question defense failed. The Western District of Pennsylvania found that no military decisions need be reviewed in determining if KBR was negligent in their performance of the electrical maintenance contract. The jury would not, as KBR contended, need to question the wisdom of housing the soldiers at the Radwaniyah Palace Complex, or the decision to contract for "Level B" maintenance.

One would assume that "Level B" translates to not getting electrocuted in the shower. That's a gross oversimplification on my part, I admit.

On the other hand, see Carmichael v. KBR, decided June 30 of this year. Carmichael is the first and only federal appeals court decision affirming a political question dismissal in a battlefield contractor liability action.

SGT Carmichael was severely injured when the KBR fuel tanker in which rode overturned. The accident occurred outside the wire during a treacherous convoy mission on a curvy, cratered road right through an area in which insurgent attacks were common.

The Eleventh Circuit determined that the military controlled virtually every aspect of the convoy, which was essentially a combat mission. As such, the decisions made by military commanders (route, speed, distance between vehicles--all potential causes of the accident) would come under review. Executive branch decisions=separation of powers issues.

So do the environmental exposure cases look more like Harris or Carmichael, given the facts in each? I won't comment on it here--buy me a drink and I'll opine on it.

What this all boils down to: I'm getting to work on national-level, emerging legal issues. It has been amazing. I've learned more in the last seven weeks than in my entire second semester of law school. Well, maybe not, but it sure feels that way.

I love this job. I actually look forward to work. I can only hope like hell that I can find a job as an attorney that feels this satisfying.

2009-05-15T10:09:00.004-05:00

*Sigh* Call me the queen of unfinished business. Things got far too busy in law school to get my seed flats into the ground. Now that finals are over, it has rained nonstop, and I can't till. So I've settled on a bunch of containers sporting varieties of brandywine tomatoes, strawberries, and herbs. They'll come with me to DC. I leave in less than a week.

So the subject for today is Delta tamales.

I was first exposed to tamales in El Paso, TX, when I was stationed there at Biggs Army Airfield from 2000-2002. Gas stations and convenience stores there sell tamales much like similar stores sell fried chicken and tater logs here in Mississippi. And like the Mississippi counterparts, the pickins in such places constitute some of the best regional food available.

The El Paso tamales were fairly large, the fillings about the size of a deck of cards. They were creamy with seasoned masa spiked with chicken, green chiles, and queso fresco, which they called "farmer's cheese" in Colombia. It's like the lovechild of ricotta and mozzerella--very mild, a bit crumbly, and creamy when melted. I bought these tamales by the dozen and kept them in the mini-fridge in my barracks room.

Then there was the unfortunate Arizona stint, but Sierra Vista is a completly philistine, strip mall town. I had wonderful tamales in Tucson and Cafe Poca Cosa, which is a must-do in Tucson. It's run by a former CIA (the cooking school, not the Agency) instructor, and there is no set menu. She writes it on chalkboards, and it depends on what she finds fresh that morning. Her tamales were much sweeter than the green-chile variety, and studded with mole-drenched pork. They elicited the same response from every guest I ever brought up there with my repeated, "You've got to try this place." Silence always fell over the table, broken only by the occasional, "Holy HELL this is good," etc. This came about when I was in military intelligence officer training in 2002, then again in 2005-2007.

Fast-forward to 2009, and I've moved back to Oxford. Enter Honest Abe's tamales, built onto the Rebel Barn, which was the smart-ass response to the ordinance against selling cold beer. Rebel Barn was a drive-through, open on both ends, and they stored the beer in the carport you drove through. So in the short winter, you could buy cold beer.

I'm willing to wait for my beer to chill at home, since the trade-off is the best Delta tamales around.

Delta tamales are very different from their Hispanic counterpart, and a great example of how ethnic recipes evolve into something entirely new and more appropriate to its "new" region. Where the non-Delta tamales are steamed, fairly large, and creamy from the masa, Delta tamales are about the size and shape of a large cigar, boiled in wonderfully spicy broths that can vary from cumin to garlic and everything in between, and filled with spiced ground beef and cornmeal. They are also sometimes filled with barbeque pulled pork--I have yet to try these and plan to road trip to Abe's Bar-B-Q in Clarksdale, Mississippi. I am a barbeque stalker and the combination of pulled pork with broth and cornmeal sounds like a gift from divine Providence.

Last night, on a friend's recommendation, I ordered up a dozen at Honest Abe's here in Oxford, in the now-rennovated Rebel Barn. I wasn't sure why the guy told me to hold it level, as he'd ladled in the cooking juices. I began to understand as I placed them on the flat floorboard of my car and the enclosure immediately filled with the smell of garlic.

At home, I opened the box to see these string-tied packets of cigar-shaped corn husks soaking in reddish-brown broth. Sensing that the broth was part of the deal, I untied them, unrolled and disposed of the husks, poured the broth onto the plate, and heated up some corn tortillas.

Tearing off little pieces of tortillas and grabbing up the innards is how I ate them out west. Here, most people eat them with saltines. I swear by the tortillas, though, it's the only way to go. So that's what I did--little pieces of tortilla, grab up some innards, sop up some of the juice...and it was heavenly. I ate six and could have tucked into the rest, if not for the portion-conscious habits that have kept off the 20+ pounds I lost in Iraq. Instead, I ate the other six for breakfast.

That spicy, garlicy broth perfectly set off the somewhat solid log of cornmeal and spicy ground beef. The texture is just right. Tamales can be slimy if not prepared by skilled hands, and these spoke of a master's touch.

They ain't pretty. They ain't sophisticated. They have a cult following and they've been traveling around the Mississippi Delta since before the Depression (the first one). It is said that they originated from a Mexican migrant worker, then adapted to ingredients available in Greenwood, Clarksdale, and all over the Delta. Former slaves sold them from carts, folks started making them in their own kitchens to sell off the porch, and small mom and pops added them to their menus of steak and fried chicken.

Want more? Check these out:

http://tamaletrail.blogspot.com/

http://www.gourmet.com/travel/2008/12/mississippi-tamale-trail?currentPage=1

Given that I didn't linger to find my camera and snap pics before I tucked in last night, I've tactically appropriated Gourmet's picture. I'll take pics of Honest Abe's next time I eat 'em.

New Direction

2009-03-08T15:41:00.002-05:00

OK, since I can't get it together to write interesting posts these days, I think I'll document the progress of my first serious gardening effort here. I've taken some before pictures and will post them with progress pics as I get more into it.

Step one is just plain, backbreaking cleanup work. The entire perimeter of the house is covered in dead leaves and pine needles. I *may* just hire someone to get rid of those--for the flower beds, a leafblower is really the best tool. I don't have one and don't plan to.

The other issue with the beds--they've been neglected for a few years. The vinca and azaleas were probably gorgeous when in their prime. Now, however, the azaleas look pretty tired, the vinca is getting choked out by weeds, and the honeysuckle has completely overtaken several azaleas and the better part of a wall. Time to get rid of it ALL, start fresh. I'll keep the two azaleas that anchor the front flower beds--they are enormous and sprout so many flowers in the spring, the branches look as though they'll break under the weight. Once they finish flowering, I'll cut them down to stumps and let them grow back in a smaller, more controlled fashion. They have gotten so big, they block the light and view from the den window and more importantly, the porch swing.

I even bought an inexpensive tiller. My plan is to get most of the heaviest work knocked out during each morning of spring break, leaving me the afternoons and evenings to study and write the monster Appellate Brief. After the heavy lifting is finished, I can take my time planting and mulching, one small bit at a time when I find a couple of hours.

I am spending the summer in DC, true enough. So I won't get to watch it all flower initially. However, I've only chosen flowers and plants that bloom until first frost--so when I return in August, it will all be in full bloom. With a heavy mulching, weeds shouldn't be an issue and all Emilie will have to do is eat the tomatoes and water every so often. I can plant a crop of late tomatoes, peas, and lettuce in August and draw it out.

I went crazy buying flower seeds: Madagascar Jasmine, morning glories of every hue, daylillies, new vinca, black-eyed susan vine, delphinium, sunflowers ("cherry rose" and the big, yellow kind), coleus, petunias for the window boxes, hanging strawberries and brandywine tomatoes that will come with me, basil, purple coneflower, orange blanket flower, Brazilian Fireworks, balloon flower, passion fruit vine...even kiwi vines that produce full-sized kiwis this far south.

I may or may not get it all in. I'm finding that I love the process, though, even the ugly job of weeding. I spent a couple of hours yesterday cleaning up my daylilly beds from last year--they were not mulched and were completely overgrown with weeds. Pulled the undesirables out, fertilized, and mulched. Something's eating them, though, so I need to do some quick research to find a remedy.

I think it's slugs. I remember slugs getting on my mother's strawberry plants. She gave me two jar-lids of beer and told me to set them out in the beds. I squatted there for a long time, watching the slugs mosey up to the lids, slide inside, and drown in the beer.

Sounds like some people I know!

2009-02-11T08:00:00.003-06:00

It's absolutely absurd, the way I react to thunderstorms. They make me giddy. I get all over weather.com, checking the radar about every ten seconds, just to make sure it doesn't miss us.

Case in point, I'm in the Law Library. It's 8 am and I should be reading Contracts, or yesterday's Constitutional Law notes. But no. It's fixin' to storm and here I sit by the window, just waiting on it like a rube.

How can it already feel like spring around here? The daffodils are up, it's about 70 degrees every day, and all the girls are wearing shorts and Uggs. Not this girl. Uggs are fugly and on principle, I won't wear shorts until it's, you know, NOT FEBRUARY.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to toggle over and check the goddamn radar. It's getting all dark out there and these things must be monitored.

I Got It(s)

2009-02-06T11:35:00.004-06:00

It # 1: the internship. I'm so excited it's the only thing I can think about (outside school stuff) most days. I'll get to see many of the friends I made in Baghdad, and the work sounds like it'll be right up my alley. If the Obama administration pays attention to the scores of intelligence and legal professionals calling for a National Security Court, it would become my lifetime goal to practice in it. DOD would play a large legal role, no doubt about it.

It #2: I just got diagnosed with severe PCOS, polycystic ovarian syndrome. Which explains just about every health problem I've had since high school. I've been telling doctors for years that something was wrong, and they always chalked it up to, what, hysteria? If untreated, it becomes full-blown Type II diabetes and quadruples your shot at fatal heart disease AND certain cancers. I'm borderline diabetic now, and if it weren't for all the exercise, I'd be Type II already. I'm on several drugs, including Metformin, which is actually used to treat diabetes.

It took a referral to an endocrinologist to finally get diagnosed. Thank God for the VA and all that free healthcare I get.

2008-12-20T05:38:00.002-06:00

So no shit, there I was, having taken my last final of the semester the night before and half-asleep in the Lazy Boy, remote in one hand and beer in the other, watching a 4-hour biography of Saddam Hussein. It was funny to watch them play this thing out speaking English. English out of Saddam Hussein's mouth. And I swear, they found one of Saddam's surgically-altered body doubles for the lead. Dead ringer. Speaking English. It was hugely entertaining and I should have been cleaning the house.

All sound was turned off on my phone from being in the exam the night before. But somehow, I noticed the screen silently light up, and I wasn't even quite sure it was a genuine phone call versus a text or something I could ignore. Then I picked it up and looked at the screen. A 703 number. Which would be the Department of Defense calling me about the internship I applied for at the Pentagon. It was as if someone dumped a cooler full of ice-water on me in the chair.

The lady introduced herself (and I have no idea what her name was), and said she was putting me on speakerphone so she and the other interviewer could hear me.

I don't know about ya'll, but if I'm to interview for the Department of Defense's Office of the General Counsel, I would really prefer to get an email first. I need time to cook up all the huah-sounding shuck and jive, you know, how you do for interviews. Plus research them a little better.

So the male interviewer told me they were "calling me as a member of the applicant pool they were interested in learning more about," and gave me an agenda for the interview--why do you want to work with us, etc. Then the lady chimed in and asked, "Can you confirm your clearance level?"

I explained out Lockheed had been kind enough to leave me on the books so my clearance would stay active, and I'd just been read off in July, and no I was not up for a Periodic Reinvestigation.

"Can you tell me about your experience with JAGs?" I told him about being the Counterintelligence/Human Intelligence Officer-in-Charge in Baghdad, and neither the JAG nor I had any training or experience with this kind of intelligence law. So we sort of had to figure it out on the fly, to put it mildly.

So then he went into the type work most interns would do, research, etc. And then the gentleman lobbed a nuclear bomb over the phone. "Then there's this big project we have going on with habeus corpus." Which would be Gitmo. As in, one of the biggest legal issues of our time with far-reaching and broad implications. As a first-year law student, are you kidding? "I don't know if you'd want to do something different, or if you may be interested in getting back into that?" Oh, that. As in CI/HUMINT. But this time rolled up with law.

I almost stuttered getting the words out about how much I'd be interested in that. And then told them that any position they have available would be an honor, but I would really like to use my intelligence experience.

I know I sounded nervous but holy shit, one moment I'm half-asleep watching Saddam Hussein speak English, and five seconds later I'm on speakerphone with executive-level Department of Defense. It's a wonder I didn't faint full out. I was in my pajamas, for chrissake!!

At the end of the interview, the nice man said I must be wondering when we'd hear back from them, and I'd so far been too polite to ask. "We'll be extending offers in mid-January."

And then I cranked on some music and cleaned the house.

I barely slept last night, thinking about how cool that would be. Holy CRAP if I get that job...I don't even know what to do with that, working detainee habeus corpus??? It made this summer look very, very different.

Why You Should Never Try to Steal a Law Student's Laptop

2008-12-01T13:50:00.003-06:00

by Dan Reilly,
posted Nov 14th 2008 at 2:41PM

A thief learned the mistake of trying to steal a law student's laptop last week after after becoming a punching bag for an Arizona State student he tried to rip off. Armed with a baseball bat, the intruder, Gabriel Saucedo, allegedly climbed through an open window into Alex Botsios' apartment, waking the student and threatening to smash his head in. Botsios was willing to let Saucedo take his wallet and guitars.

Then the robber made the mistake that ultimately landed him in the hospital -- he went for the laptop.

According to Botsios, he said "Dude, no -- please, no! I have all my case notes...that's four months of work!" Saucedo, obviously underestimating the fury of an overstressed, overworked first-year, was unsympathetic. That's when Botsios could take no more. Wrestling Saucdeo to the floor, Botsios separated the bat from the thief and repeatedly punched him in the face.

When it was all over, police had to get Saucedo stitched up before charging him with armed robbery and kidnapping, while Botsios only suffered some scrapes and a bruised knuckle. Most importantly, at least to the student, is that his laptop, which he called "his baby," escaped unharmed. Next time, Saucedo might want to try robbing a third-year student, as they're generally more docile.

He's lucky the guy didn't kill him. If someone tried to make off with all my notes one week before finals start, I'd have to choke a bitch.

Yay Election Day!!!

2008-11-04T16:21:00.003-06:00

I have a deep and abiding respect for Election Day. In January 2005, I was the U.S. intelligence officer for a beast called IPOC West, or the Iraqi Police Operations Center for all of Baghdad.

Early in the morning of January 30, dawn of the first elections held in Iraq in over 50 years, the Commander put together a convoy to run around Baghdad and observe it. I jumped at the chance to go out and see it all come down.

And here's what we saw: thousands of people walking, some barefoot, all the way from Abu Grayeb (too dangerous for polling centers) to central Baghdad, over 20K both ways. Under the threat of death, and giddy-happy to do it.

We rolled up on a polling center where a suicide bomber had just detonated, and there were chunks of this guy everywhere. Yes, it was disturbing and disgusting. His head lay on the ground close to where the line to vote snaked. I almost cried when I saw the crowd's reaction--they spat on the head, slapped it with their shoes, stepped over it, and stayed in line.

And this one--a mortar landed close to another line, this one outside our jurisdiction in Sadr City. We heard the excited radio transmissions. Several people in the voting line were injured by shrapnel. They stood up, people tore pieces of clothing and helped each other wrap up their wounds, and they got back in line.

So when I hear folks whine about waiting 45 minutes to vote, it's tough for me not to tell those stories.

I didn't wait at all today, since I went at 3:30, not one of the more active times. I was excited all day--this is the first election since my experience in Iraq. And the first time I've been able to vote since before I joined the Army, which enraged me in 2000 and 2004. Both years, I was outside the U.S.--South Korea in 2000, and Iraq in 2004. I requested absentee ballots as early as July, and received them too late, both times.

I called the county commissioner in New York when I was denied my right to vote in 2004, and ripped him a new one. Do you mean to tell me that when I'm over here wearing this uniform, representing you, that ya'll can't get it together to send me a damn ballot in three months?? It felt like this was the first time they'd run an election! Have we NOT been at this for over 200 years?

So today I voted for the first time since 1996. I will never miss an election again, state, local, or national.

Why I'm Voting for Obama...

2008-10-29T14:00:00.005-05:00

...and I don't even have to hold my nose while I pull that lever. I'm excited to vote for the first time in many years.

I'm not voting for Obama because he's black. I'm not basing it on his position on abortion (I'm pro-choice) or gay marriage (I'm for it). But there's more to it than that.

I'm not voting against McCain, although his voting record on veteran's issues is abysmal, people. When he said, "I'll take care of you" during the first debate, it was all I could do not to throw my beer bottle off the balcony at the big screen on the Square. Look it up, his record sucks big donkey balls. The most recent insult was his opposition to the Webb GI Bill for the dumbest reason I've ever heard, that it'll hurt retention.

Know what hurts retention? Back-to-back, multiple, and/or 15-month deployments, that's what. Having to essentially choose between any semblance of a personal life and your career, because you ain't getting both with two wars raging. The military is a life you either love or hate, and most folks act accordingly. I honestly can't imagine leaving it because the GI Bill finally became worth more than exactly one tinker's damn. There may be a tiny percentage of soldiers out there who'll leave for it, but I would strongly argue that retention in the military is already in the toilet, and only a small percentage of those leaving will go back to school. We've earned those educational benefits with blood, sweat, and tears in abundance, and don't give me that crap about hurting retention with so many other, much better reasons for leaving the military out there.

But back on point--my vote for Obama is not one against McCain, either. As much as I loathe Sarah Palin, it's not even a vote against the specter of McCain dropping dead. Although, that would keep me up at night, Palin at the reins.

Here's my main reason for not only voting for Obama, but feeling rather excited about it. When I was in officer training, a wise First Sergeant told me that the best leaders are not the fastest runners. The best leaders know who their fastest runners are, and they're willing to use them.

In other words, you don't have to be an expert on the economy, diplomacy, health care, etc. Who the hell could be? But the sense I get from Obama is that he's willing to respectfully listen to a wide range of opinions and perspectives on any given issue, then reason through it all and come up with his course of action. What a refreshing change that would be, someone who didn't surround himself with yes-men and egomaniacs!

I want the smartest guy in the room at the helm, especially when he's deliberate and reasoned. Now that I'm in law school, I'm IMMENSELY impressed that Obama was #1 in his Harvard Law class. I'm no idiot, but there's no way in hell I'll finish #1 here at Ole Miss Law. I'd be very happy to be in the top 10% down here at my little state school, where the competition is nothing like what he was up against there.

So bottom line, I'm voting for Obama because I get the sense that he's a man of reason, who is interested enough in issues to educate himself on all the complexities of each one by using the fastest runners. You won't hear him referring to Muqtada al-Sadr as a Sunni (ahem, McCain).

So in other news, I feel much more in control, somehow. I feel pretty good about my chances to do well this semester. I won't make all A's, maybe not even majority A's. But it's okay, the world doesn't end. I'm going to have to reset my standard of performance from undergrad, when a B would've been...well, rare.

I think that getting back into the gym 4 times a week has really helped with the control factor. I'm even back to running regularly, tough hill repeats on the treadmill 2-3 days a week. My diet's not great since I stopped cooking (no time), but one could do worse than to live on Lean Cuisine and the occasional BBQ sandwich and piece of southern fried catfish. I've managed to maintain the Iraq weight loss within five pounds and that'll do for now.

And I'm looking forward to pulling the lever on Tuesday, with both hands this time.

What My Brain Felt Like Last Friday...

2008-10-19T19:49:00.003-05:00

...and no, I wasn't drinking. I just needed to brush it off.

Some poor landlord went knocking for the rent and found this. Which convinced me to NEVER rent out my house. I'd feel better about walking into a meth lab. The most disturbing part? There were supposed to be two cats in there somewhere. They probably died of cholera.

2008-10-18T07:56:00.003-05:00

Ok, freakout passing. It happens from time to time. Just my brain's way of keeping me on my toes. I go through several of these a year and always come out on the other side reassured and ready to drive on.

I'll do fine. I may or may not make top 10%--it wouldn't be the end of the world and I can probably still poke my way into DOJ with all the veteran's advantages (and the clearance) if my grades aren't where I want them to be.

I just have to be OKAY with not getting straight-A's. It was fairly easy to get there in undergrad--hard work directly translated to a 4.0, and that's just not the case in law school. Again, I just have to be okay with some B's, not get upset and think it's failure. It's NOT.

Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

2008-10-17T19:53:00.003-05:00

So it's been a rough couple of weeks, during which I've felt a bit unmoored and uncomfortable. I *know* this happens every time I make a big change--I feel really great about it initially, then the doubts start creeping in: Am I really going to be able to pull this off? Was it such a great idea to leave a lucrative career in which I actually knew what I was doing to this amateur status again? In this economy? What will I do if my Plan A (DOJ prosecutor) falls through?

The toughest part really has been moving from an established career where I'd figured things out, for the most part, and entering this completely alien field. At this point in my life, I HAAAATE going back to being an amateur. But we're all in the same boat, we're all total amateurs, no matter how hard we work or how well any of us thinks we understand the concepts. Thing is, I often feel I've got something down, only for that principle to be contradicted in the next lesson or case.

