Champagne High

"Man...if we had beer right now, somebody would probably die."
-- Rob on this weekend

I had a FANTASTIC weekend. My company, against my wishes, sent me to Freedom Rest, which is a hotel complex in Baghdad where soldiers can...hm...let their hair down and relax for a few days. I thought it was going to be the height of lame, which just goes to show that even I am occasionally full of shit. The hotel had foozball tables, a movie theater, a 24-hour ice cream bar and an enormous pool with three diving platforms at 3, 10, and 40 feet. It was just like being on vacation in some exotic tropical locale, except for the M1A1 tank that had its main gun pointing directly at my window. Come to think of it, that actually sounds a bit like Cuba.

Random Thought: Can you IMAGINE trying to explain away a negligent discharge as a tank commander? Ka-BOOOM! "What was that noise, soldier?" "Sir, we just vaporized the Falanaiko Inn!" "Er...whoops."

Anyway, we arrived at the complex Sunday morning. There were 11 of us -- me, my friend Matt (who, btw, looks so good in a bathing suit it makes your teeth hurt), my friend Caleb (who gets my vote for most likely to die before 30), Captain Jenny, Captain Rob, and his sidekick Jim, plus 5 random people who don't count because one was a chaplain and the rest were his minions and really, God has no place on my vacation. Jim is 41, and when he found out I was born in 1982, flipped his shit because that's when he joined the army -- "I'm old enough to be your father! Come to think of it, where were you born? Is your mother hot? You're from Virginia? Holy shit, I could be your father." I tried to explain to him that my conception involved my parents, a cold January evening, Air Florida's crash into the 14th street bridge (and for some strange reason, a turkey baster), and I told him I was quite sure he wasn't involved. I'm not sure he believed me.

Highlights from the weekend:

1) Rob teaching me how to play Nothing Else Matters, Shook Me All Night Long, and Wonderwall on the electric guitar. I am officially a rock star.

2) Caleb perfecting a move called "The Squirrel" off the diving platform. Despite catcalls from the Peanut Gallery, Caleb explained much alcohol would have to be involved for him to transition the move to the 40-foot platform, and that emergency medical personnel really would have to be standing by. Despite begging and bribe attempts, and the fact that the pool was open 24 hours, he refused to even entertain the idea of "The Naked Squirrel." I leave that one to your imagination. I maintain it would've been frikkin' hilarious.

3) A Quentin Tarantino film festival at full volume until 2 am with enthusiastic recitations of one's favorite lines (If any of you sons-a-bitches got anything else to say, now's the fucking time!), photo shoots with fuzzy leopard print blankets, freebasing red bull and diet coke, and Sniper Attacks with Mike & Ike candies will in fact piss off the hotel staff and earn you a stern talking-to from the guy in charge.

4) Jim getting his picture taken with one of the staff members, whose shirt read "Yes I work here...don't ask me for shit."

5) Me & Captain Jenny sitting on the 10 foot diving platform for a half-hour, having a philosophical discussion about why we didn't want to jump off (because really, we had nothing to prove) at full volume with the guys on the ground. One of the staff members leaning his head out of a window and yelling, "jump already, you are ruining our soaps!" Coining the phrase "my cojones are not in question here."

I'll post some pictures later as soon as Rob emails them to me.

Now I must go a meeting -- more fun recappage later.

Drama Queen

I create drama. It's not so hard, really -- if you know someone well, knowing exactly which buttons to push in order to create some fantastic emotional fireworks is easy as pie. I'm an expert at it, a master of emotional manipulation, a girl in whose veins flows an ancient gift -- the unspeakable power to piss people off. I don't know why I do it...except maybe siphoning off some of my anger?depression?rage?misery? into someone else distracts me somehow.