It's a LOT to keep straight, a lot to remember. I'm trying to spend this weekend going back through all my notes, keeping older material fresh in my mind. It's fleeting--I lose a lot when I don't put in the time to review.

Plus, I've had a couple of weeks of total personal chaos, fed even more by all the doubt, of course, just to keep things as stressful as possible.

One thing I really miss about Iraq was the comraderie--I had a wonderful group of friends there and I miss having so much in common with everyone around me. We'd all been through many of the same things, both separately and together, and there seemed to always be a recognition among us that I completely lack in my current environment. And we were all pretty close in age--I feel like quite the grandma here. It's an odd feeling--age in the military was an asset, and here it seems to be a liability. Or maybe I'm just paranoid. Yeah, that's very possible.

The thing I need to keep in mind is that I've been through this before. A few times, actually. And it always works out in the end. Rinse, then repeat.

How Many More Baby Kittens Have to Die???

2008-09-28T12:34:00.004-05:00

What's this crazy shit I hear about PETA sending Ben & Jerry's a letter asking them to start using human breast milk instead of cow juice?!? Eeeeeewww!!! I'm every bit a teary-eyed, animal loving pansy (my animals are spoiled rotten and I get all choked up when I see certain roadkill...seriously), but PETA makes me a little crazy. Pissing folks off and making completely untenable suggestions like Boobie Ice Cream does nothing to further their cause. I wonder how many innocent baby kittens have been stomped on because PETA pissed someone off?

None, I hope, but this is a sick, sick world in some parts.

My mother once noted, somewhat wryly, that I always bawled like a little bitch at any movie or TV show in which an animal died--I moped around for a month after reading Where the Red Fern Grows--but couldn't care less when people died in movies. I remember thinking, the people probably deserved it.

And yet, I somehow didn't end up in prison and/or a sociopath. Go figure.

On another subject, it's just starting to feel like fall around here, and I'm googly-happy about that. See, it's been many years since I've been able to enjoy this season without (a) being in the desert, where fall looks about like any other brown, ugly season, (b) living under threat of impending deployment just as the leaves were starting to change, (c) in the middle of a great deployment--this last one--but only here in Mississippi for a couple of weeks, or (d) in the middle of a horrible deployment, home (in upstate NY) on leave, and walking around with a grapefruit-sized ball of dread in my belly, knowing I'd have to go back to Iraq and stay there for ten more months.

I lugged that tumor all over the Adirondacks in September 2004, which were just painted with glorious color that I couldn't enjoy because that deployment was making me so crazy I couldn't sleep at night. I had to go back and work for that horrible, spiteful man I detested so much my stomach curled in around the ball-o-dread whenever I caught sight, sound, or smell of him.

I hope I never meet another human being for whom I feel something that uncomfortably close to real hatred. I never had before and I have not since. I couldn't just leave that particular situation, but if I ever encounter it again, I'll quit a job, move, whatever I have to do to get away from it. That much disgust brings out the worst in anyone, me especially.

So this fall has special significance for me. I plan to ride Piglet all over the countryside when I can make time from law school work. I will spend Thanksgiving break studying, baking my famous gingerbread, and concocting some sort of fabulous dish to bring to the family Thanksgiving supper. I'm thinking sweet potato casserole with some sort of ginger, pecan-laced streudel on top. Molasses. Nutmeg, cinnamon, and a touch of cardamom. I may have to bake several of them to get it right, which would be just a damn shame.

...Or Not.

2008-09-25T12:02:00.003-05:00

Everyone is livid down here about the possibility of the debate getting delayed or cancelled. Seems a dicey move on McCain's part--I'm not at all convinced either Presidential candidate would be very useful in getting the bailout plan hammered out. Neither one is an economist, we have experts already on the job, and now, more than ever, we need to hear from the candidates.

What exactly does he think he can actually DO? Walk into Congress and start ordering people around? Claim credit when it gets passed? It's just like his otherwise-inexplicable selection of Palin--purely for his own potential political gain, with no real consideration for what's actually best for America.

The focus of the debate may (and perhaps SHOULD) focus on the economy. Foreign policy is critical, but right now, the abiding crisis that touches every single American is the economy. I've personally watched a very large chunk of my law school savings circle the drain through my mutual funds. Thank GOD I had the foresight last January to stop contributing to them and shift all my subsequent contributions to my money market. And as for the mutual funds? I just won't touch them until I absolutely have to. Maybe I'll be able to stretch everything out long enough to sit on them until they recover, however many years down the line that might be.

As far as Oxford is concerned, the citizens in this town and all over the state--the poorest state in the country, I might add--have spent millions of private dollars to host this debate during a time when we could afford it least. It's a slap in the face to even suggest not having this debate.

If anyone thinks these events are government funded, think again. 5.5 million dollars were raised, mostly through University alumni, from private citizens and businesses. That doesn't even address the money spent by Oxford on the big events on the Square, or the extra police presence, the logistical nightmares, or the big bucks local merchants have shelled out plumping their inventories and decorating for this thing. The hotels have been booked since last February in anticipation.

This is about the economy. Just not OUR economy.

I predict that McCain will milk as many empty photo ops and sounds bites out of this as he can, then "suddenly" decide to get down here sometime tomorrow. This move has already backfired here--people are furious, Democrats and Republicans alike.

I love how we've responded, though--we're having a party with or without one of the two guests of honor. I'm going to a big debate party at a law firm on the Square, and I am terribly excited about it. I'm even wearing a pretty dress so I can sit on the balcony over the Square, drink wine, and bitch about it all with my friends and the new ones I'll make.

I even managed to talk my date into going, even though this is a decidedly Democratic crowd and he's waaay Republican. Goes to show you, he is a good man, and for him (and ultimately, for me, too) it's about the event, the process, not so much about one candidate or the other. That's why I'm excited. And besides, this is not a crowd that would say anything untoward to him--these are reasonable people and this is a small town where his dad was an Assistant US Attorney for years. We're just not a fighting bunch, we're more like a "discuss it briefly, then agree to disagree" kind of town.

If our roles were reversed and he'd invited me to a big Republican shindig overlooking the Square at a law firm where I'd meet a huge chunk of the Oxford legal community, damn skippy I'd go. I'd wade right into red territory wearing a blue dress and an Obama button. Don't think I wouldn't!

FOB Ole Miss

2008-09-22T16:48:00.002-05:00

It's on!

Ole Miss hosts the first Presidential debate this Friday, and today was the first day that Things Started Happening. My law school is around the corner from the debate itself, and the campus looks like a FOB in Iraq, only with you know, pretty trees and flowers and grass so green it'll knock your eyes out. (FOB=Forward Operating Base, by the way, the heavily-secured camps all over the International Zone and the city of Baghdad and well, the whole country of Iraq. And Afghanistan.)

There are big fences and blocked-off areas, crowds, satellite dishes going up. It's all very festive and I'm so proud of this little town--how could you come here and NOT walk away with a very different view of Mississippi? This town has restaurants that I'd put right up there with gigs in New Orleans. It's gorgeous and quaint and people here are exceedingly warm.

I have to park at the mall and walk about two miles to the law school. I could take the shuttle, but I'm told there were over 200 people lined up for it this morning and it took a long time to get on a bus. I wouldn't know, I was the first in the lot at about 6:30 and I walked right up Fraternity Row and through the oldest, prettiest parts of campus. The sun was just coming up, the birds were singing, a baby squirrel followed me for about a block...and I plan to walk every day this week.

I'm bringing my camera tomorrow--I'll post pics of my lovely morning walk and all the excitement here. The Grove is filled with soapbox speakers and journalists, and you'd have to be pretty jaded not to feel the patriotism, the pride, the festive mood. It feels like this event in this place is about voting and the joy we take in the democratic process, and less about the contentious nature of the campaign. I'd pledged to hole up in my house for all the events this Friday--the big-screen TV's in the Grove and downtown on the Square, the live bands--but now, I'm catching it.

It feels like the best county fair ever--one with international attention and significance, where we get to show our adorable little town to the world.

Spook-Mail

2008-09-21T11:29:00.004-05:00

I'm always VERY leery of mass emails of any kind--but especially those concerning either political candidates or medical studies. There's usually a very good reason why the information isn't reported by credible news sources who may be held liable for defamation and subjected to a tortious law suit.

Anti-perspirants cause cancer. Camel spiders eat flesh and can leap higher than a basketball player. Our modern Santa Claus was created by Coca-Cola. George W. Bush , having been tested, has the lowest I.Q. of any recent President and refused to sell his home to a black family. If any of these things were true, we would've heard about them through other sources besides a forwarded email with no sources credited. Such is the power of rumor--perception, even when unfounded and rumor-based, is often considered reality.

I don't fully trust the media, either. But I trust emails with no quoted sources even less. They never contain a link to a real document or the actual name of a person from whom the information originated.

My source for fact-checking these emails is Snopes.com, which is a non-political, non-partisan site that investigates email/internet rumors by scouring the same credible news sources that generally steer well clear of the information these emails contain. McCain's page is much shorter than Obama's--perhaps there's a much more vigorous effort (although I wouldn't call it concerted or organized) nationwide to taint Obama’s character and candidacy.

Patently untrue--Obama's tax plan, rumored to cripple most Americans:

http://www.snopes.com/politics/obama/taxes.asp

File under "Can't Prove a Negative." Biden's intention to claim health issues and quit the race in order to allow Hillary to run, which would basically guarantee Obama's defeat this late in the game:

http://www.snopes.com/politics/obama/vpchange.asp

Sarah Palin has her own Snopes page, but as with McCain, there just aren't that many inflamatory emails circulating about her. Although, it would be like shooting fish in a barrel to come up with a few rants not based in fact that people would believe, like "Palin intends to use American troops as instruments of God's wrath and declares she'll invade Iran that same day if McCain leaves office." Believable because she called Iraq "a mission from God." It's easy to take one factor of a person's character and twist it into some apocalyptic vision of what their Presidency might look like.

And if I got that email about Palin? Even though I don't trust her, I would have to look it up. Candidates don't get where they are by making statements that would amount to political suicide, like doubling the middle-class income tax or declaring intent to invade every Muslim country on the map.

I'm not lamenting this Presidential race as the end of the Age of Reason--politics have ALWAYS been soaked in spook-propaganda and rumors that play to people's most basic fears in order to sway them to one side or the other. At least now we have the interenet and it's relatively easy to research claims in blog postings and internet emails.

Silly Rabbit

2008-09-15T18:56:00.002-05:00

What the hell's wrong with me? I'd just waxed poetic about some "Be who you are" bullshit, then turn around and try to act all Southern-belle for this unfailingly polite man. Who didn't seem to care about the rant last Friday, as we had lunch today.

But even if not? Best to find out now.

Well, I'm not acting all Southern belle, per se, but I am trying to mind my manners a bit. Law school isn't the Army and when in Rome, do as the Romans do, or be cast out. Or kicked out. He's one of those old-school Southern men with those impeccable, genuine manners and wouldn't know how to have it any other way in their own behavior.

OH who the hell knows, maybe he's been on his best behavior as well.

Damn Turret's!!

2008-09-14T13:22:00.005-05:00

I love law school. I really do, I'm not just saying that. Although some leisure time would be nice and I'm down to 2-3x a week at the gym. Seriously, this law school thing is like having two full-time jobs. If I lose fitness, I can get it back. If I don't make the grades I want--and it's HUGELY important in law school--I can't take that back.

Besides, the walk from my car to the law building is like the damn Bataan Death March--about fifty pounds of books and Mississippi late-summer heat. I'm still slowly losing weight, maybe because I'm too busy to think much about food, other than to throw everything in my fridge that once lived onto the grill every few days. I bring filet mignon with gorgeous grill marks, marinated in lime, cilantro, and chipotle, and some people in the student lounge look like I've just produced a crack pipe and a lighter.

I did join the nicer gym across town. It's not the drive or the expense that keeps me from going more, it's the mountain of work that I cannot get behind on.

OK, Funniest Moment in Law School So Far:

One of my professors is this wonderful, old school Mississippi lawyer, probably in his mid-to-late seventies. Think seersucker suit, hat, bourbon on the front porch. We're talking Old School in that wonderful way that made me chuckle in admiration when the Chief Justice of the Mississippi Supreme Court came to speak to us in a fine suit and cowboy boots. He sounded like a preacher and I was prepared to testify by the time he finished...praise Jesus!!

So we're discussing this 1970 case, Breunig v. American Family Ins. Co., in which the plaintiff was injured when struck head on by one Mrs. Erma Veith. See, Erma followed a "white light," which was Christ incarnate come down to guide her to the light, as God controlled the steering wheel (I swear I'm not making this up), pulled into the lane of highway with oncoming traffic, saw Mr. Breunig's truck approach, and sped up because, "I can fly like Batman."

So the question was, can you be negligent if you're insane? Turns out, yes you can, if there was reason to believe you may be insane and folks let you (or you know, GOD) drive your Batmobile anyway.

So then all the What If's started. Sometimes I quite like the what-if's, sometimes they get on my nerves...usually, I'm wondering the same thing and I'm glad someone else is asking.

So someone behind me started tiptoeing around the what if you're mentally handicapped question, fumbling for the right words to say and not be offensive to anyone who may have a little brother with Down Syndrome or something.

The professor looked a bit befuddled, then said, "Uh, are you talking about a retard?"

People, I know it's wrong. I would never say it myself. But it was so unexpected, I just burst out laughing and couldn't quit. And I'm sitting here at my computer giggling...it's so wrong. But damn it's funny.

I'm sorry, I'm a bad person...but I cannot quit laughing about it.

And another Turret's moment, this one purely mine. I had a very nice date Friday night with someone I have always thought had real potential. Very attractive, smart, never been married, the whole package. And in my usual spirit of self-sabotage, I straight blew it.

We walked around the Square to watch all the Friday night drunks out on the curb, talking about what used to be where (we actually went to the same high school and we're close to the same age), how Forrester's used to be next to the Oxford Eagle before it was farther down Jackson and after it was down the hill where it's all condos now, City Grocery used to be Syd and Harry's and still has the best shrimp and grits in town, etc.

So we're having a perfectly lovely evening and I'm on my best behavior, because I like this guy, I don't want to screw it up by showing him my now-inappropriate, Army soldier side, the gallows humor and the potty mouth and saying outrageous things because people in the DoD just don't offend easily. They just don't. In fact, that rough edge is pretty highly prized among rough people.

But these are not rough people. This is the South. I know that, and I swear I'm working on it.

Then we ran into a friend of his who is, as far as I can tell, much more liberal than I am. I vote Democrat, but I don't really like to argue about it and it's not a central theme in my life, even in an election year. I'm actually pretty moderate--I'm all for increased drilling (both offshore and ANWR) I own two pistols, and I still don't know what I think about immigration except something's got to stem the flow. I wouldn't have spent so long in the Army and DoD if I were some flaming liberal.

I have my opinions, they're based on all the years of experience doing every conceivable thing (chef, waitress, sculptor, soldier, teacher), but I really don't need to shout about it all on the mountaintop. I'll discuss it if the topic comes up, but I'm not usually the one to initiate that conversation with people I don't know well. I got used to that in the Army--that was about like being in Mississippi, as far as politics go.

So his friend mentioned Sarah Palin and started going off. Then I chime in with my Turret's-induced rant about her as Commander-in-Chief. And as a former soldier who spent 3.5 years in combat, I'm well entitled to that opinion.

But I should not have been so...I dunno, unladylike, shrill, nutty, adamant, whatever. I didn't curse, which is fortunate, given how strongly I feel about it (come ON people, "We're close to Russia???") but I may have said, um, disaster, book-banning Jesus freak, McCain's old and could drop dead, what the hell was he thinking, etc.

Doh!!

And then I looked at my date. He was uncomfortable. He may have even been fairly horrified. It was one of those oh-hell-I-really-just-stepped-in-it moments.

Um, can I take all that back?

I am, without a doubt, in one of the reddest of the red states and probability is always high that anyone I'm talking to LOVES Palin. My date does not, but I could tell I'd been pretty undiplomatic about it. Which sucks great big donkey balls (there's that soldier again), because I really am good about discussing things much more delicately, even things that really piss me off. Especially with other reasonable people, which he clearly is.

Another thing he clearly is? Not a rough person. Double damn.

I think her selection touches a nerve with me. I think it's astonishingly disrespectful to claim enough foreign policy experience to make life-and-death decisions based on such silliness. It's disrespectful to the military whose lives get irrevocably altered--or taken--by the decisions made by a Commander-in-Chief.

No recovering from that one, I'm afraid. He is, of course, Republican (which doesn't bother me a bit), and I haven't heard from him since. Triple damn.

I wonder if my professor had that instant oh-hell feeling?

Slogging Along

2008-09-07T09:05:00.003-05:00

The first week of my new law school gig, I completely blew off the gym. BAD soldier!!

I'm back in there now, but I may need to look around for a different gym. I love going on the weekends because it's usually damn near empty. But yesterday, all these big guys had taken over, monopolized all the weights and the whole area, and the worst part of all--they all dripped sweat all over the equipment, and I never once saw one of them grab a towel and take care of business. The nerve!!!

And then I looked around--there were none of the usual "Be Considerate, Wipe Equipment Down" admonishments. There is only one spray bottle, it's nowhere near the weights, and there's one ratty-looking washcloth with it. Wiping up your disgusting body waste wasn't listed in the gym rules that were posted. All the equipment is brand-new and I like this gym because it's relatively cheap and on my side of town. But is it worth it when the culture (and management) there does nothing to encourage cleanliness?

I joined for two months to check it out, and my trial membership expires in about a week. I'm seriously thinking of switching to the much more posh gym across town, which has fewer young students, more locals and professionals, and looks like a spa. It's much less convenient, considerably more expensive...but possibly worth it. The gym I use now is a sorority/fraternity meat market mid-day.

I actually skipped two exercises yesterday because I was so grossed out by all that sweat on the equipment. Normally, I would've just sprayed the crap out of it and wiped it down, but the guys were all black and I was somewhat afraid of looking like a total assclown white bitch sterilizing the equipment. I am, after all, in Mississippi, and I'm very cognizant of How Things Look. Silly, I know, but believe me, I can absolutely see how the perception would be negative, especially since I had only half-heartedly wiped down the non-sweat-covered equipment before hopping on.

So, gag reflex at the gym vs. longer drive and more expensive? I can afford the expense and the longer drive. So I'll try it for a couple of weeks and see how much I mind the inconvenience.

I'm still trying to run, by the way, but my damn knees are not cooperating. I feel great while I run--I stick to only 15 minutes a couple of times a week--but later? Getting out of the chair is a little crunchy. I need to get to an orthopedic surgeon and see what can be done--I've spent over three years trying to self-help with weights to strengthen the surrounding muscles, knee braces, etc. It's helped a bit, since they don't hurt when I walk, but I have to wonder if I'm going to end up unable to crouch in the garden at some point. Hell, I can leg press over 220 pounds, I don't think the muscles need any more strengthening.

Wish me luck! This fitness/not-fatness thing is a constant struggle, but worth every modicum of effort. I bought some size 8 Levi's last week and I feel like a minor goddess wearing them on Piglet. Now, if only I could get rid of this damn belly once and for all...

2008-09-04T19:15:00.014-05:00

Before paint and flooring.

After. Amazing what color will do.

My home has always been the thing I'm willing to spend the most time and money on, after spending copious amounts of both, it's my nest, my pride and joy. I left my parents' house in 1988, and I've been accumulating bits and pieces ever since.

It's nothing special that I've done. Well, except the rugs, they all came from Afghanistan and Iraq and would've been too expensive otherwise. I inherited a couple of nice antiques from my folks, but the rest has been piecemeal--a little extra money at the end of the month meant I could replace the crappy old coffee table with something sleeker.

The point is, I lived very small all through my twenties, worked my ass off in the Army, and after twenty years of gathering and improving on what I had, I ended up with a very comfortable place to nest. I'll never take it for granted.

And really, at 38? If you haven't been able to get it together (and not just home-wise), you're probably doing something wrong. Or not wrong, but you could be doing it better if you were willing to work hard and always keep your eyes on the future when the present becomes a struggle.

I think the same principle applies to school. I wasn't trying to boast or sound cavalier in my last post--I'm just fortunate to have worked long, hard days in the past. I have a different basis for comparison. I can see how it could seem overwhelming--I would've been completely punked out by this stuff if I'd gone to law school at 22.

Law, at least so far, is strikingly similar to intelligence in many ways--there are rules, procedures, databases, writing, etc. While it's like drinking from the firehose, it somehow feels familiar.

I'm not exceptionally smart, I just work hard and always have--so the skills I have now are the cumulative effect of all the problem-solving, years of research, and standing in front of cantankerous senior infantry officers to tell them things they didn't want to hear. You learn to be VERY well prepared, anticipate the issues and questions, so you don't get caught stammering through it in front of a huge audience, most of whom already assume you're incompetent just by virtue of being female. I don't expect that dynamic is the sole domain of the military--I'm sure it'll rear its ugly head from time to time in law...maybe not in school, but I'd bet it's out there.

Although screwing up in law school holds no real consequences to anyone but the screwer-up. Getting something wrong in intel could translate to a casualty. Or several casualties. That threat has a way of forcing one to pay very close attention.

I'm accustomed to paying that kind of close attention to both details and concepts, big picture and small, simultaneously and thoroughly. I didn't come to the table with any inherent advantages, except maybe a lifelong love of reading and writing. I had to work at it, earn it, and at some points, go through absolute hell for it. Iraq in 2004-2005 will forever stand in my mind as the lowest point in my life--I just cannot imagine anything coming close to it.

So right now, I'm beginning to really come into the fruits of hard labor--many difficult years just now paying off. Maybe that's why I enjoy it so much, take so much pride in it. Anything you've had to really work and sacrifice for feels so much more satisfying once you attain it.

Just Be Who You Are

2008-08-29T19:35:00.004-05:00

Law school so far—manageable. Distinctly manageable. It’s a lot of work, but I’m still usually finished by 8pm and I have time to do stuff. I’m sure it’ll get more intense at some point, but right now? I’m thinking it’s actually not as overwhelming as I’d imagined.

And I think I’m going to be really good at it. Everything just makes sense. Every question the professors pose in class, I not only know the answer, I pretty much know why he’s asking it and where he’s headed with it. I just plain get it.

My classmates—at first, it seemed no one knew quite how to talk to me, or assumed I was a little bit bitchy, or on my part, being so completely unlike anyone else brings out my inner introvert (pun intended), who knows? I'm more comfortable talking to the professors, which shouldn't be a shocker--I'm probably closer in age to many of them than to my fellow 1L's. But we’re all warming up to each other and I like everyone. I can honestly say I have not met one person I don't like. Maybe that’ll change over the course of three years, but the thing I didn’t expect is how tight-knit the legal community here is. It’s a bit like an Army unit—there’s that instant recognition, you’re here, so you must be one of us. I really like that aspect of it.

On the "Be who you are" theme, I need to keep that in mind. I don't much fit in here, but I'm starting to think I won't really fit in much anywhere these days...and is that really a huge shift? Hasn't that always been the case to a certain degree?

I am enjoying this radical scenery shift...except MAN do I miss that gym fulla hotties!!!

Ode to Piglet

2008-08-18T21:01:00.003-05:00

I spent the entire morning replacing the battery on Piglet, my Harley. Motorcycles, I quickly found, are a huge pain in the ass to work on, despite everything being right there where you can see it. You can SEE it all, but it's all just crammed into that little bit of space and you may not be able to get to the stuff you need, even though you can see it. It's right there, why can't I get this screw to go into the right place??

The first battery I bought had the poles reversed, and the cables are just exactly long enough, no room for error. And no, you can't just flip the battery around. So I brought that one back and drove out to a little place on the highway, hoping they had the right one. They did. To the tune of 120 clams. For a battery that's smaller than a brick.

I didn't care. By this time, I just wanted to ride. It was a gorgeous day--low humidity, dazzling sunshine, comfortable temperature.

Installing the new battery seemed like it'd be a breeze--just pop it back in, right? Well, the battery compartment is very tight and tucked under all this other stuff. So attaching the negative cable became an exercise in ingenuity...three screwdrivers to hold stuff in place while I tried to get the screw through the end of the cable, through the hole in the terminal, and into the damn nut positioned inside, a little wad of papertowel stuffed under the nut to hold it there, some chewing gum...just kidding, no chewing gum. Although maybe it would've helped.

It took almost an hour to strongarm that cable into place, but at least I didn't pay anyone to do it for me or shock myself right to the emergency room.

So I finally suited up and got on the little lady. It's been a long time since I was able to ride for more than a quick couple of minutes--well, it's been since I left Arizona in March 2007.

Piglet felt funny. I wondered if I'd lost every bit of my riding skill...it felt like I teetered on the edge of disaster. Then I remembered that she's been sitting idle for more than a year--which means low tires. I went back for my tire gauge...and holy crraap, the front wheel was down to 15 psi. Recommended is 36 front, 38 rear...easy for me to remember, since my hips are 38" and my chest is 36". I rode to the service station at about 15 MPH and pissed off every single driver between my house and the BP. But there was no way in hell I was pulling off onto the gravel shoulder with those tires. I probably would've wiped right out.

As soon as the tires were properly inflated, I headed back towards my house. I live just off one of the many adorable country roads that lead to Sardis Lake, a rather large body of water you'll see if you look at any terrain map of Mississippi. It's the big finger in the north-center of the state.

It felt amazing. I focused on every sensation--the wind wrapping my t-shirt around my torso, the wind on my face, the deep hum of the bike, the dazzling green kudzu fields, small farms. I just meandered down any road that looked shaded and inviting, and I ended up riding all afternoon. I put over 200 country-road miles on the bike. This is a gorgeous area and I'd forgotten how pretty the country is when you get outside Oxford and down those little winding roads.

Then I came home and made 40...yes, that's FORTY..baby cupcakes. As in, one bite each. My birthday is Saturday and I figured I'd get my cake fix now. I'm already sick of them and I'm wondering if I can bring them to orientation and unload them on a hundred and fifty strangers. Oh, wait...I ate three, so only 37 strangers. Maybe they'd fight over them. We could end up with a Geraldo vs. Skinheads projectile-chair situation. Which would fucking rock.

So orientation starts Wednesday and I was completely irresponsible in all respects today. I didn't even go to the gym. I have tons of reading to do tomorrow, and even more over the weekend. And I didn't quite finish the den...there's still a largish area that needs paint. Tomorrow will be busy.

But irresponsible is exactly what a motorcycle is, top to bottom. And it feels SO good.

On It Like a NY Governor...The Month in Pictures

2008-08-17T18:43:00.008-05:00

The Problem:
Yeah, the assclown who installed the tub and sink in my bathroom smeared some goddamn latex caulk shit all over the place, obviously using his finger to smear it on. But with this pretty light sage? Oh, it had to GO. And as I discovered, you can't paint over it.

So I got to scraping and peeling it off with a straight razor. It took over two days and the blue putty knife is for the spackling I had to use to patch up the little spots where I had to go under a couple of layers of wallpaper to get all the bullshit latex sloppiness off. I H*A*T*E shoddy workmanship. I don't think I've cursed this much since I left the Army. This is actually after scraping and spackling and repainting...see the nice, clean line? The previous color was the same as the tub, so it wasn't so noticeable. I'm thinking that's why the former homeowner found Assclown Plumber's work acceptable. I would've had his ass right back in there scraping and recaulking the whole thing.
Here's how I dealt with it. I drank. At this point, I had two open bottles, one of each flavor. Maybe drinking several Mike's Lemonades while angry with a straight razor in hand is not the prudent way to go about it. But hell, it worked.
The result: just ignore the lingerie hanging on the right side. Nothing to see here.

And here's the guest apartment. There's a full kitchen adjacent to the little cafe table room.

The bedroom of the guest apartment. That's my desk, where I'll do most of my studying for law school. What a luxury, to have a separate, pretty space for studying.

And here's the den color, one color up/lighter on the paint chip card. And that's Moonpie. As of next week, that white carpet (White? Why? It just gets dirty!) will be replaced with hardwood, the same color as the trim and windowsill. And then I'm done for awhile. Well, after I find a good grill on sale.

Yes, I've been busy. I'll take some shots of the bedroom next.

2008-08-17T14:24:00.002-05:00

I've already lost 1.5 of the 5 pounds. I'm not starving myself, just watching the carbs, working out, and expending tons of calories painting the den.

I heard through the grapevine that both my Civil Procedure and Torts classes have already posted reading assignments, due the first day of class. Are you kidding me? And given that I don't presently hang out in the law school, I'll have to make a special trip over there to copy down the assignments...seems they could go out on email like everything else, but there you have it. I have the advantage of access to all the knowledge and expertise of several friends who are either currently in law school here, or finished recently...so I have all their class notes, and one of them kindly alerted me to the reading assignments. I'll take any advantage I can get. And if I'm one of about four people who've prepared for Day One? Even better. Muuuuwaaaahhh hhaa haaa.

Orientation begins this Wednesday. I'm actually excited--I've read the cases and they are actually pretty fun to read. I'm sure it won't always be like this, but they're like great little short stories that are true and folks' dirty laundry got aired in the public courtroom. People do some crazy shit. One of the cases was argued in 1875 and that's even more fun to read--the language is so stilted and formal, when they're telling a story of drunken debauchery and social disapproval, 19-century small town-Mississippi style. Big fun.

I also heard last week that there's a guy named Jason entering the 1L class who is also an OIF vet. I'll have to seek this guy out and swap war stories.

Not SO Bad...

2008-08-13T14:18:00.002-05:00

I got on the scale this morning, and the disaster wasn't quite so catastrophic...I gained 5 pounds on vacation. Seems to me that if you go on vacation and gain no weight, maybe you didn't do it right!

So I stepped off the scale, donned my gym clothes, and hit the weights. I will be rid of the 5 pounds within two weeks.

So I saw another questionnaire on another blog, and I liked it much better than mine. And I kept one of her answers, so there.

1. My uncle once: commanded a company in the Solomon Islands in WWII. Well, he was my great uncle, but he was also an intelligence officer (like me). Wouldn't talk about the Solomon experience...I'm of the impression that it was very, very bad.

2. Never in my life: have I cheated on a man. And since I don't date women, I haven't cheated on any of them, either.

3. When I was five: my favorite pair of shoes were red Keds, and they had to be worn with blue jeans and a white shirt, so I'd be all red, white, and blue.

4. High school was: hell, for the most part, especially after #8.

5. I will never forget: how much shittier things can be when they seem bad. When my ceilings collapsed in Arizona, all I could think was, well, at least I'm not in Iraq. Some experiences have a way of giving you a whole new yardstick by which to measure everything that follows, ever.

6. Once I met: Willem Dafoe. It was in NYC in 1991 as I stood outside a bus counting kids. It was raining and he handed me his umbrella. His son, Jack, was at the camp where I was a counselor/instructor in Maine. Jack was a really sweet kid, very fastidious about washing his hands, who said he wanted to be a screen writer when he grew up.

7. There’s this boy I know: got shot in the leg in Iraq and doesn't even limp. And I bet he's even sexier since it happened--I never knew him before.

8. Once, at a bar: I was told my younger brother was dead and I needed to go wake up my parents, who were asleep and couldn't hear the phone. I was woefully under aged and had no idea what I was supposed to do with that information, since there was no way in hell I was going to be the one to tell them their youngest kid was dead.

9. By noon, I’m usually: done with my workout and working on the house. Which is what I should be doing right now, not drinking a Mike's Hard Lemonade and playing online poker.

10. Last night: I returned from Florida, made an even bigger mess in my bedroom, and watched World Series of Poker.

11. If only I had: a little more money for law school. If I run out, I am HOSED.

12. Next time I go to church: it'll be for either a wedding or another funeral. I don't generally go to church. Nothing against it, but there are things I like to do on Sunday morning...drink coffee, make breakfast, go to the gym, then screw off. In about a week, studying and prepping case briefs will replace the screwing off part.

13. What worries me most: running out of money. It happened to me in New Orleans in 1997 before I joined the Army, and I never want to root through the sofa cushions for enough money to get to work.

14. When I turn my head left I see: a Persian rug, a big lilly, two bookcases, black and white photographs, all on the dark sage walls with red-brown suede curtains. My bedroom also has four large windows. It's easily the nicest bedroom I've ever had.

15. When I turn my head right I see: honeysuckle that grew over one window, completely covering it but giving the room a soft, green glow. Also, one very portly sleeping gray cat. She appears to grin. I know the feeling.

16. You know I’m lying when: I trip myself up with a contradictory lie exactly two sentences later.

17. What I miss most about the Eighties is: nothing, really. Be a teenager again and/or work for minimum wage ($3.35 at the time)? Oh HELL no.

18. If I were a character in Shakespeare I’d be: none of them. I don't think they had women like me (or anyone else I know, for that matter) back then, and NO I wouldn't be Lady Macbeth.

19. By this time next year: I'll be 1/3 of the way through law school and clerking at a good law firm here.

20. A better name for me would be: ...I'm thinking...

21. I have a hard time understanding: why anyone really thought the Chinese would change in any meaningful way. Or why anyone's surprised they had a "cuter" little girl lip synch at the opening ceremonies...it's one of the most sexist societies on Earth and if a girl ain't cute enough, there's no way they're parading her around.

22. If I ever go back to school, I’ll: umm, I did just go back to school. It's already surreal.

23. You know I like you if: I call you Mamacita. If you're male and I call you Sweetpea or Sugarbritches, that means I probably LIKE you.

24. If I ever won an award, the first person I would thank would be: my coworkers and/or subordinates. They're usually about 85% responsible for whatever you did anyway. Unless it was something non-work related...in which case, what the hell would I get an award for?

25. Take my advice, never: get a tattoo while you're drunk. I did it in 1991 and recently reached the point where it faded enough to look icky. I needed to either get it removed, or get it fixed. I got it fixed. I now sport a dark green ginkgo leaf with white veins and a vibrant purple design behind it on my upper right arm. Looks loads better. I'll probably add a couple more ginkgo leaves, gold ones, like the color they turn in the fall. Why would I remove it, just because I'm going to be an attorney?

26. My ideal breakfast is: coffee, waffles or pancakes, eggs, all of it. Since I'm trying hard to reduce the carbs, I stick with the eggs and coffee.

27. A song I love but do not have is: that one with the line "I don't feel like dancin' no sir no dancin' today." I love it, but have no idea who sings it. Anyone?

OK, nevermind, I just found it. Scissor Sisters. Love it, love it, love it. It's downloading now. Another really good one for the workout playlist: Flight of the Conchords, Ladies of the World. Outstanding.

28. If you visit my hometown, I suggest you: come over to my house and have a drink on the porch.

29. Why won’t people: vote??

30. If you spend a night at my house: you'll have your own private apartment, very pretty.

31. I’d stop my wedding for: the part where I wake up with heaving bosom and sweating brow and say "thank god, thank god. It was just a dream." If I ever do get married, it'll be an Elvis impersonator in Vegas, via drive-thru, in a rented 1969 Mustang convertible. I'm not kidding.

32. The world could do without: politicians over 65, especially if they haven't done anything else for more than twenty years. Out with the old, in with the new, and I'd rather have folks in there who haven't completely lost touch with the lives of regular Americans. More Iraq-Afghanistan vets, please. The one politician who's done anything that directly affected me in any positive way was Jim Webb, OIF vet, freshman Senator, who sponsored and pushed the new GI Bill through.

33. I’d rather lick the belly of a cockroach than: live in a tent again.

34. My favorite blonds are: Daniel Craig. Hubba hubba. Can't really think of anyone else...I keep picturing Cindy McCain, and I don't really feel one way or the other about her, even though she did have that terribly bourgeois pain-pill addiction.

35. Paper clips are more useful than: most of the crap on TV.

36. If I do anything well it’s: because I worked at it. Very little comes naturally.

37. I can’t help but: say really inappropriate things to/around people who don't know me well enough to understand how to take it. Not that I really care, but there it is.

38. I usually cry: I do not. Where did you hear that?

39. My advice to my nephew/niece: do well enough in school for big scholarships. You DO NOT want to graduate with more than about $20K in student loans.

40. And by the way: I've squandered my afternoon on the internet. *Sigh* Guess all that work on the house will still be there tomorrow. Which is kind of the point. Damn.

Aftermath

2008-08-11T17:56:00.002-05:00

So two weeks ago, I was all cocky and smug, having lost 25 pounds and brought my BMI back down to the normal range. I started running again! I can do pullups!

And then I went on vacation.

*Sigh*

We're still in Palm Beach. I went to the gym this morning and got on the scale. Oh. Mah. Holy. Hell. Ya'll. I regained ten fucking pounds in one fucking week!!!

All my good habits go out the window on vacation. I eat until food coma, I don't work out, I'm apt to sit at a poker table all day (like today...but it was so fun!) or loll around the room after ordering several of the sugariest, shittiest frozen alocholic beverages the room key can buy.

Saving grace--I rarely eat out at home, and that's where the problem here has lain. I won't have access to Cuban, Brazilian, or seafood once we leave here, so I must've adopted that famine mentality...eat it now, you won't see it again!

And no it's not all waterweight. I can look at myself in the mirror and SEE the belly growth. No shit. And I tried running on the treadmill here? Everything jiggled.

OK, these things happen. Losing weight and maintaining the loss will always be a journey marked with successes and failures. It will never not be hard. The pass-or-fail part is how you react to the setbacks, not that you never have them in the first place. Recenter and refocus, take a deep breath, don't keep anything tempting in the house, stay busy enough to not think about eating all the time.

Sounds simple, right?

RIGHT??!!??

2008-08-03T18:46:00.003-05:00

Here's a survey making the rounds on the net:

What time did you get up this morning? 6:30...I tend to get up pretty early, even on vacation
Diamonds or pearl ? Why would anyone ever have to chose? I have and wear both.
What was the last film you saw at the cinema? The Dark Knight, like everyone else in America.
What is your favorite TV show? Curb Your Enthusiasm
What do you usually have for breakfast? 2 soft-boiled eggs, bacon, toast
What is your middle name? Elizabeth
What food do you dislike? I just tried Pringles Minis, the 100-calorie pouch, and it tastes like nuclear waste. I had to brush my teeth to get rid of it, and the taste STILL won't go away. It's disgusting.
What is your favorite CD at the moment? Lucinda Williams--The Ocean
What kind of car do you drive? Nissan Altima SE-R, and it's paid for!
Favorite sandwich? The Boudreaux at Old Venice Pizza here in Oxford--crawfish tails, spicy creole sauce....it is just divine.
What characteristic do you despise? Flightiness ranks up there. Passive aggressiveness. And they often go hand-in-hand.
Favorite item of clothing? My slinky, silky little red, black, and cream print top...nice and cool, makes me look skinny!
If you could go anywhere in the world on vacation, where would you go? This is a tough one...Australia, dive the Great Barrier Reef
Where would you retire to? Key West, but only if I were rich enough for a cool house and a helicopter on call for hurricane evacuations.
What was your most recent memorable birthday? My last one, the 37th, in Baghdad...partied like a rock star, surrounded by gorgeous men at "Mantasy Island"
When is your birthday? August 23, so in a couple of weeks. I plan to bake myself a great big layer cake with fluffy vanilla icing. I'm cutting back on sugar, but birthday cake is always an exception.
Morning person or a night person? Definitely morning.
What is your shoe size? 8
Pets? Moonpie, my 10-year-old Greyhound; Esther, 5-year-old cat; Claire, 4-year-old cat. All came from adoption agencies or animal shelters.
Any exciting news you’d like to share with us? Going to Tampa and Palm Beach this week. Woohoo!
What did you want to be when you were little? Teacher or astronaut
How are you today? Good--worked out this morning (always sets the tone), worked on my house. A good day.
What is your favorite flower? Daylillies of many colors and shapes.
What is a day on the calendar you are looking forward to seeing? Week of Thanksgiving--that'll be my first break from law school and I'll have settled into it by then. Plus, I love the festive season, now that I'm home with family and not in some crappy military town.
What are you listening to right now? All Things Considered
What was the last thing you ate? Those horrid Pringles. Dinner was WW baked ziti and a big plate of steamed green beans with garlic butter. Yum!
Do you wish on stars? Sure, why not?
If you were a crayon, what color would you be? Purple.
How is the weather right now? My favorite--thunderstorm brewing.
Last person you spoke to on the phone? Some dame asking about my recent identity theft incident--I caught it the day it happened. Spirit Airlines, which I've never ever heard of, charged my debit card for about $400 of airline tickets and some scam "Spirit Promotions" bullshit. USAA, being the awesome bank they are, immediately cancelled my card, FedExed me a new one, and refunded all the charges. I have no idea who those idiots got my card number--I'm very careful.
Favorite soft drink? Draft cherry Coke, and it has to be from the fountain.
Favorite restaurant? Hmm...there are so many good ones here. Probably Ajax, southern food--"Steaks for the ladies and gravy for the babies." Or Corky's BBQ in Memphis. Heaven.
Favorite color? Shouldn't the crayon question cover this? Purple, but I don't paint my walls with it or anything.
What was your favorite toy as a child? Books, believe it or not. But those aren't really toys. Stuffed Snoopy with all kinds of little outfits to dress him in.
Summer or winter? Love 'em both. When I was fat, I liked winter better because I hated seeing all that refrigerated biscuit dough in shorts and t-shirt. I'm back to loving them both since reaching size 8.
Chocolate or Vanilla? Again, why choose? Ice cream=vanilla, cake=chocolate.
Coffee or tea? I can take a position on this one...coffee. But I still love tea.
When was the last time you cried? Not sure, it's been awhile since I had anything to cry about. It was probably last spring in Baghdad after things got really weird with a man I REALLY liked. But now it's one of those good periods in life, and I know to relish it while it lasts.
What is under your bed? A beautiful Persian carpet that's just too big and thick to put down on top of the berber carpet. It's folded up and vacuum-sealed.
What did you do last night? Watched the big-ass thunderstorm and played online poker.
What are you afraid of? Rejection, running out of money, looking older, gaining weight
Salty or sweet? *Sigh* Trying hard to cut back on sugar, because I know it goes straight to my belly. So as much as I love sweet, I'm having to recalibrate to salty.
How many keys on your key ring? Three--house, car, guest apartment.
How many years at your current job? I am currently *yikes* an unemployed, full-time law school student.
Favorite day of the week? Saturday=Farmer's Market and best NPR shows.
Do you make friends easily? When I like the person I've just met, yes.

Chicken-Ham Lasagna

2008-08-03T06:53:00.003-05:00

I thought I'd share some of the recipes I'm using in my quest not to regain my 6.5 BMI points. I've made this one about five times and it's just fabulous. There are all kinds of little tweaks you can make, too--the last time I made it, I left out the ham and added morels and olives. It was gorgeous. It's a white sauce--basically an alfredo, not the traditional tomato, and the serving size is definitely satisfying. It's from Cooking Light, my favorite source of recipes:

Chicken-Ham Lasagna

To shorten prep time, skin, bone, and shred rotisserie chicken; add to sauce.