Let me back up. You, fair reader, have perhaps noticed a trend in my last...oh say, 6 or 7 blogspots...in which the tone is less Sugar-and-Spice and more Arsenic-and-Straight-Razors. I'm lashing out -- I've gotten simultaneously more vicious towards those who've somehow earned my antipathy, and more...well, "whiny" is as good a word as any...in my description of my day-to-day situation. I'm sorry for that. It can't be that fun to read a blog that could be pithily translated: "bitchbitchbitchCurrentCrushwhinewhinewhineVibrator".

I'm just so unhappy all of the time, I guess it was naive to think it wouldn't spill over into Sushi. This is hardly new -- my slide into melancholy is (like the shape of my hands, my fair-Irish coloring, my bottom-heavy mouth) inherited. I lost out in the genetics lottery -- Molly got my mother's bone structure and AJ got her eyes, while I got her mood swings, going up and down so fast those standing nearby are prone to whiplash. I'm about 92.7% sure that I'm bipolar (based on the symptoms listed here). Not crazy "Yea mortals, bow down before me for I am your God" grandiose bipolar -- I don't lose my grip on reality entirely (though Chaz might disagree with me there) -- I just...slip sometimes. It's like there are two people living in my head, the one who's bouyant and relentlessly optimistic fighting for control with the one who'd like nothing better than to gargle drano and tapdance in traffic. In point of fact, I have so many different personalities living in my head that I really ought to charge myself rent.

To tell you the truth...maybe the reason my exes morph into Turbo-Dick after we break up has less to do with their own inherent assholishness than I originally thought.

Anyway, no more posts about ME. Introspection leads to dangerous territory, boys and girls, and I'm not having it anymore. There are places in my head that should never see the light of day. There are wounds that hide in dark places and while I have counted each and every one, there is no reason for you all need to be privy to that sort of information. There are some things a well brought up young lady just does not discuss in public -- body hair removal procedures, the freshness of her nether regions (or lack thereof), and of course, any suspected mental disorders which may be lurking in her chemically imbalanced brain.

I need help.

Anyhoo, keep on the lookout for my next post, which will be a return to my socially conscious and somewhat feministy roots.

Thank God for ice cream, or I'd really be in trouble.

The Bitch Factor

Disclaimer for the men in my life: Firstly, Dad, I realize that you gave this web address to all your friends and coworkers and most of the immediate family, but that's really not my problem. This is my little corner of cyberspace, and I shall fill these pages with the random musings from the deepest recesses of my brain, as is my right. If my topics are a little risqué, I apologize, but that's the nature of the beast. You raised me. Deal with it. The rest of you – and you know if I'm talking about you – I will not call you out here, but if you don't like a) the topic I've chosen, or b) the light in which you are portrayed herein, feel free to send any and all complaints to stfu@gmail.com. This is MY BLOG, and you have no place in the editorial process. Thank you.

I was sitting here trying to come up with a blog topic, and I found my brain wandering back towards thinking about relationships. There's really not a lot to think about out here in Iraq – it's a pretty standard playlist – I think about what I'm going to do when I get home, where I'd like to live once I'm not assigned to Fort Stewart anymore, which pair of this season's Jimmy Choos I'm going to invest in (shoes that cost more than an in-state college education are more of an "investment" than a "purchase")…and of course, I think about guys. It's no secret that I'm a big fan of most members of Tribe Penis. While I like to think that I'm a pretty equal opportunity subscriber to those of the male persuasion, I definitely have a "type". The guys that I've dated over the years have toed this phenotypic line pretty closely – tall, good-looking, with a distinct Bo Duke slant to their personality – with one significant outlier. But that's not what this blogspot is about.

I'm not going to write about any of those past relationships – why they didn't work out is incidental – the only thing that matters is I'm not dating any of them anymore. I'm not dating anyone at the moment – unless you consider my relationship with Current Crush™ to be such, and that only works if you have a really creative take on the definition of the word "dating". No, what I'm going to talk about today is the hormonal detritus that we engage in once said relationships are over.

I've got a good working relationship with 3, count 'em, 3 of my former boyfriends. One is an awesome friend, a fantastic photographer, and taught me the value of bullwhips, shotglasses shaped like cowboy boots, and enormous belt buckles. The second is an adorable metrosexual who takes longer in the bathroom than I do, but has great taste in music and introduced me to Alkaline Trio. The last is an infuriating self-absorbed assclown, but I love him anyway, even if he is picking up and moving across the damn country before I get home on leave so I can't say goodbye properly, you jerk. These three guys rock the house, and thankfully the bumps in the road of our friendships have been relatively minor – I'll always have a place in Austin, Fort Campbell or Cali should I choose to exercise the privilege. (No worries boys, I have no plans to invade your respective casa-de-los-hombres any time soon – you may breathe easy.) Most of the guys I've dated, unfortunately, do not fall into this mold.

Most of the guys I've dated morphed into Turbo-Dick upon the dissolution of our romantic entanglement.

That's the main point of my blog today – why do we do that…why do we insist on making the ending of a relationship even more painful by acting like complete hemorrhoids to the other party? Does that honestly make you feel better? It never made me feel any better, acting like a bitch to my former significants – then I just had shame to add to the top of an already heaping pile of suck.

I've noticed that behavior following a breakup follows a pretty distinctive pattern and involves playing a complex series of games using stereotypical and completely pathetic behavior in an effort to hurt the other person as badly as you yourself are hurting. 1) You play the I hate you and hope you die game, throwing every heinous thing the other person did back in their face (in technicolor, possibly in public and certainly not in your "Indoor Voice"), much like the Money Shot in a porn flick, only more grotesque. 2) Once you've exhausted that route, you try your hand at Russian Roulette in the form of the I swear I didn't mean it, baby game, in which you desperately try to get that person back, because as awful as the relationship was in those last few weeks or months, it's still better than the sudden cold shock of being single again. 3) Then, once you realize that there was a reason you broke it off with your *snicker* better half, you play the Looking for a Hole and a Heartbeat game, in which you either honestly go on a Debbie-Does-Dallas-esque rampage through the reproductive organs of your choice, or you merely attempt to make the other person believe that you are on a mission to single-handedly raise the stock of the Prophylatic Industry.

**edited for snarky content**

Happy now?

Mail Call

It's amazing – ever since I got to Iraq, friends of mine have been universal in commiserating about the hard-core suckage of the situation and also in asking for my address so they can send me things, as if month-old issues of Cosmo and chocolate candy are some kind of lifeline to civilization. I've gotten emails from old boyfriends, far-flung family members, friends from junior high, teachers from elementary school – in any other situation it'd be a little creepy, in this situation, it's heartwarming.

Mail is the single greatest thing in a soldier's life. It's a direct connection to hearth and home, a physical reminder that those we love are thinking of us (unless it’s a Dear John letter, in which case, yeesh) and a relief from some of the frustrations of deployment – can't get your favorite shampoo in theater? Have mom box it up. Dying to know Mary Alice's awful secret? With the advent of DVD burners, your Desperate Housewives addiction can be fed. Jonesing for hersheys kisses? Seven to ten days is all you'll have to wait for relief. Packages from home are sent to an APO address that routes all mail through a central office before distributing it to the bases. Mail is inspected for contraband (we'll get to that) before it's released to the units, who are responsible for getting it to the individual. The time of day when mail is delivered – known affectionately as "mail call" – is probably the best part of a soldier's day, ranking right up there next to chow time and rubber-band-on-the-doorknob time in terms of it's necessity to maintaining a soldier's morale in theater. Chow time ranks higher because one time a fistfight broke out when the soft serve ice cream machine broke during peak hours. I haven't seen anyone resort to fisticuffs over failed mail delivery, but hey, it could happen.