2 cups fat-free, less-sodium chicken broth

1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper, divided

1 pound skinless, boneless chicken breast, cut into bite-sized pieces, divided

3 cups 1% low-fat milk

1/3 cup all-purpose flour (about 1 1/2 ounces)

1 1/2 cups (6 ounces) freshly grated Parmesan cheese, divided

1/4 cup chopped fresh parsley

Cooking spray

12 no-cook lasagna noodles (8 ounces), divided

8 ounces thinly sliced 96% fat-free deli ham, chopped, divided

Chopped fresh parsley (optional)

Preheat oven to 350°.

Place broth and 1/4 teaspoon pepper in a large skillet over medium-high heat, and bring to a boil. Add chicken; cover, reduce heat, and simmer 10 minutes or until chicken is done. Remove chicken from pan with a slotted spoon; set aside.

Combine milk, flour, and remaining 1/4 teaspoon pepper in a bowl; stir well with a whisk until smooth. Add milk mixture to broth in pan. Bring mixture to a boil over medium-high heat, stirring constantly. Cook 1 minute or until mixture thickens, stirring constantly. Remove from heat. Add 1 cup cheese and parsley, stirring until cheese melts.

Spread 1 cup sauce over bottom of a 13 x 9-inch baking dish coated with cooking spray. Arrange 3 lasagna noodles over sauce. Spoon 3/4 cup sauce evenly over noodles. Top evenly with one-third ham and one-third chicken. Repeat layers twice, ending with noodles. Top with remaining sauce. Sprinkle evenly with remaining 1/2 cup cheese.

Cover with foil very lightly coated with cooking spray; bake at 350° for 30 minutes. Remove and discard foil; bake 10 minutes or until the cheese lightly browns. Sprinkle with parsley, if desired.

Wine note: With a cue from the dish's overall unfussy character, the ideal wine needs to be inexpensive and uncomplicated. One of my favorite "comfort wines" to go with a comfort food like this is Australian shiraz. Annie's Lane Shiraz 2002 from Australia's Clare Valley ($15) is a simple blast of berriness with a soft texture. -Karen MacNeil

Yield: 8 servings

CALORIES 260 (24% from fat); FAT 7g (sat 3.7g,mono 2g,poly 0.8g); IRON 1.9mg; CHOLESTEROL 57mg; CALCIUM 295mg; CARBOHYDRATE 18g; SODIUM 740mg; PROTEIN 28.9g; FIBER 0.8g Cooking Light, JANUARY 2006

It's Confirmed, I'm Back to Normal

2008-07-29T19:19:00.002-05:00

I looked up my BMI today...and for the first time since early 2003, I'm no longer overweight. My BMI is down to 24.1, squarely in the "healthy/normal" range. A year ago? It was 28.5, approaching outright obese. I'm down a full 25 pounds, and my BMI is probably not entirely accurate, given the muscle I've built.

So after seeing my BMI, I decided to try running again for the first time since 2005, when I left the Army and was told my right knee was beyond repair. I figure, 25 pounds lighter means about a hundred fewer pounds of pressure on the knees when running. So I ran for 15 minutes at the end of my workout today.

And it felt GREAT. Nothing hurt. And even better? Nothing jiggled. I used to HATE running when I could feel my belly doing a full figure-8. I could even feel my ASS moving when I had all that extra weight. Not very motivating...it literally felt like dragging ass.

But today, it felt like it did when I loved to run, before I put on the weight in New York. Well, I can't run for an hour like I used to--don't want to aggravate the arthritic knee--but it made me think that if I keep it down to 10-15 minutes a day, I can probably knock out one weekly run of about 30 minutes--which means running outside this fall. The occasional 5K for fun.

It puts another tool back in my box and I couldn't be happier. I could stand to knock off another 20 pounds, and this could be the jump start I needed to reach the next level.

Other than working out religiously and ensuring I keep losing weight and not putting it back on, I've been working on the house. Painting, unpacking, cleaning up all the little clutter and messes that accumulated both in my absence and in the scant couple of weeks I spent in the house before deploying. I just never fully settled in, and that's what I'm doing now. Nesting. I've painted the guest apartment and my bedroom, and all the boxes have either been unpacked or moved into the storage shed.

And it looks fabulous. There's still plenty to do before school starts next month and I may not get it all done--I'll probably have to choose the den or kitchen to paint the lovely light copper I picked out. But it feels like a neat, clean, functional home. It feels finished. I have a gorgeous desk out in the garage apartment where I'll do all my studying, and I really went all out--painted the walls a gorgeous terra cotta, bought very nice tan suede furniture and bedding, hung all the pictures. And it looks like a place where I'll enjoy spending a great deal of time...which is a big part of staying motivated to study, just having a cozy environment for it.

So I'm ready for school, which will start the week after I return from my Florida vacation with my sister. Life is good. I read an article once about how mood is directly influenced by environment--a messy room exacerbates depression, etc. I believe it. Since the house really started coming together, my doubts about coming back here and making this career change have largely dried up. I know I'm doing the right thing.

Window Seat Acrobatics

2008-07-11T01:56:00.003-05:00

The flight to Amsterdam was uneventful and after waiting several hours for the next leg to Atlanta, I was asked if I traveled alone. Then I was pulled from the line, taken to a little room, and grilled for about fifteen minutes on my travel. I suppose that traveling alone from Kuwait is cause for suspicion. They started to get too specific about what I was doing in Iraq--I showed them my orders, which explain all they need to know, and they finally let me go.

I had the window seat next to another American woman traveling alone. Her name was Joanne and she'd been called off her Florida vacation to business in Amsterdam. She looked like one of the Indigo Girls, I don't remember which, and was in a foul mood before we even took off.

I ordered a margarita and she glanced sidelong at me, as if I might soon become a belligerent drunk. I explained that I was coming off a fifteen-month tour in Iraq and the margarita tasted splendid. It did. She didn't seem overly impressed with my explanation and the sidelong glance became a direct stink eye when I ordered a second. I wondered if she expected me to start in on some PTSD-fueled rant, like everyone who's ever been to Iraq is likely to do after a few drinks. She sighed as she crossed her arms over her chest, and went to sleep.

Even after two strong cocktails, I was able to climb over her to the aisle and on to the bathroom without rousing her. I knew that asking to get out would earn me another hairy eyeball and I wasn't in the mood for some pissy broad. I'd had no sleep and my broken tailbone barked at me from all the sitting around.

I returned to the seat and began the delicate climb back over her lap to my window seat. And naturally, she awoke just as I was spread out over her...and I almost made it. From her perspective, that first moment when you wake and figure out where you are must be even more disorienting when there's some half-drunk lady climbing all over you.

I'm horribly jetlagged, and speaking of that disorienting moment on waking, it took several seconds for me to figure out I'm in a rather nice hotel in Columbus, Georgia. It's 2am and I have to be on post in a certain location that I have yet to find at 5 am. So I'm about to check out and go to Walmart, make a CD to listen to on the way back up to Atlanta, find this place, and maybe nap in the car.

But I'm back in the land of the big Walmart and I'll be home-home tonight. *Whew*

The Departed

2008-07-09T09:40:00.002-05:00

Leaving the big building and all the people I've come to know and love was very emotional. The day I left was filled with Nerf gun shoot-outs and froggy comments about how much I curse and NOW who will call Kevin an asshole?

I managed not to cry as everyone lined up for good-bye hugs. It felt utterly surreal, even moreso as I climbed into the truck and drove through the International Zone for the last time. It still feels surreal--I imagine it will have this movie-feeling until I get fully settled back in my house. Fifteen months is a long time and I have to be patient with things at home, all the little things that will inevitably be different than I would have them.

When Jessie came back from leave, I found that I was no longer angry about the whole incident I blogged about earlier. I'd missed my friend and forgave her. It felt like it used to between us, when we were really close, and I already miss her. She plans to come visit me in Mississippi, as do several people, and having that furnished guest apartment will prove to be a huge plus for having visitors.

I hope there are many, but I have to work around law school--I understand that first year is a bitch.

So I fly out tonight, following the final insult of the trip--piling all my bags, which must weigh a couple hundred pounds total, on my back for the long trek to the bus station. There are no carts, it's gravel (so the wheeled carry-on is useless), and it'll still be over 115º this evening when it's time to duffel-bag drag.

I absolutely got my luggage down to the bare minimum by mailing stuff home. It's the goddamn equipment I was issued that has to be returned at Fort Benning, Georgia. It's a full duffel bag and weighs a TON. Without it, I only have the carry-on and a medium-sized suitcase. I shudder to think what the airline will charge me for the two checked bags. My company will reimburse it, but damn I hate dealing with it.

There's a four-hour layover in Amsterdam. The flight arrives there at 6 am and I'm hoping there's an open bar in the airport--a beer would taste lovely and I need to knock myself out for the 10-hour flight to Atlanta.

One more hurdle, then it's smooth sailing. Benning will likely prove an additional pain in the ass, but at least I'll be stateside and can find a Denny's, eat some fluffy pancakes and eggs. And the hotel will have a bathtub. Oh yes.

Egg Soup

2008-07-08T07:22:00.004-05:00

The first time I met Kuwait was June 2004 when my Infantry brigade landed here. We spent over three miserable weeks in full armor and gear training in the relentless desert in 130º heat. At the time, I compared it to Tatooine of Star Wars fame. And was promptly called a dork for knowing the name of the planet where Luke spent his early years with his uncle and auntie. I got called a dork just yesterday for rolling down my window at a checkpoint in the International Zone, waving my hand around, and telling the bewildered Peruvian guard, "These are not the droids you seek."

I digress.

I just disembarked from the miserable C-130 flight out of Baghdad International, during which I puked my guts into one of the little twistie-tie bags the Air Force supplies so the crew doesn't have to clean up the inevitable leavings of That One Person, there's one on EVERY flight, Who Pukes. And yes, ladies and gents, it's always me.

I know this, that I will always hurl on every military aircraft I ever board, but never once a commercial flight. So I don't eat before I fly military. Keeps things tidy and the little bag may or may not even contain anything for all anyone can tell when you sheepishly deposit it in the garbage bag held out by the raised-eyebrowed flight crew. Except that they know what's in there because they were talking about the puking redhead on their little headsets. Think I don't know what goes on? How could they NOT laugh about it? I had sweat pouring off my face onto the floor, I'm sure I went even whiter than usual, and I had to look miserable during the dry heaves that are the ugly little downside to not eating before an inevitable vomit session.

So here I am in Kuwait again. In July. It's over 130º and there's that wind, the feeling someone's following you with a blow dryer filled with sand. Or a heat gun. This is a miserable place.

As has always been my tradition, the first thing I did after recovering from the sickies and dragging my 200 pounds of baggage through the rocks to the crammed tent I'll sleep in tonight, was walk to the little McDonald's. I had not, after all, eaten all day. I ordered my favorite, the meal I found difficult to resist and so ate it three times a week while I lived in Arizona and gained a metric assload of weight--the two cheeseburger meal.

Those little cheeseburgers are like heroin. The pickles, the little dollop of ketchup, the minced onions, the soft little bun. I sat at a picnic table in the shade (there's no air-conditioned spot to eat), where it was maybe 120º. And you know what? It just didn't taste very good. Maybe it was the heat, but I've eaten in hotter--hell, I've gone running in hotter. I ate one of the two burgers, about a third of the fries, and pitched the rest. Well, except for the vanilla milkshake, that was ggoooooddd. I had the same experience when I came through here on my way home for vacation last November--it just wasn't all that.

Has fast food lost it's death-grip on me since I've been over here and haven't had access to it? I cannot imagine I'll ever NOT want a Chik-fil-a chicken biscuit...that's pure heaven. But the rest of it? I don't crave it, particularly. The foods I've missed the most have been pretty basic--real eggs cooked well (i.e., not rubberized), and a cold glass of 2% milk. Homegrown maters.

My favorite egg preparation and the first thing I'll eat when I get home, is what an old boyfriend called "Egg Soup." I boil them very soft, the yokes with a layer of cooked stuff and the rest still runny, scooped out into a bowl, mushed up with a crunchy piece of bacon, salted and peppered, eaten with a spoon. It tastes like pure spring sunshine. I might go crazy and spoon it onto a piece of buttered wheat toast, which I'll use then end of to sop up the last runny bits. Oh, and the butter goes on the bread before it's toasted--that way, you get these little spots of soft buttery yumminess. Old boyfriend called this "Egg Soup on Backwards Toast" and ridiculed me greatly until I talked him into a bite.

Then it was Egg Soup for two, baby.

It's Finally Here...Almost

2008-07-05T09:55:00.004-05:00

I leave the day after tomorrow. And despite my having spent the last week packing up and mailing boxes home, it still doesn't seem real.

My chore list at home is as long as my arm: rearrange my whole bedroom, paint the entire interior of my house and the guest apartment, buy and arrange furniture for guest apartment and back porch, plant daylillies, unpack the dozens of boxes I never dealt with while on leave AND the ten boxes I've sent from here...it's like a move, coming home after 15 months. I have a little over six weeks to knock it out.

And it's work I love--and what a great way to spend six weeks. Get up, make breakfast, work out (oh yes I will, it's a habit now), paint or otherwise work on the house/yard, cook dinner, chill with a glass of wine, go to bed. It just sounds amazing. And foreign. It's been so long.

I have a plan for maintaining and even improving on my 20-pound weight loss. No break from the gym. I get home Friday night, I'll give myself Saturday to be manic and knock out initial stuff, and I will be in the gym on Sunday. I know why I suddenly started losing--it's all the muscle I built. My metabolism must be on fire.

You should see my arms and shoulders--people, I have guns. My friend here, Doc, told me I'm cut. I can't say I've ever been described that way, but after six months of focusing on strength training, I found what works. I lift heavy, I lift often, and I'm at a point where I can maintain the muscle mass with only an hour a day in the gym, including the cardio. Granted, that's 5-6 days a week, but it's doable. And that's the point.

People, I can do pullups. Admittedly only two, but pullups!! I turn 38 next month, and I can do pullups!!

At some point, I quit worrying about dropping the weight quickly, and just made some small changes (along with the weights) that I can live with. I stopped snacking, and just eat meals that are big enough to keep me happy. Somewhere along the line, I quit thinking about food all the time. That sense of urgency (Must! Eat! Now!) went away. I came to not mind being a little hungry by the time a meal rolls around.

Don't get me wrong, I still have a little pad of what I call "refrigerated biscuit dough" around my middle, but I'm still dropping about a pound a week. And patience, I now understand, is the way to approach this thing.

Another secret? Success is wildly motivating--I look sooo much better. I've lost that bloated look I had with the 20 pounds. I bet I added at least five pounds of muscle...I'm smaller than I was when I joined the Army. Still not down to my Athens (Georgia) weight, but getting there. For the first time in years, I feel as though I look great--and it seriously keeps me from overeating. I feel HOT, and it's amazing. I don't ever want to lose that feeling again. It makes all the difference in the world--in how I interact with people, how I feel in the morning when I get dressed and ready for work, how I feel in the gym, everything. It's like a drug.

My next goal is the six more pounds I need to reach my Basic Training weight. At that point, I will start running again. And I know that will jumpstart the next ten pounds. Once that next six pounds is gone, I feel I can run without pounding my bum knee with all that extra weight. I took off the rucksack, and I just want to get back to running local 5K's, having the extra tool in my kit, be able to run outside in the fall. My favorite fitness activity ever.

In celebration of buying and looking good in a cute little Victoria's Secret tankini, I'm taking a vacation in August: Palm Beach, Florida, with my sis and possibly another buddy. And the other item on my to-do list: dive certification. I'm determined to do it before we go to Florida. Although if I don't get certified, snorkeling in my little tankini sounds like more fun than a barrel of monkeys!

Hiccups

2008-06-17T09:38:00.002-05:00

I have twenty days left and time seems to have stopped. There are definitely things I will miss. Among them:

Whenever the power goes out, we are all armed to the teeth with all manner of Nerf guns and ammo, from the simplest pistol to The Ivan, which fires three Nerf RPG's at once, effectively pummeling your opponent. As soon as the lights dim and the computer power supplies start chirping, you can hear the pump-action getting primed in every office. My personal weapon's muzzle flashes and it shoots glow-in-the-dark darts. We'll usually have anywhere from five to twenty combatants at any given time. Yesterday, we assaulted the SCIF, and when the Director walked in and caught me screaming Allah ho'Akhbar and decimating the Reports Officer, I told him we were just practicing our emergency procedures.

I'll miss the Nerf gun wars. We've had melees that spread throughout the entire floor, urban warfare from room to room. I suspect I'll never work someplace with Nerf guns again. Although, I can see it in my first job as an attorney, pulling my Nerf pistol out of the drawer and shooting someone right between the eyes with it while they sit there all agog. It may be trouble, though, if I walk from office to office shooting folks whenever the power goes out. Look out, you nancies, put your warface on!!!

We play dodgeball. No kidding, grown-ass men and women, running around a basketball court playing dodgeball. It's also big fun. Seems we all like to pummel each other in several different ways.

We play great jokes on each other. I left a positive pregnancy test (not mine, of course) in the coed bathroom and sat back while the rumors ran rampant throughout the organization. I meant to send out an email claiming responsibility, but somehow just never did. I had great fun complaining of nausea and rubbing my belly.

A stuffed baby dinosaur was kidnapped from Rob's office, because he had Scott's Transformers DVD. Why anyone would WANT a Transformers DVD is beyond me (I watched about five minutes of it and left the room), but he does have kids. At any rate, a photograph of Baby Dino with an Atomic Fireball stuffed in his mouth as a Gimp-like ball gag circulated. Then, a grainy video of a Nerf gun shooting him in the head, complete with very realistic rifle-shot sound effect, and bad guys chanting Allah ho'Akbar. It was fucking GREAT. Problem is, Rob got pissy and complained about it. What a nancy. So Baby Dino was returned sans Atomic Fireball gag.

Today, I was in a briefing with a 2-star General, and the briefer, one of our guys, accidentally refered to Lebanese Hizballah as "Lesbanese." Everyone started laughing, and for some reason, I turned beet red. I don't know why this happens to me--any unexpected emotion, no matter what it is (usually NOT shame, interestingly enough), and I'm purple. I had to really work at not turning red when I have a good poker hand when I first started playing. Fortunately, I've learned to control it at the poker table because I expect it, I've already prepared myself. So then the General looked right at me and said, clearly puzzled, "Good Lord, you're as red as your hair!" Which of course, made it worse and longer-lasting. So everyone's been teasing me about it all day, shouting LESBIAN at me to see if I'll do it again. What the HELL??? Why would "Lesbanese" make a straight girl blush??

Is there some surgical procedure that minimizes the blush response? Because whatever it costs, I will pay it! I read that the whole phenomenon's purpose is to ellicit a sympathy-response from all present. So if I can't learn to control it as a prosecutor, will the jury feel sorry for me if I blush?? Oh crraaapp I hope I never have to find out.

41.6 Days...

2008-05-27T01:51:00.005-05:00

...until I get on the plane. I feel like I've been in Baghdad for ten years. The rest of the world has faded to the flickering images on AFN News. Four dollar gas? Doesn't seem real. This painfully prolonged primary season--same thing, it feels like a foreign film. The idea of getting into the car and going to the grocery store sounds about as plausible as hopping into the ole space ship for a quick jaunt to the moon.

You know how when you go to a long matinee, when you get out and the sun's setting, it feels like a surprise that time just kept marching on while you drowsed in the cool dark? That's what the International Zone feels like--someone else's movie. But when I emerge from the theater this time, it's a full 20 pounds lighter--how's that for a double feature?

Reading over the last several posts, it's a bit amazing how much weight things have here--that drama with Jessie felt like it consumed my days because we have no external lives here. There's no going home at the end of the day--I live three floors up from where I work, five floors up from the gym, and about a hundred yards from the chow hall. Most days, I don't leave this one little area. It can feel like prison.

Speaking of the drama, by the way, it all actually worked out for the better--I made other friends, and I'm actually much happier now than I was when I limited myself to that little clicque. We do more stuff--there are dodgeball games, nights out meeting with others, dinners at this little place we discovered, hanging out with people from outside the organization. I'm having much more fun and it's made the days brighter to have a wider circle.

I guess it took divorcing that dynamic to realize how much I'd grown to dislike it--I never shook the feeling that she viewed me as the Queen's Subject and once I saw it clearly, there was simply no going back. And really, that whole thing with the silent treatment followed by the self-righteous presentation of the laundry list of my flaws, the most egregious of which (besides the one that was a full-on lie, an accusation that I'd done something I would never do and screw you for thinking I would) was the way I greet a room? The more I've thought about it, the more amazed I am that someone in their right mind would think that bullshit would ever fly in a friendship.

I'm friendly to everyone involved, but I don't seek out their company, and they don't seek mine. And that's about all there is to it, no hard feelings.

USDA Zone 7B

2008-05-19T00:33:00.002-05:00

I have exactly 49.5 days left here, and I'm knocking around the web, looking at gardening sites. I hate that I get there so late in the game--I'll have to skip in to the local nursery to see what I can even plant that late.

I have all kinds of plans for how to get my 1.5 acre lot to look amazing. Vegetables and all manner of blooming things. The previous owner, a relative by marriage, did a great job with the immediate vicinity of the house--I have gorgeous azaleas, vinca, crepe myrtles, and iris all over the front. The west-facing back, though, is a blank slate. I have visions of flowerbeds all along the back of the screened-in porch and along the garage/mother-in-law apartment. Vines will cover the fence and I will choose a fast-growing tree to screen out the loud neighbors with the dangerous, unruly dog.

I also have a weird little side lot that is right now just open grass, bordered by crepe myrtles and pine trees, that would be perfect for the vegetable garden and all manner of other little things. Right now, it's just kind of wasted--it's not in the fenced-in part, so the dogs don't run around in there, and it gets full sunlight. If I had more money to put into it, I'd turn it into an English-style garden with paths, a gazebo, and a thousand different plants and shrubs.