Packages from my parents include the usual stuff – Riesens caramels, which are little pieces of divinity in chocolate form; the entire Harry Potter oeuvre as well as the 6^th book if they know what's good for them, cute cards and posters to grace the walls of my swinging bachelorette pad; and of course, books of logic puzzles so I can geek out to my heart's content. Other people always ask me what I need, as if I'm out here in the desert with nothing but my canteen and boonie cap to protect me from the glaring sun. "Lotion…do you need lotion? Can you get lotion there?" Yes, people, remember that discussion earlier we had about the PX? There are a LOT of generals on Camp Liberty, so there are very few things I have a problem getting for myself. Lotion is not one of them…after all, the army is made up of primarily males. Sunscreen is another thing the Army generously provides – we're in the desert, it's kind of a gimme. Anything electronic, computer or video oriented, the hadjis sell reasonably priced and they are willing to haggle. So what sorts of things DO we like to get, you may be asking yourself. Good question. To answer that, I took a short poll.

1. Naked pictures of our significant others. This is technically illegal but it was the most popular answer so I feel obligated to include it. If you are planning to send naked pictures to your soldier, make sure to hide them inside a box of tampons or cold medicine or something. Porn is not impossible to come by here, but according to General Order Number 1, we are not allowed to have it. Maxim is the strongest stuff you can obtain legitimately, but for some of my guys that's like giving a heroin addict methadone – it'll keep them from spazzing but it's way less satisfying.

2. Cookies/candies/brownies. We love getting these sorts of things in care packages. It isn't that the cookies and brownies at the DFAC aren't delicious (which they are, mmm mousse-cake) but getting packages filled with perishable goodies from home makes us feel like we're at summer camp. Summer camp is much better than war. We don't have pony rides, of course, but I bet we could talk one of the locals into getting us a camel. We'd have to be really clear about what we wanted though – asking for a camel to ride could lead to an embarrassing situation if you weren't careful. Translation issues, you understand.

3. TV shows, videos, mix CDs. You can get a sketchy bootleg copy of any movie that you want here, but when you get sick of grainy quality that won't play half the time, it's nice to have real DVDs sent from home. Mix CDs, especially of current music, are also appreciated. We have what's known as "freedom radio" out of Baghdad, which is a military-run radio station that plays different types of music – the morning is country, mid-afternoon is rap and the evening is alternative rock – but it's a few months behind the times. That and listening to state-run media outlets tends to give me hives. Propaganda, doncha know.

I was talking to one of my friends online, using that delightful invention known as AOL Instant Messenger, adored by college kids and agoraphobics the world over for its ease of communication with no requirement for personal contact. She and I hadn't spoken in several months. She had to be caught up on a couple of new developments…

JMUstarbaby: Hola chica, whatcha up 2?

Paichka: I'm in Baghdad.

JMUstarbaby: Holy shit, who'd you piss off to get sent there?

Paichka: I'm in the Army, I didn't piss anyone off, except maybe God. It was just my turn.

JMUstarbaby: Well hell. What do you do there?

Paichka: Honestly nothing. I sit around, eat pudding, go to meetings…

JMUstarbaby: I should've joined the army. I like pudding.

JMUstarbaby: I could go to meetings.

We started talking about my life in Iraq. When she found out about the strict hardships we labored under, she was floored.

JMUstarbaby: No ass and no alcohol? Good god, that's like the Taliban.

Paichka: With uglier clothes.

JMUstarbaby: That is not the American way. What on earth are we fighting for?

Paichka: Write your congressman.

JMUstarbaby: I intend to.

Then came the question.

JMUstarbaby: No ass huh?

Paichka: Nope.

JMUstarbaby: Not even the battery-powered kind?

Paichka: No. It wasn't on the packing list.

JMUstarbaby: Get your mom to send you one.

Paichka: That would be an awkward conversation. "Hey mom, would you mind popping down to the porn store and picking me up a rabbit habit?"

JMUstarbaby: She'd understand. Just make sure she includes batteries.