I'm creating the beds for the back when I get back, and plan to take Felder Rushing's approach--keep it seasonal, just put different things in there for late summer, fall, and winter, then plant it like crazy for next spring.

The more I think about it, the more excited I get...after all those years of deploying and moving around, living in barracks and tents and every shithole in Asia and South America plus the American Southwest, where I couldn't get anything I liked to grow, I'm finally in a place with a big yard and limitless options. I'll be there for at least three years and will actually get to see the whole thing grow and change from year to year. It's been so long since I've been able to garden--the last time was 1996, in Athens, Georgia, where I tilled a square in the middle of a kudzu patch and had gorgeous corn and tomato plants taller than I was. It was an amazing garden and I loved puttering around in it, pulling the surrounding kudzu vines off the corn every day, weeding, watering, harvesting.

So now I own this adorable house in Mississippi and can get to work without the specter of a deployment looming. This is the third house I've owned. The first was in Watertown, New York, which would have been a great place to garden...if only I hadn't spent the entire time I owned the house deployed to Afghanistan or Iraq. I loved that little house. I already mentioned why the Arizona house was a no-go. And really? Disliking the desert pushed me out of there--I hated never getting rain, the weather looking the same all the time, the lack of discernable seasons, and the fact that none of the plants I grew up with will grow there, despite my best efforts.

So in exactly 49.5 days, I get it all back, in abundance.

The other thing I really look forward to--wearing all the adorable sundresses I've snapped up over the last month or so, gorgeous wrap dresses from Athleta and three sort of 1930's-looking, classic sundresses from Territory Ahead, which is normally WAY too hippie for my tastes. I wore my blue wrap dress here a few days ago and people couldn't believe I wore a dress in Baghdad. Why not? I sit at a desk all day, I'm not out there in battle rattle getting shot at anymore. After being here over a year this stint, it feels wonderful to dress like a girl from time to time.

And why do you think Arab men wear those man-dress things, the dishdasha? Because it feels about ten degrees cooler in a dress. Plus, it just plain feels good to wear a dress.

After eight years of dressing like a man all day, every day, I'm finding that since I left the Army, I've gone more and more the other way--I never used to wear dresses and skirts, and now I can't get enough of them. I have a closet full of heels. I'm trying to shed my old tomboy self and embrace all things feminine...and it feels wonderful. Why did it take me so long to figure it out, that dressing and looking like a lady is the most powerful thing in the world?

Free Harley

2008-05-15T14:03:00.000-05:00

Well, I got my staggering loss down to $23,000 by refusing to pay closing costs for the buyer. It's still more than I would pay for the Harley Softail Delux I've wanted since learning how to ride in 2005. I just gave away a Harley.

I flip-flopped for a couple of days after shit-ass Citimortgage refused the short sale. Apparently, if you behave responsibly and stay current on your payments, you get no help at all with the loss you're taking up the rear--I offered to split the difference, and they wouldn't even consider it. If you stop making payments, however, they'll work with you and forgive all that money. So I cancelled my Citibank credit card (I owe exactly ZERO on credit cards); they'll never get another dime of my money. I did the math--if I rented that goddamn house out at a monthly loss, it would take THREE YEARS to equal what I'm losing on the sale. AND I could have claimed both the loss and the interest on the mortgage on taxes. There's no other way to look at it--this is a devastating loss. It amounts to a full year of law school expenses.

But here's the thing--I'm free of it. Not only that, but my gut is telling me that keeping it would end up costing me more than $23K in the long run. One bad tenant could easily do that much damage. And the way things are going out there, the values could drop further--those asshole builders, they keep on building, even though there are HUNDREDS of vacant homes there. It will take many years for the population to catch up to the inventory of homes. Drive down any street, and you'll see dozens of houses for sale. The town is in trouble, and I may be getting out on the cheap, all things considered.

Not only that, but there is a very large population of contractors (Dept of Defense, not builders) in town whose incomes are starting to drop precipitously. Defense contracting is beginning to seriously constrict--people are having to take pay cuts, move every few years, and/or find another profession. And we have no way of knowing how the next Administration will handle contracting. Any way you look at it, the gravy train has slowed, and may soon stall out completely.

It's a good time to get out of it. And it's a good time to unload that house, even at that price.

And at least I HAVE $23K to lose. If not for my prodigious saving, I would not be able to sell the house, period. Turns out, if you can't cover the loss in cash, the title company will not allow you to sell. I'd be looking at missing payments, possibly foreclosing, and ruining the near-800 credit score I've worked so hard to achieve and maintain. I own the house I live in, I have ZERO debt outside that one mortgage, and when I graduate law school, I won't be in the same sorry shape so many new attorneys find themselves in--tens or even hundreds of thousands of dollars in the hole, and having to accept the highest-paying job they're offered, not necessarily the one they want.

We also moved the closing date to June 13 in order to save me as much interest to the mortgage company as possible. I've never been so happy to lose so much money--this house has been such a horrible burden, almost since the day I bought it. I will never buy a house in a new town again. It pays to rent first and take the time to figure out if you even LIKE it there enough to buy. And I will certainly never buy a house before selling the old one again. So this whole thing is a big learning experience--expensive lesson, but it didn't ruin my credit and I can fully recover from it.

The relief I will feel for the next three years is probably worth it, anyway.

SOLD

2008-05-11T01:36:00.003-05:00

Ladies and gentlemen, after almost eighteen months on the market, I have finally sold that goddamn house in Arizona.

I have never been so happy to lose so much money in my life. I will write a check at closing for about $25K, which sets me WAY back on law school savings. I'll just have to find a way to make it work. It's tax deductible, but what folks don't seem to understand is that when you claim a $25K loss on your taxes, it ain't like you get your $25K back. You get the FEDERAL TAXES on your $25K back. So I'll get about six grand of it back.

I'm asking the bank for a short sale. I don't think they'll go for it, as I've never been late on a payment, but it's worth asking...and threatening to just not pay them the rest.

But even if I eat the full $25K, I can live with it. After getting ripped off by the first roofing company and watching the roof collapse, destroying the entire interior, living in a hotel for ten weeks, then getting ripped off by the construction company that handled the rebuild, fighting with the insurance company for months, then getting ripped off by two landscapers, one handyman, and even the cleaning lady, I am done with that house and that town.

All of the above people, by the way, have already dealt with the State of Arizona in court, or are still pending trial. I'm not kidding--I went after every last one of them by pressing charges with the Registrar of Contractors, who are more than happy to nail people to the wall. Arizona has the highest rate of complaints against contractors in the entire nation. Just ask the roofer who will never get a license again, has a huge judgement against him and a brand-new criminal record, then got hit by the IRS for tax fraud and the Social Security Administration for contracting to tear down a roof while getting disability for a bad back. He's still in jail. The handyman who stole my washer and dryer while I was here in Iraq (I swear I'm not making this up) is pending trial.

The town of Sierra Vista, Arizona, is populated by criminals, creeps, swindlers, shitty contractors, and lunatic Jesus-freak neighbors who called the cops every time I sneezed in their direction. I sincerely hope that the buyers have six Harleys, eight kids, and twelve barking dogs. I hope they make that jerk miserable.

That house is jinxed and the town is hostile. I came to hate that house (even though it's gorgeous), my neighbors, and the town, and it's worth $25K for me to just be SHUT of it, forever. I can now say I have no ties to that wretched place and the wretched people who populate it.

We close June 30, which means that when I get on the plane to come home on July 10, it will be minus the weight of that 2300-square-foot albatross.

Now That's a MAN

2008-04-27T01:11:00.004-05:00

I kept seeing him at the gym and there was something about him I liked right away. He has an easy, unselfconscious confidence, not at all cocky, he's friendly and laughs a lot. Plus, he looks a bit like Christopher Meloni, the foxy guy on SVU. Pretty blue eyes, and I had him pegged as a Harley rider and former Special Forces NCO based on the tattoos and the demeanor. He would get on the elliptical trainer next to mine, always smiled and said hello, then proceeded to beat the shit out of himself on it.

I saw him out at a party in the Embassy compound with the group of friends he always has around. They're all somewhat like him--they seem like really cool guys, friendly and not tinged with the little bit of meanness I get out of the younger, traditional Infantry types. They're all guys I'd be friends with. So I walked up and introduced myself. We chatted for awhile and I was right--great sense of humor, guileless and warm, quietly confident. He's from upstate New York and has a great accent for humor.

After that, he always chatted with me in the gym, usually while I was drenched and out of breath on the elliptical. Then as he'd beat himself senseless on the one next to me, he'd play little games with me, like mouth wanna race? or throw water or pretend to shove me off my trainer. He's playful and I'm starting to like this guy.

Next time I saw him out, he shouted my name from across a loud room. J was with me, and I introduced her. She didn't see what I see, but that's okay--I see this guy like something special that not everyone's going to get, and it's better that way. Hell, I'm probably the same way. I told him my email address before I left, thinking he probably wouldn't remember it.

By the time I got home, he'd written me:

Subj: Put 'em up, Buttercup!

Hey Kristen!
As your e-mail address is still fresh in my pea-brain, I thought I might hit you on it and holler atcha!
Was good to see you tonight and I had a lot of fun over there.
Anyway, if ya need a sparring partner, I'll whip ur ass......aaahhhh, who the hell am I kidding.
I'm probably the only guy you know who gets knocked down by his own heavybag. HA-HAAAA!!!!

C-Ya in the gym!
Joe
aka JD

See? Playful, unassuming...and probably repeated my email address to himself all the way home. I was really impressed.

For about six weeks, we emailed back and forth, ran into each other in the gym, but somehow never quite connected. I could tell he liked me and seemed to enjoy touching me when I'm sweaty, but somehow, he just wasn't taking the bait. Granted, I wasn't exactly giving him the kind of encouragement some guys need, but we'd kept it friendly and agreed to link up last night.

He didn't show--he mentioned he may have to work, and one of his gym buddy friends was there. I work with a guy named Ryan, who's a very smart, capable analyst and a fun drunk. Among the little group of us (including two more of JD's friends), the subject of our amazing gym came up. Ryan started asking about a guy with a prosthetic leg. Everyone was puzzled. JD's friend said, "I've been going there for like a year and I've never seen a dude with a prosthetic leg."

Ryan described him. "He's got tattoos all over his arms and you can tell his leg is seriously fucked up, but he gets on that elliptical and he's like an animal on that thing..."

Me, even more puzzled. "Sounds like JD." Then JD's friend told me about What Happened to JD.

He was SHOT. Right through the top of his leg, here in Iraq in 2005, and it took most of the top of his quads with it. He was supposed to die right there. He didn't. Then he was supposed to spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair, never walk again. Not this guy. He barely limps, which is why I never even noticed an injury. He's scarred all to hell, he's had over 35 surgeries and the reason it looks like he's killing himself on that elliptical trainer? Is because he's in some serious pain.

One of the other guys they're always there with is some Special Forces fitness master who has written books, and took JD on when he got here in January. This guy put him on an intense, painful regimen that has him pretty close to the way he was before he was shot, when he was Special Forces and operated all over the world as such.

As his friend reverently told the story, the admiration plain in his voice, all I could think was, Now that's a man. The more I thought about it, the more sense it made. He only wears pants in the gym. The guys, all former SF, respect the shit out of him--it's written all over them.

So I announced, loudly enough for all to hear: "I don't care, he's still smokin' hot." There was a bit of a stunned silence. He is, though, and now? I think he's even hotter. His buddy grinned broadly, clearly pleased as pie. "You can tell him I said that. In fact, I hope you do tell him. I hope it makes his day."

"Oh, Kristen, you have no idea how much it will make his day." He went on to plan a trip for me to go see JD in upstate New York, where he lives. Hell, I love it up there, I'm all about it. Then he just kept going after I told him I have a Harley, about how JD and I can ride off into the sunset, grinning and holding hands on our Harleys. He was excited about it. It was really sweet and reaffirmed what I'd thought about these guys--what a cool bunch. They rallied around JD and pushed him through these workouts. The more I thought about it, the more I saw it, and the more I liked it.

As for the trip and the holding hands? His buddy was drinking and I didn't take that part seriously. But I meant what I said about this guy. To make it through all that pain, to stare his own death right in the face, then to power through it like a bull and come out on the other side without a trace of bitterness or anger and with that easy, bighearted sense of humor?

Now that's a man.

2008-04-23T08:43:00.004-05:00

I had the conversation with Jessie and afterwards, felt worse than ever about the friendship. She essentially delivered an ultimatum that had me overhauling my entire personality so that she and the other two will "like" me.

I'm loud. Shocker, I know. Fucking deal with it. I grew up among loud people and I couldn't change it if I wanted to--even my whisper is audible to the geezer two hundred yards away in a windstorm. I got over being self-conscious about it long ago. I know it annoys some people, but my voice is as much a part of me as my nose and even less correctable.

Makes me a great public speaker, though. I imagine it'll only help me as a an attorney that every man, woman, and child in any courtroom will hear every word from my mouth. I don't expect attorneys who mumble or speak at a barely-audible squeak make very good trial lawyers.

The other major character flaw that she told me about "so I'd have the opportunity to change," as if she's doing me a favor by tearing me down? When I walk into a room, I don't properly greet each person, I "shotgun." I.e., say something along the lines of "What's up, ya'll?" as opposed to, I dunno, laying a hand on each person's arm and asking them about their day. Evidently, this lack of ability to "communicate well with others" indicates that I'm selfish and don't care about people. And "other people" have apparently noticed...which is usually just the way people shore up a weak argument, the justification of everybody thinks so intended to leave you to believe you're the only idiot who doesn't see it.

This from the woman I've listened to for months as her marriage fell apart. I've held her hand and been as supportive and honest as I know how to be. I've listened without judging her for hours on end. I haven't bogged her down with hours of agonizing over my albatross house in Arizona, or the things that aren't being taken care of that are costing me thousands of dollars at home, or my family that completely fell apart at the seams, leaving me to fend mostly for myself in this world, or any of the other shit I go through every day.

The root of this whole issue was and still is that we've all spent 15-20 hours a day together...we just plain got sick of each other. She has an annoying tendency to brag about how much every man she meets thinks she's the most amazing woman to every walk the earth. It just gets old.

I didn't ignore her or trash her behind her back. I didn't rally two other people who were upset for a completely invalid reason that could have been cleared up immediately if they'd had the balls to ask me about it. They didn't--they got together with J and picked through every one of my faults they could conjure. Then ignored me. Then had J deliver this ultimatum about overhauling my personality. Which at 37 years of age? Ain't happenin'.

I bounced all this off several trusted friends. The consensus was that this whole thing is incredibly petty. In the big picture of a person, their method of greeting a room full of people is not something you trash them over, no matter how much it bothers you.

So I tapped out. I'm on friendly terms with everyone involved, but we no longer hang out. I've got other friends here for recreation. Several comments have been made, indirectly of course, that they don't Hold Grudges.

But they're all mistaken. I'm not holding a grudge. I'm not "punishing" them. I just saw a side of all three that I wish I'd never seen--petty, manipulative, and mean. Did anyone really think I'm so pathetic that I would change the way I interact with the world to get them to like me? I'm professional and courteous, but knowing what they think about every little thing that may come out of my mouth, I'm dreadfully self-conscious and uncomfortable around them. So no, I don't hang out--how much time would you want to spend with someone who said they hate your voice?

The function of friendship is not to change each other--we love and accept friends as they are, as we've already decided their assets outweigh their liabilities. Kind, constructive criticism is welcome. Picking someone apart and tearing them down after shunning them for a week is not. Which could go a long way to explain why I've made and kept several lifelong friends, some for twenty years. Developing and maintaining close female friendships has never been a huge challenge for me--I love to spend time with cool women. Men, too, but different friends have different roles. J was my fun friend, mostly. We laugh a great deal and have big fun at times. I never relied on her for big emotional support because she's not That Friend. And I always got the feeling she enjoyed feeling superior to me in some ways--not exactly the makings of the friend you seek when you're feeling fragile.

Don't get me wrong, J is a great person overall--which is why, even with the bragging, I'd weighed the pros and cons and decided to be her friend because she's usually so much fun to be around. Shame I couldn't expect the same supportive acceptance from her.

2008-04-16T12:19:00.002-05:00

Well, the latest is, I think we're going to resolve this thing...I'm supposed to have lunch with J tomorrow. I'm still trying to decide if maybe I overreacted, or if J decided to finally talk to me about whatever was bugging her. The truth probably lies somewhere in the middle. I will definitely tell her what it looked like from where I'm sitting. And I don't know that I can ever go back to the way it was--that hostility was not in my mind.

At least we'll be civil after talking about it--these last few days have been horrible. I've missed my buddy. Whatever happens, I really think it came from C, and I now have no doubt I can't trust him as far as I can throw him. That much I know for certain.

I hate drama and conflict, and it's a relief that at least the hostility part is over with.

With Friends Like This...

2008-04-15T04:38:00.006-05:00

Every so often, all the seething personal conflicts roil up to the surface in an organization like this. Now is one such time.

My (possibly former) posse has exiled me without telling me there was a problem, asking me for an explanation and/or apology for something I've done to offend them, or giving me any indication what this whole thing is about. It is unmistakable. They've barely spoken to me in almost a week. J walks right past my open office door without even looking at me several times a day.

I initially thought it was in my mind. Then I thought maybe I had missed opportunities to make gestures, and maybe they thought I was avoiding them. But I don't think either is true--they make excuses not to go to the chow hall with me and all conversations are strictly professional, no laughing and joking. I said hello to J in the bathroom this morning, and the temperature tangibly chilled.

It's puzzling. Once I've decided someone is a friend and worthy of my trust and respect, I go talk to them if they've done something to offend me. Either that, or I decide it's not worth making an issue of, and I get over it. I don't understand the silent treatment--I've never perpetrated one myself and it seems counterproductive. Especially when we are all forced to live and work together. I would never intentionally do anything to hurt any of them and it's ruined several of my days lately.

Most issues among people who call each other friends boil down to miscommunication and/or misunderstanding of motives or factors that may not be readily apparent. Hence the conversation that should always take place: "Hey, you pissed me off by doing X." "OK, well you didn't know that Y happened," OR "OK, that wasn't my intention / I behaved badly and I apologize." Amazing what one can accomplish in under five sentences.

This has all got me thinking about the company I've been keeping. If they'll exile me over something they don't even care to address with me face to face, how much did they ever value my friendship in the first place? These are people with whom I've been very close for a year now. A year here is like two at home--we're a fairly small community and spend many hours together every day. It's about as close to being married to a group of people as most of us will ever get outside the ranch in Eldorado, Texas.

I won't talk to anyone here about what's going on. Someone asked me at breakfast why I haven't been hanging out with some of the folks involved, and I responded, "I've been exiled. Dunno why." Changed the subject. It would only get back to them and make things worse, maybe from the silent treatment to open hostility. Which we all need about like a shot to the forehead.

Coiffed

2008-04-07T00:07:00.004-05:00

America, I've been coiffed.

One of the biggest drags of being over here is the unavailability of a good beauty salon. If you're a guy reading this, I don't expect you to understand the gravity of the situation--I haven't had my hair cut since I was home in November. And the color? Yeah, I do it myself, standing in my room, trying not to leak it all over my bedspread, and hope for the best. The stuff you buy in the drugstore just ain't the same if you're grey as a gramma like I am. Not to mention the fact that I can't exactly match the gorgeous color I got at the salon at home...I went a shade lighter, and now there's a subtle two-tonedness to my locks that I cannot WAIT to get fixed this July.

It doesn't look horrible, it just doesn't look great. A woman's hair is the single-most important feature under her direct control, and if it ain't right? Mamma ain't right. Period.

So the least I can do is get a decent trim, and my only option is the tiny shop on our FOB with a sign outside that reads Cleopatra's Saloon (sic). With the arrow pointing the wrong way, across the street at the port-o-let. Having never seen an Iraqi woman with short hair, I figured it would be safe to get a trim, as my hair is also long. Iraqi women, especially in their 30's and 40's, are also generally very made up, lots of hairspray and makeup, attention paid to clothing and jewelry. They don't let themselves go for the most part, you won't see them shlepping about in a track suit with dirty hair.

Which, in this environment and given what their lives outside the gate must be like, is actually pretty damn stoic. God bless 'em.

So Cleo welcomes me in, washes my hair, and combs it out. She looks puzzled. "You have two different colors in your hair, one is like copper and the other more like blond."

I nod and explain the color situation. She nods and instructs me to put the color on the roots--which actually aren't "roots," they're like four inches long, my hair grows fast--and leave it on for forty minutes, then comb it through the rest. I don't go on to explain that the drugstore color will not cover the salon color, no matter what I do. Her hair is very long and black--although she says hers is also grey underneath. We're all engaged in the same struggle.

I look at the framed photos on her counter. Cleo smiling in several academic-looking settings, accepting awards in a business suit. I ask her if she had been a teacher. She nods. I was Chemical Engineer under Saddam. I smile and nod with respect, suitably impressed. There is nothing else to say to this woman who held a PhD and now makes her living styling hair in Iraq's new world order.

She spins me around to face the mirror. Most beauty parlors the world 'round make the mistake of spotlighting the clientele with the harshest of all flourescent light. I know they need to see your hair, but it's demoralizing to sit in front of a mirror in front of that light. I studied myself in a way I can't in my room with my one little bulb.

I look very pale. Check. I've lost some weight and my face is a bit thinner. Check, hallalujah. My skin's blessedly clear, but every new wrinkle looks magnified. But the thing I find a bit alarming is how tired I look. The blowing dust here keeps my contacts dry and my eyes a bit swollen, and it brings out the bags. I look utterly exhausted, despite my near-pathological insistence on at least eight hours of sleep a night. Working over 90 hours a week for over a year will do it to the best of us, even with sufficient sleep. In this harsh light, I look...well, I guess I look my age, which has never been the case.

Cleo takes about ten minutes to cut my hair, getting the long layers just right. She then spends about an hour burning it with a hair dryer, bullying it into submission with a round brush, clipping sections up here and there. There is a great deal of hairspray. But somehow, she managed to curl the bottom half of my poker-straight locks without a curling iron or rollers, only the brushes and her fingers, and the slight stench of burning hair under the intensity of the dryer she wielded like a samurai.

It was parted all wrong and the front wasn't right, but after I got outside, shook it out, and ran my hands through it, it looked fabulous. I caught a glimpse of myself in a shop mirror as I walked back to our building. I can definitely see the weight loss. I'm wearing a red, v-necked t-shirt, capris, and sandals. I don't look nearly so tired in the light of day. I do look pale, but it's in a good way, if that's possible.

I must look better than I think, because I'm still seeing a man ten years my junior who can benchpress over 400 pounds. There isn't much competition and I seriously doubt I'd turn his head in normal life, but know what? I don't care. You take the good with the bad over here; this hot young boytoy cancels out a great deal of the monotony and bullshit I deal with daily. And I don't hear him complaining.

I'M OKAY...but Iraq, most decidedly, is not.

2008-03-26T10:51:00.005-05:00

I just want to remind everyone: I live on a different end of the International Zone than the side that's getting hammered with rockets right now. I live in a thick, concrete building that has never been hit with a rocket or mortar, except the JDAM that we (as in the United States) sank right down the center. And it barely left a mark. This building is as safe as it gets here in Iraq, and I don't tend to leave it very often when things get noisy out there. Well, it's also over 100º already, so I'm in dog-under-porch mode already.

Please try not to worry. I'm safe where I am.

I spent last Sunday afternoon talking to a battalion-level intelligence officer who lives on a Combat OutPost (COP, a surge concept). It reminded me why I left the Army, and why I'm so happy to be right where I am. His COP is beyond vulnerable. If Mookie (Muqtada al-Sadr) lifts the cease-fire he imposed on Jaysh al-Mahdi last August, this Captain assesses that he and his guys will have fighting positions in their rooms. These COPs are all over Baghdad--small bases with tactical-level units, most of whom look around at Baghdad within arm's reach just outside the walls and hope this lull in attacks will hold until they leave theater.

The recent spike in attacks is the result of Mookie hinting around lifting the cease-fire. The relative calm we've experienced since last August is NOT entirely attributable to the surge, despite the gloating, crowing politicians' I told you so's. It's also strongly tied to the cease-fire. Well, that and the hugely successful reconciliation effort. It's myopic to say that the surge is working--a combination of factors have quieted Baghdad, not just the presence of extra troops.

It's a precarious quiet, make no mistake about it.

If the JAM cease-fire goes, we'll be right back where we were last summer--rockets and mortars are a Shia Thang (as is JAM), piped in from Iran (also Shia), and the reconciliation has been most successful with Sunnis. Which means fewer car-bombs and suicide bombers, but the rockets and mortars keep coming. The last three days have borne this theory out; it's been pretty damn noisy around here. And those guys out there on the COPs? Allah help them.

If things go back to hell here in Baghdad, what will that do to the election? Everyone seems to have mostly forgotten about Iraq on account of the trifecta: housing misery (which keeps me up at night), the seesawing stock market, and the lack of dramatic news from Iraq of late. It could change the dynamics of the discourse...but I'm not sure that's a good thing. I think we've neglected domestic policy and issues since 9/11, and it's time to turn our attention inward. That said, I don't believe we can withdraw--I think it's one of those things candidates say now that they will have to retract later. I tend to take anything said during a campaign with a grain of salt--it's not cynical, it's just that people jump out to their left and right extremes when it suits their ambitions, then settle back into the (relative) center when the time comes to actually make some decisions for which they'll be held accountable.

What do I think we should do here? I just don't know. I'm pissed off that the Iraqi government hasn't taken control. They seem perfectly content to let us continue to do all the heavy lifting, and the corruption, demagoguery, and foreign influence mean this government couldn't break up a cookie fight at a kindergarten. But if we leave, it WILL go to hell. Iran will run it, and that is not a happy scenario for anyone but Iran. Including Iraq. Especially Iraq.

We can't do it for them forever, and there seems to be little incentive or will within the Government of Iraq to take the reins and get this shit done. Also, most of the educated men and women have un-assed; most Iraqis with the means to leave the country (read: the best and brightest) have done so. So what are you left with?

Think of what this place will look like in twenty years. The kids haven't regularly been to school, most teachers have left anyway, all this generation has known is what they view as an occupation, and consistent exposure to violence unlike anything a child in an industrialized country could even dream up.

Iraq is an unsolvable trainwreck. I agree with Madeleine Albright: invading Iraq was the worst foreign policy decision of our generation, maybe of all American history. But I tend not to get into that argument, because it just does not matter--what's next, that matters.

I truly feel sorry for whoever wins this election. The next President will be handed a mountainous steaming turd, and nothing he/she says or does will make it smell like a rose.

Hippity Hoppity

2008-03-24T05:53:00.003-05:00

Twenty-seven rounds of indirect fire (rockets) impacted the International Zone yesterday in four separate vollies, spaced throughout the day. None fell near us. We'd planned to attend Easter services and have a special dinner at a location outside our little immediate area, but after the second salvo, we decided against that course of action, opting instead to gorge on crappy Easter candy here in our thick, concrete building. It's already over 100º, so it's just as well.

2008-03-07T09:49:00.001-06:00

The supervisor gig is no trouble at all so far. We're all holding our breaths when it comes to our futures--the contract's up for rebid, and we don't know what will happen...except that we'll all have jobs here. So I may not be a supervisor for long--if another company takes over, I'm no longer responsible for anything above and beyond myself and my own work. Personally, I don't much care either way--I'm out of here in July regardless.

And my company is already making noise about offering me some kind of fat, 6-figure position in the DC area. I freely admit, it's tough to turn down--I'm in a field where I know what I'm doing, I'm good at it, and it's lucrative. When I decided on law school, I was in a boring job in a boring town, and things have changed significantly since then. I've found myself wavering. But then, if I stay in touch with my company, these jobs will not go away, they'll only get better after law school, even if I decided to go back into straight intelligence, not use the law degree.

Curiosity got the better of me, and I went fishing around on the government's website for attorney positions within the counterintelligence community. And I *really* liked what I saw. Great pay, interesting work, with an international aspect, and I already have the clearance issues resolved. Oh, and the 10-point veteran's benefit applies. It got me kind of excited. It's a short-term/long-term struggle--I can go make six figures in DC now, and I won't see the payoff for law school for several years.

But I know I'm doing the right thing. It's just going to take time to see it. This was how I felt when I left the Army just as I pinned Captain, and that worked out extremely well. Even the Arizona gig was not a mistake--my supervisor there went to bat for me to get this position, which is providing a springboard into upper-echelon management at the world's largest defense contractor. Or at least, a gorgeous resume for job-hunting time, out in 2011. Funny how those Army years and all the crap I dealt with have all turned into my greatest selling points.

I just have to keep the faith in two years, when my savings are dwindling and I contemplate that fat salary I could be making. I just have to know that I'll be as good at law as I am at intel, and if I can successfully combine the two, it'll be a unique and endlessly fascinating career.

Or, I could be making six figures in DC. Damn, it really is hard to turn down.

2008-02-27T12:25:00.001-06:00

Wanna see my house?

This is the link to the virtual tour for the Arizona property that's ruining my life. Prepare to be BLOWN AWAY.

(Or, totally cheesed out by the bucolic slow-mo and elevator music.)

On the bright side (the very bright side, actually), I got an unexpected promotion to a supervisory position. The pay's only marginally better (still, more than I'll ever make as an attorney) for the extra five pounds of crap I'll have to deal with every day. I have a good relationship with everyone I supervise, so I don't forsee any issues I can't handle. And it will look fantastic on my resume'.

Never a dull moment...I'm having a streak of great career luck, and I REALLY wish it would extend to the AZ house. Insha'allah.

2008-02-11T09:45:00.000-06:00

File under Things That Make Me Want To Drink Gin Straight From The Cat Bowl: My lovely home state introduced a bill that would actually ban restaurants from "feeding the morbidly obese." That's right, it's all the restaurants' fault. In the fattest state in the US, and by extension, the world.

Don't read this next bit if you have food in one hand. It ain't polite.

Our chow hall has recently introduced these amazing burritos, pita wraps, and sandwiches. Most days for lunch, it's one of the three--grilled meat, wonderful chile cream sauce, bacon, and tortilla/pita/bun. They are the best thing here and most people go to lunch and get a second helping for dinner. People rarely label the tinfoil packages in the fridge, as each knows they have this little slice of heaven and will eat it as soon as it can reasonably be called suppertime.

So, my buddy Craig noticed that one burrito exceeded the normal 24-hour window for eating it for supper. He asked around because he wanted to eat it. No one claimed ownership. He ate it.

Its rightful owner was irate. Hours later, a human turd appeared in Craig's desk drawer. I swear I'm not making this up.

All the guys in the office, while somewhat grossed out, thought it was hilarious. The women were horrified. Is this a guy thing, taking a shit in someone's desk drawer? The perpetrator was an Army Officer, no less. And might I point out, this was not a proportionate response. It's like nuking the city of Chicago to get at a sniper.

I guess it's kind of funny now in a who the hell takes a shit in a drawer kind of way. While we laughed about it at chow the next day, I remembered The Incident.

I lived with an Infantry battalion in Saddam's old intelligence school for a couple of weeks when I was here as a soldier. It was a massive, six-story building, and the plumbing did not work--I'm pretty sure I blogged about it at the time. We had toilet and shower trailers outside...but it was six stories down. So if you were on the sixth floor and you were a young guy, you pretty much pissed into bottles. And yes, it is disgusting, especially since they tended to accumulate.

But that's not even the worst of it.

The building also had trash chutes and elevator shafts. All manner of ugliness piled up in the elevator shafts, but the trash chutes emptied into the Sergeant Major's office...and was therefore off-limits.

Ostensibly, anyway.

Every morning, at roughly 7am, someone would shit on a cardboard chow hall tray and send it down the chute. As it clattered into the Sergeant Major's office, all hell would instantly break loose, every soldier yanked from their rooms and out into the sunlight, threats issued while most people tried not to laugh.

This went on for about ten days, and the perp was never caught. That's taking passive aggression to a whole new level. And if you weren't one of those guys getting yanked out of bed and screamed at, or the Sergeant Major, it was funny in an oh my god who shits on a tray and sends it down a trash shoot to the Sergeant Major kind of way.

It's only on deployment that I've seen this behavior, the icky Poop Joke taken to its farthest extreme. But then, I never lived in a frat house.

2008-02-06T13:38:00.000-06:00

I'm awake at 2am, thinking about it...right now, I just can't commit myself to another year over here. It may be the best thing to just come on home in July and figure things out from there. I really need to get to/through law school now, not in a year. I'm wondering if my dad can help me out, if worse comes to worst. I hate that idea, but it's there.

I don't have to decide right away, and I'm trying something new with that damn house to get it to sell. I may be able to pull this thing off yet, get home this summer. Insh'Allah, God willing.

In the meantime, another sleepless night...

I Must Be Crazy...

2008-02-06T09:39:00.000-06:00

...because I'm thinking about staying here another year, putting off law school *yet again.* Thing is, I got caught in the housing collapse--my property in Arizona has tanked completely, and my losses will add up to more than all three years of tuition combined. It scares the crap out of me to start school with it hanging over my head. Talk about a bad investment. Seemed like such a good idea at the time--no one could have predicted how badly Arizona would get hit with the housing crisis. I can't even rent it out for anything close to the mortgage payment, it's so bad.

If I jump into school now before recovering from what could be abject financial failure, I could end up in the kind of trouble I said I'd never get into again. It took seven years to pull my credit out of the gutter after the first round of student loans and bad decisions--I never want to live through that again. And the more I look at it, I'm headed down that road...that is, unless I stay here another year, tough it out, and recover from the six-digit hit I'm taking. I wish I were exaggerating. Between the house and my mutual funds, it's a serious bloodbath.

It keeps me awake for hours at night, worrying about it.

GOD I don't want to. I miss my family, my house, my town, my animals, all of it. I miss my life. And for the sake of all that's holy, I don't want to put off law school yet again. Plus, I'm excited about starting school, jumping into it and getting my hands dirty. I hope Ole Miss doesn't tell me to go get bent if I bail out one more time.

But not so excited about the recession and my hemorrhaging savings account. Nothing in the news leads me to believe the bottom of this ride is anywhere close. I made a bad decision buying that house, but at least I have the means to recover, where so many have lost everything.

But I also understand that I have a fantastic job here--it's infinitely fascinating, pays obscenely well, and I'm surrounded by competent, hard-working, fun people. Professionally, it does not get any better than this. It just doesn't.

I could be back in time to start the summer term in *gulp* 2009. Which would put me at 42 at graduation. I can graduate up to my neck in debt at 41, or with enough surplus to take time off, study for the Bar, and find a job I want--at 42.

Kind of seems like a no-brainer...but I'm having a hard time wrapping my head around another year away from home, another year to wait for school. I need to sleep on it a few nights, figure this whole thing out, then commit to that course of action.

Begin

2008-02-05T10:19:00.001-06:00

Some sweet woman named Alise left me the following comment on an older post:

"Kristen. Dude. Reading your post is like having someone recite aloud the thoughts in your head without having actually imparted them to that person. Your blog is awesome! (Um, so I guess I'm awesome?) I think you should forgo law-school and write. Be a Kinky Friedman or a Calvin Trillin. If you're not familiar, get thee to a bookstore ASAP. Regards, your sister from another mother. Alise"

A total stranger just made my whole day.

I've wanted to be a writer since I was about ten. I guess I'm still looking around for the right story to tell. I have enough time here, I should give it a serious shot. But how does one even begin to actually write the type stuff I like to read--i.e., short stories, dense novels, meaty fiction? Because I wouldn't be satisfied with it if it weren't up to the standards I apply to what I read. And is there really still a living to be made from it in this day and age, or more importantly, a readership?

And again, where, how do you start?? An outline of a narrative? Do you just start writing without knowing where the plot's going, how it will end? How did Flannery O'Connor do it? Is this something that can be researched? Are good writers born that way, or do they train themselves for it?

When I lived in the same town (El Paso, TX) as Cormac McCarthy, I was on the lookout for him everywhere I went--the grocery store, gas stations, coffee shops, I scanned the streets and buildings, hoping to run into him. Because that's what I wanted to ask him, if I could manage it without stuttering and coming off all creepy and stalkerish--how do you start these amazing stories?

People who think they could be writers are a dime a dozen. I read somewhere that it's never surprising when a friend says they're working on a novel, it's only surprising when someone actually finishes one.

I suspect it's like anything else, after all is said and done: writers find their voice and method by doing. But I also suspect there's a degree of drudgery--you have to keep at it, plug away every day, requiring dedication and sacrifice.

What We Deserve

2008-02-03T12:01:00.001-06:00

"You know when they see hurricanes hitting your coasts, they think it's Allah's wrath." The Danish lawyer went on, "They see the traffic lights blown sideways and think you're getting what you deserve."

This was during a break in the poker game with the Brits. I was up by a*lot* and it was looking good for my winning the night's tournament. We gathered outside in the crisp air while they all smoked and I just took a breather. Some of the old guys, regular players, had been unhappy about losing hands, and a couple of them were right grumpy.

Davie, who is from Northern Ireland and whose friend dates my friend, joined us. He was pretty drunk already. I still don't drink here--it's a war zone. If something happens, you're what, drunk? I don't even have a weapon, so I'd really need my wits about me if something went wrong.

"I'm sure many people in the Middle East do believe that, but how do you counter that? It's not something that can be helped. Ignorant people will think ignorant things and you know how Arab media works--it's pure emotion and no one questions whether or not any of it is actually true. They just believe it. The function of media is different--they think we're silly for expecting impartiality." I mentioned Saddam's Information Minister, that nutjob who said American soldiers were committing suicide by the tens of thousands outside the gates of Baghdad. People actually believed it.

The Dane nodded. I was justabout to remark on the incident in his country with the Muhammad cartoon as case in point when Davie broke in.

"You Yanks need a war every fifteen years for your economy," he slurred.

I know I shot him a look. "What? Our economy was in the best shape it's ever been in before the Iraq war and now look at it. And we're fighting TWO wars."

"Yeah, that kind of tanks that one, doesn't it?" Jinns laughed.

"You're not really fighting the war in Afghanistan, WE are." We as in,the British Army.

I've already sat through his tirades about how far superior the British Army is to the American Army and have exercised admirable restraint in not arguing over it. What's the point? I like the Brits and I don't need to get into a pissing match and say shitty things about their military the way Davie has about ours. I'd gotten used to having to answer for America's actions in this crowd. It's an uncomfortable position to be in when you don't actually agree with so much of it. Usually, it's good-natured, like someone's just asking for my opinion. This time, it felt like a deliberate affront.

I'm sure the expression on my face said it all. Davie's not the sharpest knife in the drawer, he has no respect for Americans, and he was drunk. I really did not want to engage this jackass.

"We have more fighting troops over there than you do."

I laughed, which probably pissed him off. But come on! "What are you, high? Did you bump your head?"

"How many troops do you have there?" he asked, becoming louder and more belligerent.

It was quickly getting uncomfortable and I tried to ease my tone, keep my tone light so as not to make A Scene. "I don't know off the top of my head, over 20,000."

Actually, once the next round of Marines gets there, it'll be 28,600, give or take. The Brits have fewer than 4,000. I looked it up the next day.

"We have more than that. We're fighting your war. Your military's shit anyway, the British Army is ten times better."

I was starting to get pissed. I hadn't come there for a fight and all I could think about was how I would never behave this way towards them. It's just bad form."You're wrong. Look it up tomorrow when you're sober. I know for a fact we have more troops there." I tried to make it sound like I was done with the conversation, and turned back to Jinns to change the subject.

He was suddenly furious, having worked himself into a clannish frenzy. "You Yanks got what you deserved on 9/11. You can't take it when it's on your soil. I lived in Northern Ireland for fourteen years, I lived with it every day, and you get it once and you go starting world war over it."

I stared at him in disbelief. I couldn't even speak. And I could not believe that no one else standing there said anything. Had the tables been turned and it was a Brit in our compound, I would have shut any American down for this line of shit long before it reached this point. Silence is one step down from outright complicity.

He kept on in this line until I finally cracked and said something to the effect of you go fuck yourself, what kind of man are you to say something like that, what the hell's wrong with you, etc. I pushed past him, back inside.

He even sneered to my back, "Yeah, walk away, truth hurts doesn't it." He's lucky I didn't physically assault him, I was so upset.

Our two friends, the ones who are dating, were the first people I saw when I got inside. I was so angry, I was afraid I'd cry. Which would be nothing short of horrifying. J knew right away something had happened--her whole face changed when she saw me. "What's wrong?"

I pointed at Andy, Davie's longtime friend. "Your buddy's a fucking asshole." I told them what happened and Andy looked mortified. Davie still continued his rant outside. Kev, a really huge, sweet bald guy who'd been to my left at the poker table, filled my hand with M&M's, apologizing for Davie's behavior.

Why didn't anyone shut him up? I looked around at the people I'd spent the last month getting to know. They all suddenly looked very different. Do they agree with him? Is it a cultural thing, that no one would step in and tell someone they're out of line? What kind of people are you? I've always considered the Brits (and Aussies) as our brothers and sisters, our best allies, the ones we could count on for a good time and good company. And to be fair, I've never heard one of the English guys go on this way--it's always the Scots or Irish. They seem to be so clannish and proud, in this crowd it translates to outright xenophobia.

He tried to apologize later after some of his buddies told him what an asshole he was (little late for that), but I wouldn't talk to him--you can't unring that bell, sweetheart.

J told me later that she wouldn't have taken the bait, that she doesn't let things people say get to her. That's just not part of my package, and here's why: if you can't defend your convictions, especially about the BIG things, your homeland, your countrymen and women, your way of life, then you lack courage or conviction. Or both.

Or maybe it's laziness, too much trouble to speak up. People might not like it, I may offend someone. Know what offends me? Dead Americans, on our soil or someone else's, and any idiot who says or thinks it was anything less than an unspeakable act worthy of the world's wrath. I am extremely passionate about certain things, and I'm not sorry. My homeland is one of them--I would actually have a really hard time respecting any American who could stand there silent in the face of comments like that.

I don't walk around getting into fights--I'm usually very good at disagreeing without getting shrill. I'm respectful about it. But this was just beyond the pale. He knew I'd been an American soldier, so even absent the 9/11 comments, it was astonishingly, unacceptably rude.

I sat back down at the table, still very angry, still not convinced that the opinion wasn't shared to some degree by everyone present, but determined to just finish the game. I won over $400 and as soon as the last hand was done, I took my money and left without saying goodbye to anyone outside the poker game.

I'm never going back.

We Have Different Grammas

2008-01-24T06:10:00.001-06:00

I've been inexcusably lazy in posting...bad girl! Actually, when this popped up for my login screen, I was a bit leery about logging in, knowing what I know about bad guys and media exploitation:Turns out, though, Blogger just launched an Arabic version, it wasn't a hack job. At least I hope it wasn't. If my blog is replaced by some raging bullshit, you'll know I've been schwamied. Or maybe THIS is the raging bullshit.