JMUstarbaby: That'd be pretty funny. The package starts vibrating when they're inspecting it

JMUstarbaby: "Oh dear we have a bomb! Evacuate the building!"

JMUstarbaby: But no, it's just sunny's vibrator.

Paichka: That'd be tough to explain. "See I have this friend…"

JMUstarbaby: Must be easier for guys. Little lotion and a maxim and they're good to go.

Paichka: Most of the guys here have roommates.

JMUstarbaby: Like that stops them. Little pervs.

She was kidding (I think), but the thing is, lots of girls brought little friends to the theater. I'm not making this up. The subject actually came up at one of our pre-deployment meetings back at Fort Stewart. CPT Porter had just received hard copies of General Orders 1 and 2, and he was reading them to us. When he got to the part about "relationships with soldiers of the opposite sex except those that are mission related" being prohibited, he elaborated with: "So you all are clear, that means no sex." SPC Green, one of the headquarters platoon's soldiers, piped up with: "What about sex toys, sir? Are those prohibited as well?" I thought the man was going to have an aneurysm. I laughed so hard I thought I was going to pee myself, but SPC Green was totally serious.

Today's take home message: guys don't have a monopoly on rubber-band-on-the-doorknob time. Women have needs, too, after all.

A little help, Big Guy?

It's amazing how a little information – two very small, completely unconnected bits of news I found out just last night – can be so earth shattering. I went to bed last night numb, and when I woke up this morning, the whole world was different…which is to say, my whole world is different…I doubt the other two people involved see the situation in the same light that I do. One sees a golden opportunity and a fresh start where I see a closed door. The other sees justification where I see a betrayal. Two events – a new job accepted and an email sent several months ago – a change in perspective, and I've lost two people who were more important to me…in their own ways…than I think they ever did (or ever will) truly know.

In high school I had a friend, Andrew Breton, who used to say: "That sucks. But not in a good, 'suck my dick' kind of way, but in a bad, 'suck my ass with a vacuum cleaner' kind of way." Right on. Crude, yeah, okay. But descriptive.

This week has been like that…and Christ in a Side Car, it's only Wednesday. What's next, Big Guy? You going to go all Old Testament on me, a plague of boils here, a river of blood there; maybe smite my oxen just for kicks? Let me know so I can brush up on my Charleton Heston, if you send the Angel of Death out here to kill all the First Born again, I want to be ready. I knew that goat's blood I've been keeping around would come in handy sooner or later.

See, God and I have this deal worked out. He's allowed to dump as much crap on me as He likes, but He's got to balance in out with good things, so that at the end of the day I've got a neutral balance. Let's go over this week and tally it up…

Sunday

(Bad) Molly called me hysterical because the Parental units have decided to get a divorce.

(Good) Annahita liked my story! (Except for the incestuous bits, right, darlin'?)

(Bad) A very pissed off full-bird colonel, COL Resnek, visited my site and interviewed SSG Elam. He came away from the interview thinking that we have no idea what we're doing down there and any minute Hadji is going to come over the wall, capture us and put us on Al-Jazeera for ritualistic beheading.

(Bad) Am forced to attend stupid Hail & Farewell ceremony for Battalion where only food is pizza. Eat 4 slices and feel like a big fat cow.

(Good) Andrea and I embrace the Big Fat Cow-ness and commiserate about boys over ice cream at the DFAC.

Monday

(Good) Parental units will not be divorcing after all. All is back to normal (ha!) at the Reid household.

(Bad) Get ass-chewing from CPT Agena regarding COL Resnek's visit. Find out that as a result of the visit, COL Hooker and MG Webster will be visiting my site on Tuesday.

(Good) See Current Crush™ at command center when I go to check in.

(Bad) Make ass of self in front of Current Crush™ at command center when I go to check in.