I often feel like the proverbial square peg. I rarely shake this feeling unless I'm among friends I've known for at least a couple of years. Over here, it's like an urban bar scene...I definitely don't fit in and it makes me right self-conscious at times. Not that I care enough to overhaul my personality--it kind of pisses me off when I'm reminded that I'm loud (which I am), or that I have a "strong personality" (also true), etc. I think I'm one of those people you either really like, or really don't like, and there's likely very little middle ground. But know what? Fucking deal with it, I won't put on airs to keep people from getting the vapors. I'm not mean, I don't hurt people, I try to be kind, so if loudness in and of itself is the issue, that's just silly and harkens back to some June Cleaver, women-should-be-delicate-flowers bullshit.

All the holiday season goodwill disappeared shortly after New Year's, so we're back to business as usual with the office drama. And as usual, I'm not involved, just observing and trying not to choose sides. Keeps things lively, but also irritates the crap out of me from time to time, watching everyone assign nefarious motives to each other's every word and facial expression, the smallness it begets in people with already stingy natures. I'm trying not to let it rub off on me--I've been That Person before, and I'm working hard to not be so judgemental and negative myself, give everyone the benefit of the doubt. It can be tough, and some people don't deserve it...but I've come to admire that generousness and tolerance (with a hefty dose of patience) in others where I didn't previously see it in myself. Just being conscious of it helps immensely.

So I'm working on it. And I have to be patient and tolerant with myself in the process.

Mating Dance of the Modern Celt

2008-01-03T01:42:00.001-06:00

This photo perfectly sums up our New Year's Eve. The little guy in front is a fully drunken, out-of-control Scot, dancing like a...well, like a fully drunken, out-of-control Scot. And note his friends (English, Irish, Scottish) laughing at him.

We had a blllaasst New Year's Eve with the Brits. Odd thing: instead of the 10-9-8 countdown, they had a Big Ben recording at midnight, bong bong bong, and you sit there all quiet while it bongs twelve times, all somber, then it's New Year's Day. Pretty anticlimactic.

But that's my ONLY complaint. My friend Jessie's kilted in the background--I wore a kilt that was advertised as the U.S. Army's tartan.

It was quickly pointed out that girls don't wear kilts, so it's a "scaat." A what? "A SCCAAAAT." A scat? What does that mean? "Your garment, the scaat." OH, a SKIRT!!!!

Additionally, the U.S. Army cannot have a tartan, as the Queen must bless, sanction, whatever, all tartans. So I wore a plaid skirt, which sounds rather pedestrian.

Supporting the sotten Scot.And it wouldn't be a party with the Brits if someone didn't take off some clothing. We may have encouraged this behavior a bit. I'm working to edit some of the video I took to upload it as well--it's so priceless that it inspired me to buy a real camcorder. What I captured: think Riverdance mixed with a 1980's-style breakdance-off. I laughed so hard my abs hurt the next day.

Don't Be Scared, Pump Real Iron

2007-12-29T03:23:00.000-06:00

The much-fitter-than-thou (or me, or anyone I know) blogger at Fitness Fixation takes umbrage with the model selection in the Champion catalogue, whose little skinny-ass arms belie their presense in a fitness catalogue:

"...I was flipping through your latest issue with the chicks awkwardly rollerblading and everyone lounging on the b-ball court, and I noticed that you had this little section where the models were prancing around steps (like step aerobics) and using dumbbells. When you look closer, you can see that they are, in fact, using 5 pound dumbbells. Hence the straw arms, hmmm?
I then wracked my brain to think of one exercise I might do using 5 pound dumbbells. Pinky curls for when I want a more toned coke-snorting finger? Maybe I could try and lift a 5 pounder with my eyelashes? Because, you know, I don’t think that’s gonna do a hell of a lot for my arms…
Now I’m not trying to be all big-dick weight (as in, my massive barbell is my penis stand-in, which it is sometimes, but hey, cheaper than a Ferrari.) 5 pounds is a fine starter weight for someone new to fitness and weight training and all. But, um, shouldn’t the models in a sportswear and fitness getup catalog be somewhat farther along in their fitness travels than your average novice lady exerciser? Like up to using (gasp) 10 pound dumbbells at least…
Okay, so why am I so pissy about 5 pound dumbbells, other than the fact that pissy is my true nature (even Buddhists think so.) Well, I’ll tell you, and thanks for asking. Because a few studies have shown that women do not lift NEARLY enough weight to get much or any benefit from weight training. I think most were lifting like 35 percent of their 1 RM (the max amount you can lift one time) which is waaay below where anyone should be. But you know, chicks get scared of bulking up (the vast majority won’t) and I think many women are sucked into the myth that we are ladies, we lift itty bitty weights cuz we get the vapors and we are delicate and those big, rusty barbells are for dudes with no necks. Which means plenty of females wasting hours upon hours at the gym, 'weight training' in a way that does NOTHING.
And of course, aside from the time-waste, there’s that part of me that always comes back to fitness as a kind of feminism. Do not, repeat, do not give me any stupid shit about proportionally less upper body strength than men, blah blah blah. Cuz so fucking what? That should not mean that women are relegated to “girl” push ups or abandoning pull ups or dicking around with teensy little colored dumbbells (or pencils or air, hee hee). Bitches can totally do push ups from the feet, get pull ups, learn Olympic lifts, press heavy dumbbells, bench press like monsters, etc. Do you want to ask the out-of-shape guy in your office to carry that box for you because you are a woman and somehow he must be stronger because he has a dick? Do you want to tolerate feeling like the weaker sex? I fucking hope not. Lift, grunt, and flex those guns, my girls. Please. Don’t be a wuss because you think you should be one. It’s bad form.
So Champion catalog people, do you think next time you could find some models who can pick up something heavier than a hairbrush? Toss out the 5 pound dumbbells and bring in some good weights? Have the girly models challenge the guys to a push up contest? Please? Let’s see some actual sweat and athletics to show how effective your wicking shit is. (Cue inspirational music, cut to shots of Rosie the Riveter and Billie Jean King and so on.) Do it for the future of our girls. C’mon, bitches! "

RIGHT ON, SISTER!! I love how she writes, too--no pussyfooting around, and I always feel an affinity for any woman who will drop an f-bomb. (You can take me out of the Army, but the Army will always live in my potty mouth.)

I hate looking at fitness magazines and clothing catalogues with little stick-figurines who look like the only weight they lift is their mascara wand! Check out the fit chicks at Title 9 Sports...real women who are active and look the part, not some bullshit little lettuce-fed martini-sippers. I read both Women's Health and Shape, but vastly prefer Women's Health for that same reason--Shape always has these exercises with little bitty weights evidently meant to increase muscular endurance, when I want definition and some visible evidence of strength.

Women don't bulk up unless they spend a great deal of time, energy, and money to do so. Do you know any bulky women? Do you know OF any bulky women (outside, of course, the 1988 East German Olympic Swim Team and those freaky, orange-colored, bed-baked bodybuilder chicks--think steroids here, ladies)? It just doesn't happen unless you spend more time at the gym than you do sleeping. A little definition is sexy, lifting heavy torches calories for hours afterwards, it helps prevent osteoporosis, and it feels good.

I spent over an hour a day on the elliptical trainer all summer--true, I had the resistance cranked up, was worn the hell out afterwards, and dropped a few pounds. But it was when I split the workout into :30-:45 cardio, :45 heavy weights/low reps that I really started to see results. After about a month of super-heavy (I lift as much as I can for about 5 reps, and do 2-3 sets, and the last rep of each set is generally very slow, with my face contorting and sweat running off), I started seeing shoulder muscles. Then my hamstrings and quads poked out. It's serious stuff, folks, and I'm a convert. Cardio's great, don't get me wrong, for health and to torch some calories. But weights are the holy grail.

And with that, I'm off to the gym--it's lower body day, which means full-body squats with 90 pounds on the bar, lunges with 25-pound dumbells in my hands, hamstrings at 90 pounds, quads at 75 pounds (I don't dare go higher with my crap knee), leg presses at 210 pounds. It makes me feel like a superhero, even if I still have too much junk in my trunk and could stand to lose 20 pounds. At least I'm a fit fluffy!

...That's Better...

2007-12-26T04:34:00.000-06:00

Spent the last several days celebrating. Dear God. We had two "down days," when we were as close to "off" as you can get in a combat zone. Trouble was, I spent them recovering from the night before and being called in for mission needs. I ended up more tired from the time "off" than when I'm in my work groove...but it's been great.

J and I have "Baghdad Boyfriends" (think summer fling, lighthearted and fun) who don't work as many hours as we do. They have a great deal of leisure time, and we generally do not. I'm dragging ass after sitting around *yet another* bonfire last night, partaking in the holiday cheer and hanging out with like-minded folks. It's a mixed bag--some Marines who guard the Embassy, State Department folks, some three-letter Agency people, a few of us Defense Department workaholics. And of the bunch, DoD people work the most hours by FAR. It's just what we do--you get indoctrinated in the no-time-off mindset in the military, and you carry it around with you for good. Well, at least while on deployment.

My Baghdad Boyfriend is a retired Army Sergeant Major--and when I say "retired," don't think of some whitehaired crumbly on a golf cart with a little flag on a cane pole. He joined at 18 and retired 20 years later. He recently divorced a woman he was with since JUNIOR HIGH. I cannot even imagine that, and I don't ask--or think much--about the implications. Am I only the second/third whatever woman he's ever...holy crap, don't think about it, much less ask. He's a big, strapping manly-man who laughs easily and brings everyone else in on it. This will not follow us home to the U.S. It just won't, and that's all I've got to say about that.

I'm finally back in the gym all the way--the box of clothes and my iPod I sent myself to keep from dragging it all over Kuwait finally made it here. I'm lost in the gym without my headphones. And I got 5 new CD's of workout-worthy funk: Dap-Kings, The Budos Band, and some excellent rare funk out of Detroit. I'm back to hitting the weights--The Girls seem to have healed up nicely, feel comfortable, and don't object to the weight-induced bullying. And I'm still having a great time picking clothes every morning--everything looks great and it's no small thing.

Mama in the Middle

2007-12-19T02:06:00.000-06:00

I walked into a hornet's nest with all the seething cattiness I mentioned while on vacation. Friendships and loyalties are so complicated in an environment like this, where there are so few of us and there is no separation between professional and personal lives.

Turns out, my peeps (J1, J2, and C) are engaged in open warfare with the woman they'd told me was talking out of school (M)...really, this seems like a wormhole straight into high school, but this kind of shit never ends. We even have a cafeteria with tables assigned by clique, and everyone watches where you sit and with whom. I'm stuck in the middle and I refuse to take sides. But my close friend here, J1, has the "with me or against me" mentality, and by refusing to hate (and say horrible things about) M, I'm making an enemy of J1. I get the cold shoulder if I sit with M in the cafeteria. I wish I were making this shit up.

My three peeps are all my age, mind you. I think it's one part boredom, one part miscommunication, and one part malicious silliness by all involved.

I just want to stay neutral. I don't want hard feelings with anyone. I'm certainly NOT reporting conversations to either side. I listen to all the venting each way--but I refuse to engage in it, and actively try to diffuse it. J1's begun to get a little icy towards me, especially when the subject of M comes up and I don't join in the mean-spirited, spiteful ramblings. All the stuff they told me while I was on vacation--I shouldn't have believed it. All evidence contradicts it--M pushed for me to get promoted and was instrumental in my getting a big award here, and has said nothing but great things about me to M2, who was with me here in Iraq as a soldier and would not misreport.

I talked to M about it all a few days ago, and she seemed genuinely hurt by it all. Maybe I'm a sucker, but she didn't trash-talk the other involvees in retaliation and her story is backed up by events and evidence.

The way I see it: I'm an adult. I don't have a dog in this fight. If that costs me my friendship with J1, then she's acting silly. I really like J1 and consider her a close friend. But for the love of God, if she'll turn on me for not hating someone who never wronged me, then what kind of friend is SHE, in the end? I'll fight in the pit like a dog for a friend who has been genuinely trespassed against, but it's just not the case here. There's no moral imperative--she wasn't swindled, lied to, taken advantage of, etc. They just plain don't like each other.

The hatred towards M has clearly been a way for the three of them to bond, and I'm seen as traitorous for not bonding with them on it. And I could get left out in the cold by all involved by not participating. So be it. I have almost seven months left here, and the malice is what people will remember about the warriors. I'd rather be detached and somewhat left out of my former posse than engaged in this energy-sucking drama.

FINALLY

2007-12-15T07:23:00.000-06:00

I left Mississippi early Sunday morning. I finally made it back to the International Zone *yesterday*. Yes, Friday, as in, five days later. I'm glad to be back.

That situation I mentioned with the talking out of school--I knew my sources had their own motives, and I put out some feelers when I got here. There *may* be a 5-10% truth there, nothing more. It was nothing like I'd been told, and it's all cleared up now.

I finally have my own room here, and it's a nice, big one at that, with a double bed! I'm still trying to get all my crap moved in, but it's coming along bit by bit. I'm about to give away several large boxes of clothes and accumulated crap in the process. Need to lighten up.

Nothing more to report--I have been inundated with catching up, and my main operation needs immediate attention. I don't have to worry about being bored anytime soon, that much is clear.

Hang On St. Christopher, Cause and Effect, and Please Forgive Me, For I Have Evidently Sinned

2007-12-11T15:23:00.000-06:00

What did I do to piss off the Patron Saint of Travelers, and how can I atone for my wickedness? You want a finger, you bastard? I got your finger right here.

I don't think I've ever had a trip go so horribly wrong. The ice storm in Chicago led to a late arrival to Frankfurt, and even after sprinting full-out across the airport (completely inverse to doctor's orders, no less), I missed the Kuwait flight. The Frankfurt Airport is a chaotic nightmare staffed by the rudest people Germany could find, and Lufthansa was completely uncooperative with the missed flight. The next one was 24 hours later, they wouldn't let me into any of their eight lounges, and I was faced with a night in a steel chair, or shelling out big bucks for a hotel. Wipe your ass with American dollars, and that t.p. hurts even more overseas.

I went the hotel route. And it was expensive. When I have the energy to dig my camera out of my bag, I'll post separately on the Germany experience...airport shitty, hotel lovely. Worth every dime.

And THEN I got to Kuwait, finally, and after waiting over 90 minutes in the visa line watching the staff talk and joke on their cellphones, take long breaks at their seats, and generally take things slow, I got the visa and booked it to the US liaison/bus just in time to watch the shuttle pull away from the curb. Which means I lost my opportunity to turn in my passport tonight. Which means I won't fly tomorrow.

And they don't fly on Thursday. Which means I'm stuck here until Friday. It's only Tuesday. So I have to take the shuttle out to the airbase (which leaves four hours from now), hand in my passport, and given the shuttle leaves at 2:30am, it's too late to check into a hotel. Which means I'm stuck in the tent, and I did not bring a towel or a blanket. Which means a cold night on a cot under flourescent lights, waiting until the PX opens at nine, buying one of those towels that's too small to cover my big ass, showering in the trailer, and hoping that by some miracle, my passport is ready before tomorrow's flight out of here.

It's not the end of the world. If the passport doesn't come through, I'll check into a hotel (again, at my expense and obscenely expensive), and spend the rest of Wednesday, all day Thursday, and Friday morning basking in the bathtub, eating at the obscenely expensive restaurants, and just enjoying myself.

*Sigh* I really can't wait to see the ordered inside of my room in Baghdad.

On the Road Again

2007-12-09T15:07:00.000-06:00

I'm in terminal C16, Chicago/O'Hare, watching it snow outside and hoping we lift off on time. I have over 5 hours in Frankfurt for leeway, but I hate sitting around in airports. And I'd rather have more time in Frankfurt, where I plan to walk around, drink Hefeweisen, find breakfast, and utilize my rusty German.

I sat next to a guy named Kelly on the flight from Memphis--big good ole boy from Birmingham. We chatted the entire flight. He works sound for concerts, speeches, etc., and has been to both Oxford, MS, my hometown, and Athens, GA, where I went to college. We know some of the same people. He's been at it for over 20 years, so he listed concerts he'd worked in both towns, and I remembered most of them. BB King at Ole Miss in 1988. Widespread Panic and Drivin' and Cryin' at the Georgia Theater in Athens in 1993. I like to chat with people while I'm traveling, as it passes the time and can be pretty interesting.

After wandering around O'Hare working out the kinks in my legs, I settled in at Chili's for a big fat margarita and a big fat cheeseburger. Finished the margarita, only ate about a third of the cheeseburger--my philosophy on food is that it's okay to have a cheeseburger, especially on the event of my last night State-side for the next six months. But I don't have to cram the whole thing down my piehole.

An elegant older lady named Judy sat next to me and we talked through our meals. She was much more interesting before the sales pitch--she works for some supplement company, the kind that sells pills and shakes via individual associates who run home businesses and make more money for every new individual associate they sign up. Which is the textbook definition of a pyramid scheme.

She went on and on about how their products will essential fix all that's broke: my sister's torn ACL healed up, my uncle had a stroke but lived 20 more years, I lost 60 pounds, etc. You've heard this same line from every snakeoil salesman on HSN, including that nitwit Kevin Trudeau. I'm sure these supplements are fine, but I'm equally sure the cheap ones I buy through Pilgrim's Pride contain the same ingredients and boast roughly the same absorption rate. She kept pointing out how great their shakes would be for me while in Iraq. But I already have shakes there, three canisters in fact, of vanilla Kashi Go-Lean.

So here I sit among the crying babies and fellow bored-shitless travelers. I don't mind going back--this beats the hell out of when I took leave from Iraq last time, when I got back on the plane with a heavy heart and clenched stomach, knowing how miserable it was there, and that I had a full nine months to go. This time, I have six, and it's relatively easy time.

There's been all sorts of drama in my organization in Iraq while I've been gone, and I found out my own site lead (the manager for the company I work for) has been saying terrible things about me behind my back and has even blocked me from moving into the job I want. Nice. I'm more puzzled than anything--she's saccharine-sweet to my face, then says I'm horrible to anyone who will listen. Or at least, that's how it's been reported to me.

I have no interest in garnering attention, positive or negative--I'm there to do what I can for the fight and save money for law school. She's the Princess. I guess I'm the Pea.

I don't need to jockey for position--there's no sense in it for me, as this is the last position of its kind I will ever have. I'm not looking to snag some prime follow-on assignment in DC or impress the leadership of my company.

Cattiness and this brand of cliquish, say-shit-about-people-to-get-everyone-on-my-side (we have SIDES???)-against-whomever bullshit is not only highly unprofessional and immature, it takes more energy than I care to expend on peripheral activities. The job sucks enough energy on a good day, the gym takes a pint more, and there are all the fun things I get to do for fun elsewhere in the Green Zone. There's Mantasy Island, for chrissakes. Who has that kind of energy, and is hateful enough to use it against a fellow analyst for the same company? I've never done anything to this girl but disagree with her, like any self-respecting professional would do in my situation.

She's about 8 years my junior, and I think that may be the crux of the issue--8 years ago, I probably created some drama myself. I guess it's entertainment in a monotonous environment. But I don't remember ever being this mean-spirited and/or dishonest about it, even on deployments or in smaller units, where boredom was rampant and drama encouraged. Just a couple of months ago, she was pushing to get me promoted, so her keeping me from the job that would both satisfy me and keep me more motivated, it just doesn't make sense.

Every business environment has a seedy underbelly of backbiting, powergrabbing, and professional jealosy. I've just reached a point in my life where I've recognized the futility of such pursuits--usually, people believe that kind of gossip only until they get to know you better. I have a great attitude and my analytical work stands utterly above reproach. People see that and start to wonder where the animosity came from. Hell, I wonder where it came from--I know she dislikes someone who's become my close friend, but I try to stay neutral in spats like that. I don't tell either one the things anyone has said--it's only hurtful and damaging to any organization.

And really, it's not awful that she's doing this--I'm well-liked there, and have only six months left. It's a big enough place, I can avoid all but the most perfunctory of interactions with her. I'll always be civil, even while annoyed, and will pretend nothing's happened. I just want the next six months to glide by, not rattle and hum on highs and lows of triumph, little spoons full of shit, and high drama.

I don't want to have this hanging over the two of us--we've gotten along well, or at least I thought we did, so maybe I'll approach her and ask what happened, tell her how disappointed I am, and try to clear it all up. And it is entirely possible it's been blown out of proportion through the telephone game, especially considering my source. I should be the grownup, hear her side of it and judge for myself where the truth lies. Many spats like this lie in one miscommunication somewhere that could be cleared up with one conversation, and hard feelings can be put to bed. I hope that's the case here.

When it's all said and done, though, It's all about perspective, and being home these last couple of weeks has reminded me why I'm there--save up for law school, do it honorably, and go home happy in July.

The Result

2007-12-07T07:17:00.000-06:00

This surgery was no picnic, despite assurances from my augmented friend that she had no trouble, flew across the country four days later, etc. Last Sunday morning, I awoke at 6 am to find the left Girl hugely swollen and bruised. I called the doctor's office for advice. And he asked me to come in and let him check it out, at 6 am on Sunday morning. That's how you know you chose the right surgeon. It was okay, just me freaking out a little--lefty was pretty ugly and uncomfortable. The stitches dug into my armpits like barbed wire, I was bloated as a dead whale on the beach, and just generally felt shitty.

I even had a day or two when I wondered if this whole thing was a good idea...what have I done to myself, this is crazy, what was I thinking???

So after about ten days of trying not to use my chest muscles and lying round the house like a slug, I drove to Memphis yesterday for a follow-on appointment to get the stitches out. The healing's on track and I instantly felt better once the stitches came out. I felt good enough to try on clothes, which had been painful with the stitches. I've been stuck with loose things I could easily pull on without straining, and I couldn't lift my arms--I'd been hanging around in sweatshirts and jeans. So I decided to do some quick shopping.