(Good) Current Crush™ punches me in the shoulder in apparent manly greeting. Spend about 20 minutes on the phone with Best Friend™ discussing whether or not this means he likes me and whether behavior is direct outgrowth of elementary school habit of bashing one's amour in the head with a lunchbox as a sign of affection.

(Bad) Am starting to wonder if Losers Welcome is tattooed on my forehead in ink visible only to Perverts, the Emotionally Unavailable, and the Psychotic. Spend 20 minutes over IM with Other Best Friend™ discussing whether manly punch in the shoulder is a sign that Current Crush™ is closet wife-beater.

Tuesday

(Good/Bad) MG Webster and COL Hooker postpone visit to my site. I am forced to sit out there for 12 hours for no real reason. Eat entire bag of Chex Mix all on own. Throw up entire bag of Chex Mix in humiliating display of projectile pyrotechnics.

(Bad) Make ass of self in front of Current Crush™ at command center when I go to check my mail. He salutes me, apparently in recognition of my status as a certifiable crazy person.

(Bad) Find out Piece of Information #1. I'd go into more detail, but since this involves another person who may or may not like their private business discussed in my blog, suffice it to say that for me, this piece of information was Not Good…for this person, this piece of information was Not Bad.
(Bad) Find out Piece of Information #2. My reaction to this piece of information prompts a downward spiral in which the fragile peace built up between me and this person crumbles and we're back to square 1.

Wednesday

(Bad) Get period. Break a nail. Am told by PSG that I need to clean my room. The dining facility ran out of Diet Coke.

(Good) Have not died, broken out in boils, or spontaneously combusted. Yet.

Hmm. So far the score appears to be God – 11, Sunny – 7. That's a 5 point deficit. I was never much for math, but I'm thinking God owes me. Clearly, I've got something pretty sweet headed my way, and it's going to be huge.

Brad Pitt in a box? Winning the lottery? Redeploying early? Having Current Crush™ decide that despite appearances, I am not schizophrenic?

I'm waiting, Big Guy.

Just...waiting.

What. The. Hell.

The following letter appeared in the May 28^th Edition of Stars & Stripes.

Army not a social experiment

Congress passed a law forbidding women from direct combat roles in 1994.

Women are not required to be registered for the draft, but men are.

Upon entering the Army, women are not required to get their hair all cut off, but men are. The reason for men getting their hair cut off is to let them know they are entering a whole new life. Women do not have this reality hit them in this way.

Women do not have to meet the same physical standards as male soldiers.

Why are women allowed into military academies? Academies prepare officers for leading men into battle. If women cannot go into battle, then they should be in ROTC or Officer Candidate School.

These are just some of the reasons women should not be called soldiers.

It seems Congress is hell-bent on using the military as its social experimental laboratory. Whatever social ill the United States has, Congress wants to try it out on the military first to see if it will work.

I am also tired of hearing about America’s fighting men and women. Women are not fighting these wars because it is against the law. Most of the casualties in the last three wars were men, not women. I wish the news media would stop portraying women as heroes for any little thing they do.

Since women have entered the Army in large numbers since 1974, the social problems that commanders have had to take on have been extraordinary. Most of them will not admit it because of fear of ending their careers.

If you want total equality in the military, then a standard must be set and all must attain it. Men and women need to have the same standard.

This is an Army we, the taxpayers, are paying for, not a social experiment.

Richard Pichette
Kuwait

Now, before I get into the meat of this misogynistic drivel, let me point out that our boy Richard is not himself in the Army. He's clearly a civilian. Retired Army folks will still claim the rank that used to be theirs – they're still LTCs and SGMs and CSMs – they just have a little (ret) that hangs on to the end of their name, indicating that though they were once among the proud warrior class, they are now, in the words of MacArthur, fading away.

Civilians, on the other hand, are just taxpayers, as Richard so helpfully points out. To that I say, write the checks, asshole, and stop trying to write policy.

Let's go through this happy horseshit line by line.