I meant to just buy a couple of things, a top or two to take back to Iraq with me. Normally, if I take ten items into any given dressing room, only one or two would fit and look good. I started at SteinMart, and stuck to the clearance racks. I found about eight things--cute empire-waist tops, a gorgeous Anne Klein blazer at $60 from the original $350, a couple of really nice blouses. I wore jeans and a cami under my clothes, since I have discovered how many nice pieces there are out there that look great over one. And I have *never* been able to wear a cami, mind you. Nothing to hold it up and it accentuated my lack of proportion.

I tried on the blazer over my lace cami, with the jeans. ****WOW**** I have an hourglass figure! The blazer has one big button at the waist and perfectly brought out my new shape. I stared at the mirror in disbelief and went out into the fitting room to look in the three-way mirror. The sales lady said, "Oh, yes, you're taking that one home." I couldn't believe the transformation. I still have my wide booty, but it looks totally proportional.

In all, I only spent a couple of hundred dollars at SteinMart and Ross, and made out like a bandit. Top after top, 90% of what I tried on looked fabulous. No more doubts about the surgery, that much is clear. The surgery was not as expensive as many people would imagine--I was able to pay for it out of my checking account, straight out. It won't impact my ability to pay for law school.

Like it or not, women are judged on appearance, and much moreso than men. Just listen to comments made about any woman in any position--Condoleeza Rice's wardrobe, Hillary Clinton's haircut, it's the first thing people consider, even for women in the highest echelons of power. Listen to people you know--most discussion about a woman refers to her appearance. I'm not judging right or wrong, I'm acknowledging a fact of American life. It impacts everything--studies have shown attractive people are more likely to be hired for any given position, and just look at all the bias against fat people. Looking good imparts power in all facets of daily life. And feeling like you look good is half the battle. Call me superficial (my brother did--won't be attempting any more contact with him anytime soon), wasteful, silly, I don't care. I've always hated trying to find clothes (and bras, for that matter) that didn't make me look like a walking pear.

But no more. It looks even better than I'd imagined, and it's a joy to get up and choose clothes for the day. It'll be interesting to see the reaction when I get back to Iraq--I'll have to wear one of my new, flattering tops for the trip back.

See, What Had Happened Was...

2007-11-28T08:47:00.001-06:00

This is the terminal in Kuwait. If it looks like total chaos, that's because it is. Total. Chaos. Also note the lack of seating--you have to sit on the floor. These people seemed to all come from an Indonesian girls' school, and the noise level in this concrete hallway rivalled that of the airplane pulling up to the gate outside.

This is the smoking area. Note the woman smoking just outside the door. The terminal, which is really just a hallway, was blue with smoke at one point. Call our smoking laws fascist all you want, I'm pretty damn glad we have 'em.

I really dread going back through Kuwait. It is a true pain in the ass. I don't dread going back to my job in Iraq--I actually like my job.

But I love being here. I've spent the last week stuffing my face with BBQ and catching up with the wonderful people I've known all my life, family and friends. It was absolutely the best choice to come back here last year. I had gotten so tired of starting over every time I moved, trying to find a niche and make friends. Here, it's all set for me. And I love it.

I have an awesome family and a core handful of friends here who used to sneak away from school to go hang in the park in high school.

Disclaimer--I just took another oxycodone and I'm feeling pretty damn good. See, I had surgery yesterday, and now I look in the mirror at a proportional, almost hourglass figure. It's wonderful. Just the proportionality makes me look like I've dropped 20 pounds. I did the right thing getting these girls.

So here's how it went down--Bob, my wonderful stepdad, drove all the way here from Adamsville, TN, about two and a half hours away on Monday night and slept on my couch so that we could get up and get to Memphis by 9 am. See what I mean about being here among family? How cool is that? AND he drove the Caddy, which rides like an airboat. Post-op, I was really happy to be in that car and not a truck or something less padded that I'd have to climb up into.

I woke up with nasty allergies but didn't dare take the Claritin I'd been taking all week. My throat was terribly dry and I couldn't stop coughing--nothing to eat or drink after midnight, so it was a bit uncomfortable. We arrived a bit early and after filling out some paperwork and paying the nice folks at the Memphis Surgery Center, they led me back to the pre-op room. I had to pee in a cup--quite the feat, given that I hadn't had even a sip of water since the night before.

The nurse had a tough time finding a vein. Actually, she couldn't--I simply have no visible blood vessels. I look like the undead in that respect. She called the anesthesiologist in--he was an older gentleman I had pegged as a Harley rider (I was right), and even with his years of experience, my dehydration meant that what little veinage I have was buried too deep for him to get a hold of one. He tried all four extremities, which made me uncomfortable--an IV in my ankle? Didn't sound good! He asked me if I was an android.

So what did he do? Went for my neck. I swear I'm not making this up.

They injected some numbing agent first--good thing, because I probably wouldn't have been able to sit still if I could feel a needle going in my neck. After it was numbed, it didn't hurt a bit. The only uncomfortable thing about it was sitting there with a little catheter in my neck, trying hard not to move or sneeze. I had to pinch my nose at one point to keep from sneezing.

The doc came in and I had to stand up with that damn thing sticking out of my neck--again, it really sounds worse than it is, it was just knowing it was there that made me all squeemy. He drew all over me with a surgical marker, then they wheeled me into the OR and gave me some great drugs that made me all giggly.

I'd heard that people act and talk crazy just before going under with anesthesia. I have no recollection, but I'm told that I looked right at the Harley-riding anesthesiologist and said, "If I start talking about Iraq, please tape my mouth shut because it's probably classified and I'd hate to have to kill everyone in the room." Much hilarity ensued, I'm told.

The next thing I remember is being in a dreamlike state and totally incapacitated--shadowy people moved around me, I was handed a styrofoam cup filled with ice water (which I gulped down), and I babbled incessantly about God knows what. The anesthesia made me shake violently, which hurt enough to cut through the drugs. I was wrapped in a heated blanket, but still shook until they'd administered two separate doses of Demoral to stop it. Several times I babbled on and realized there was no one around, particularly after the Demoral. Then I'd start giggling and drift off again. Going to the bathroom was quite the challenge--the nurse had to more or less heft me from a wheelchair right onto the toilet. Thank God I could at least wipe myself.

They wheeled me out to the car. I put a handtowel over my face to block out the sun and passed the hell out until we reached Oxford. Bob was really ready to get home by that time, and I cannot blame him one bit--he sat in that waiting room for a long damn time. It was so kind of him to drive all the way down to pick me up and take me there and something I could never expect anyplace else I've lived the last fifteen years.

So yes, I am high on Percoset and in love with everything and everybody right now. I love my house, my animals, my family...I'm a walking Hallmark card right now. It's pretty silly.

And the boobs? They look great! I think I chose exactly the right size--it'll be a C, not ridiculous porn boobs, perfectly proportional for my frame. I can't really tell what they'll look like, since they're in a light bra with some bandaging and they're locked in tight behind my chest muscles. There is a phenomenon with breast implants called "drop and fluff," in which the muscles finally loosen their vice-grip and the boobies settle downward and get softer. It takes several months. Even still, they look great already.

And with that, my eyes are fluttering...time for a nappy!

Next Phase

2007-11-18T01:54:00.000-06:00

So now I'm in Kuwait at the International Airport. There's a Starbucks. So here I sit with a cup of strong coffee with real half-n-half, not the weak simulation of cream we have in Iraq. It tastes lovely.

I'm sitting in one of Starbucks' little conversation corner things, my enormous bag in a cart behind my chair. Some American guy working in Afghanistan instantly sat down next to me and started talking. I just want to watch people. And I'm trying to look as inconspicuous as possible--not an easy task with my coloring. But I have a gorgeous Iraqi pashmina wrapped around my shoulder, my hair tied back, and I'm dressed better than most of the Americans wandering around.

There's a Kuwaiti family next to us and they seem used to having Americans around. The only one who stares is the little boy, probably about six years old. I keep smiling at him and he acts like any kid interacting with a stranger. He's grinning widely, hiding behind his hands, staring. I made a face at him and he giggled, then excitedly said something to his father, who didn't smile. Didn't scowl, either, just looked at me. Mom smiled, though.

Arabs don't smile at strangers like we Americans do. It's not unfriendly, they often just think it's odd that we smile at everyone. Maybe they think we look like baboons, wandering the earth with a big, stupid grin. It's better received from a woman than a man, for whatever reason.

There are men in full Arab dress--dishdasha (the white robe thing), headress, etc. Women in groups--some dress traditionally, in long dresses and scarves (hijab) over their hair, some are dressed Western with or without hijab. You don't see this in Iraq. The women are in traditional clothing with their hair fully covered, or they invite unwanted attention of exactly the wrong kind.

I wish I could take pictures, but it's considered terribly inappropriate, especially to photograph women. I'll keep my eye out for anyone else snapping shots, see the reaction, then gauge from there just how taboo it is.

I will shell out the $300 for a room at the Crowne Plaza on the way back--the airbase was utterly miserable. The light stayed on in the tent all night, people came and went, there were no pillows or blankets--I had clothes piled up under my head and used a towel for a blanket. I bet I slept about two hours overall, fully clothed. And on the way back, I'll be 2 weeks post-op, and the extra money will be worth a shower and pillows and sheets.

All things considered, it feels really good to be out in the civilian world, with shops and restaurants, and away from that shithole American airbase. I'm on my way to seek out an ATM for more Kuwaiti dinar.

On the Road Again

2007-11-17T05:30:00.000-06:00

I'm in Kuwait, in a tent with about 30 other bored ladies, out in the sand in the middle of no. where. I turned my passport in at about 2pm local, and it will be ready for pickup with the mandatory visa at 9am tomorrow. I fly through Germany on the way back and don't need a visa for it. So why here in Kuwait? Because our friends and allies figured out that there is big money to be made on visas for Operation Iraqi Freedom, and since we're on Arab time (think New Orleans time, only slower), it takes an absurdly long time to take that money and put a little colored stamp in the passport.

I'd rather some little guy just stand by the airfield we fly into and hold us each at gunpoint. Smack me with a camel whip and demand it of me, then let me board my United flight to Dulles. I'd gladly hand over fifty bucks and a smack on the ass to not have to sit in this wasteland for 36 hours.

At least there's a shower. Sort of. It's like the tent--open area. Water everywhere, and the clean clothes you bring to change into? Yeah, wet.

But I have a good book (Philip Roth, Sabbath's Theater), I didn't sleep well last night at the safehouse in Baghdad due to one guy snoring to beat the band, and I even have about ten episodes of This American Life on the iPod to take in.

There's a little McDonald's here--I made a beeline for it, given my lifelong love of the little cheeseburger (not the Quarter Pounder or Big Mac, just that crappy little cheeseburger) and fries...and got about three bites into it before it just didn't taste all that great. I tossed the rest. Don't get me wrong, it tasted like the ones in the States, it just wasn't worth all that fat.

It could be that I've gotten used to indulging in amazing Middle Eastern food, thanks to our interpreters from Lebanon, Egypt, Morocco, etc. They cook a couple of times a week and since I'm friends with them, I have an open invite. Last Friday was lamb-stuffed eggplant with fresh hummus and little flat bread things, also with lamb and cardamom. Amazing.

Things could definitely be worse. I think it's time for a long nap...home on Monday, boobies a week from Tuesday. Yeah, things could be worse.

Internet Dickwad

2007-11-10T07:10:00.001-06:00

That one's for you, "Anonymous." Probably the same dickwad I fired from two different positions, then reported for compromising classified materials. Coward.

I moderate comments, and summarily reject the pointless, insulting, or ones I don't have time to write a big response to. Call me a Nazi, a censor, whatever. It's my blog and it's for the entertainment and edification of my friends and family, plus friendly strangers. I'm not in your world, sweetheart, you're in mine.

So go right ahead, Anonymous, and send childish little schoolyard comments--they all end up in the "rejected" pile anyway. Gave me a great excuse to put the "internet dickwad" pic up.

I Freely Admit..

2007-11-06T11:30:00.000-06:00

...that I am not worth one good goddamn at work right now. All I can think about is going on leave--thirteen days until I'm actually home, ten days until I leave the International Zone. I'd be looking forward to it even more if it weren't for the Kuwait piece--the Kuwaitis make is as painful for us to travel through their crap airport as they possibly can, including a 24-hour cooling-off period to wait for your visa.

I worry about my tailbone injury--I have some sort of bone issue down there that makes sitting around for long periods of time, especially on hard benches like the one on the C-130 we fly down in, downright excruciating. Even driving in my sweet little leather-interior car hurts like hell after a bit. Traveling? I see a beer in my future as soon as I land at Dulles. No pain meds, though, since I'm having surgery on the 27th.

I've been researching the hell out of this surgery--I'm really looking forward to this. Not the surgery itself, mind you, but having a pair of Girls that are swimsuit-worthy. I may even have a bra-burning party for all those A-cups I barely fill out--liberating, but in a markedly different way than the bra-burnings 30 years ago.

It will be difficult not to work out--it could be over a month before I'm able to lift weights again. And I am so sold on weight lifting--huge bang for your workout buck. I now hit the elliptical for 30 minutes of balls-to-the-wall intervals (9 low, 17 high--my legs are on fire as I complete each rep) followed by about 45 minutes of heavy, intense lifting. I've broken into freeweights along with the sissy-ass machines after reading about the benefits of going free. I'm not in there to fuck around. I'm drenched and ass-whupped when I finish up...but why carve out time in a busy day, particularly at 5am, to go in there are get a little glisten on?

If I'm spending my precious time at the gym, I want to most bang for my time buck.

I plan to conduct some sociological experiments once I'm a C+/D-. Get pulled over--to ticket, or not to ticket? At the bar--what's my new drinks-paid-for-by-me to offers-to-buy-drinks-for-me ratio? Are more doors opened?

If I've learned anything, it's that you cannot underestimate the power of a great rack. I have a co-worker here who would likely not warrant a second glance, but for her size G porn boobs. Guys drool all over themselves in her presence, and I can't help but notice it's usually while staring at her chest.

Do I blame her for any of this? Certainly not. We play the hand we're dealt. I have really great, muscular, rock-solid legs...but they're in pants all day, except at the gym, and I don't think most men are *really* "leg men." I look great in a skirt, but a) can't really wear them here, and b) legs, while certainly important, are far from eye-level and are therefore peripheral. I suspect they're ALL "breast men," whether they admit to it or not.

I'll have to wait until July to truly solve these mysteries--just being cute and female in Iraq guarantees as much attention as anyone could possibly want, but it'll be interesting to see if even that gets affected.

Conversation with an Iraqi

2007-11-04T05:07:00.000-06:00

I flew up to another Forward Operating Base this last week to interface with the Special Forces muldoons. It's been a long time since I've ridden in a helicopter--I'd forgotten how nice it can be if you're sitting by the window. The first few times you fly in one, the straight-up motion is a bit disconcerting--one moment, you're sitting there on the helopad feeling the wwwhhaammpp wwhhaammpp wwhhhhaammp of the blades churning, then the tenor changes, and you just lift straight up.

In this case, we flew over Baghdad at sunset. I kicked myself for not bringing a camera. Helicopters fly fairly low, so you can see everything going on down there--black-cloaked women hanging laundry on their rooftops, people gathering in the streets to enjoy the evening cool, the brightly-colored jerseys in the children's soccer game we flew over in central Baghdad, the blue minarets. Date trees, cars, markets. No one looked up at us--they are so accustomed to the noisy birds, it no longer warrants a glance.

As we left the city, I was surprised to see how much farming takes place here in the desert. It looked much like any rural American landscape--patchworked crops, livestock, irrigation devices, date tree groves. However, we crossed a line at some point into straight desert--nothing stirred as far as you could see.

Every so often, we flew over a house, just out there in the desert, with deep wells dug all around. Imagine that life. You'd be isolated enough in the U.S. if your closest neighbors were miles away. But here? Where they lack many of our modern conveniences? Something must keep them from going mad. Islam, perhaps.

As I've gotten to know some of the Iraqis who work with us here, it's becoming clearer to me how much of a bum rap they get. Most Iraqis are just trying to make a living and send their kids to school without getting shot or blown up. I told one about North Korea and how they're brainwashed, how they have no electricity in most places, no internet, they're starving to death, and they get killed for saying the wrong thing. He bowed his head in understanding. Saddam.

I like to ask them things: What did Saddam tell you when Iraq invaded Kuwait? What did he tell you when we intervened? What was the Iran-Iraq war like?

Saddam, it turns out, pitched the Kuwaiti invasion this way: There is no true separation between Iraq and Kuwait, they are our brothers and sisters, the border should not exist and *poof*, I proclaim it does not. See, many Iraqis have immediate family in Kuwait, so that wasn't a stretch. Iraqis believed the Kuwaitis welcomed the invasion in order to reunite them with their families under one, righteous banner.

Here's what is wrong with that, though--why on Earth would Kuwait welcome reunification with a penniless state ruled by a madman? Their own booming economy would get irrevocably dragged down by Iraq, and Saddam would be in charge on top of that!

This point evidently did not enter into the Iraqi dialogue for obvious reasons. Then, when the U.S. answered Kuwait's desperate plea for help, we became the evil, meddling West, a title whose validity is, at this particular moment in time, admittedly debatable.

I posed these questions--albeit very carefully--to Ibrahim, an Iraqi man who speaks good English. He thought about it, then nodded. "No one would wish to be ruled by Saddam. You would be a fool to wish this, even if you have family in Iraq."

It takes a long time for people to see past the picture they've had of America for thirty years or longer. We haven't exactly made it easy for many Muslims in Iraq and elsewhere to reformulate their opinions, and only a select few actually live and work in any proximity to Westerners who can challenge the stereotypes. Their exposure is often limited to the crap on TV--and hell, many Americans have a love/hate relationship with our own media and entertainment industries.

I asked Ibrahim what he thought Iraq would look like in five years. His face lit up. "It will be prosperous. It will be like it was in the late-70's: nightclubs, people having fun, no more religious extremists." He believed it.

Then he sighed, gathering the change of clothes he has to bring into the International Zone so he won't be recognized when he leaves the checkpoint. Followed home, killed, his family murdered before him. It has gotten better, most Iraqis agree. But we're a long way from nightclubs in Baghdad yet.

Only 17 Days...

2007-10-30T05:05:00.000-05:00

...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

2007-10-24T11:09:00.000-05:00

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.

2007-10-19T04:35:00.000-05:00

Burning Down the House

2007-10-18T10:50:00.000-05:00

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

2007-10-14T11:03:00.000-05:00

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???

2007-10-11T11:40:00.000-05:00

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.

2007-10-05T07:26:00.000-05:00

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

2007-10-04T10:36:00.000-05:00

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?

2007-10-03T11:31:00.000-05:00

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...

2007-09-23T21:31:00.000-05:00

...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

2007-09-14T12:35:00.000-05:00

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.

2007-09-03T07:39:00.000-05:00

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.

2007-09-03T06:10:00.000-05:00

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

2007-08-28T11:35:00.000-05:00

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

2007-08-21T12:06:00.001-05:00

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

2007-08-12T01:40:00.000-05:00

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...

2007-07-31T23:03:00.000-05:00

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

2007-07-31T00:53:00.000-05:00

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

2007-07-24T04:49:00.000-05:00

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

2007-07-17T12:04:00.000-05:00

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

2007-07-12T01:37:00.000-05:00

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

2007-06-24T10:51:00.000-05:00

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...

2007-06-06T08:25:00.000-05:00

...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

2007-06-02T23:44:00.000-05:00

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

2007-05-19T04:06:00.000-05:00

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...

2007-05-16T11:12:00.000-05:00

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.

The Sandbox

The Absent Blogger

One More Week of Sleep-Deprived, Zombie Law School Finals Hell

End of Second Year

Lost All Comments

WEEK 5: Disaster Pie, or Butterscotch Cream Pudding Cookie Shit

The Pie Chronicles, Weeks 1-4

What I'm Doing This Summer

New Direction

I Got It(s)

Why You Should Never Try to Steal a Law Student's Laptop

Yay Election Day!!!

Why I'm Voting for Obama...

What My Brain Felt Like Last Friday...

Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

How Many More Baby Kittens Have to Die???

...Or Not.

FOB Ole Miss

Spook-Mail

Silly Rabbit

Damn Turret's!!

Slogging Along

Just Be Who You Are

Ode to Piglet

On It Like a NY Governor...The Month in Pictures

Not SO Bad...

Aftermath

Chicken-Ham Lasagna

It's Confirmed, I'm Back to Normal

Window Seat Acrobatics

The Departed

Egg Soup

It's Finally Here...Almost

Hiccups

41.6 Days...

USDA Zone 7B

Free Harley

*SOLD*

Now That's a MAN

With Friends Like This...

Coiffed

I'M OKAY...but Iraq, most decidedly, is not.

Hippity Hoppity

I Must Be Crazy...

Begin

What We Deserve

We Have Different Grammas

Mating Dance of the Modern Celt

Don't Be Scared, Pump Real Iron

...That's Better...

Mama in the Middle

*FINALLY*

Hang On St. Christopher, Cause and Effect, and Please Forgive Me, For I Have Evidently Sinned

On the Road Again

*The Result*

See, What Had Happened Was...

Next Phase

On the Road Again

Internet Dickwad

I Freely Admit..

Conversation with an Iraqi

Only 17 Days...

Shake Your Fist at the Sky

Burning Down the House

Something Old, Something New

Seasonal Sun Outages???

Great Minds Think Alike

A Fool and his Money...

Your Temper Has Brought Great Dishonor on my Happy Mooshoo Palace

I'm Sorry I Was Caught

Dirty (My Same Age) Man

Kick (My Ass) Boxing

It's Working...

The Dreaded Tigris Pink

Your High is My Low

Man Camp

Haunted House

NSTR

The Most Beautiful Words in the English Language...

Beyond Thunderdome

SOLD

FINALLY

The Result