Congress passed a law forbidding women from direct combat roles in 1994.

Yes, and Congress also passed a law forbidding interracial marriage in 1883. Birth Control was illegal until 1968, and women couldn't vote until 1920. Owning slaves was legal until 1863. African-Americans only counted for 2/5s of a person until the passage of the 14^th Amendment after the Civil War. Up until 1970, you could be sent to die in wars started by the government, in which you had no voice because you were underage and couldn't vote. The POINT, dear readers, is that lawmakers are not gods, lawmakers are mere mortals, and as such they are hobbled by the shortsightedness of people raised with a certain mindset and a certain code of beliefs. This is why the Constitution is referred to as a "Living Document", because it grows and adapts as Americans do. We have the happy power to make changes to our laws and our government as our country and its citizenry evolve. This is why we can choose to elect new blood to the government every 2 (House), 4 (President) and 6 (Senate) years. (Except South Carolinians, who reelected Strom Thurmond 18 times, even though the man was over 100 years old and given to power naps while the Senate was in session. He served 6 months of his last term before anyone realized he was dead, and if you'd given the constituency their choice, they probably would've voted to just keep propping him up on sticks like a macabre Kermit the Frog.) Anyway, point is, times change. Bell-bottoms and male chauvinism went out in the 70s.

Women are not required to be registered for the draft, but men are.

The draft is an antiquated, unnecessary piece of legislature, and in any case stopped filling the ranks of the Armed Forces 30 years ago. Our Army is made up of volunteers, and in case you haven't noticed, the stop-loss program (called by some opponents a "back door draft") applies equally to male and female soldiers.

Upon entering the Army, women are not required to get their hair all cut off, but men are. The reason for men getting their hair cut off is to let them know they are entering a whole new life. Women do not have this reality hit them in this way.

AHAHAHA. Oh, wait. He was serious. And getting yelled at by Drill Sergeants, forced to wear a uniform, forced to stand at parade rest when speaking to a superior, learning to march, learning to shoot, learning to throw a grenade…these things don't hammer home the reality of being a soldier? Yes, he's right – having one's hair cut off is what makes a person combat-ready. How foolish we've been. I wonder why nobody realized this before? Think of the money we'll save! Basic training could be so much shorter, just boot a young 18-year old through a revolving door into a barber's chair, give the boy a high & tight, and out comes Captain America.

Women do not have to meet the same physical standards as male soldiers.

Ah. This is the unfortunate reality of being female. We aren't as strong as our male counterparts – but I still know plenty of females who can max the male PT test. This is a stupid argument anyway. I beat the pants off most of my guys on the PT test – their scale or mine.

Why are women allowed into military academies? Academies prepare officers for leading men into battle. If women cannot go into battle, then they should be in ROTC or Officer Candidate School.

And what do ROTC and OCS teach soldiers – flower arrangement? All three methods for minting officers have an infantry focus, because the Army believes in battle-focused training. There's a saying among military types -- "we're all infantry when the shit hits the fan". All three schools -- West Point, ROTC or OCS -- teach officers what they need to know to lead soldiers, be it into battle or into staff rooms. Anything else we need to know, we learn on the job.

These are just some of the reasons women should not be called soldiers.

And these are also some of the reasons I shall call you "Dick".

It seems Congress is hell-bent on using the military as its social experimental laboratory. Whatever social ill the United States has, Congress wants to try it out on the military first to see if it will work.

What ills does the United States have in regards to women? For crying out loud, you jackass, women can serve in dangerous jobs in the States – firefighters, policewomen, pilots…if anything, the military lags behind the civilian world, not the other way around.

I am also tired of hearing about America’s fighting men and women. Women are not fighting these wars because it is against the law. Most of the casualties in the last three wars were men, not women. I wish the news media would stop portraying women as heroes for any little thing they do.

Most of the casualties in the last three wars were men because the male soldiers a) are allowed to go on patrols, and b) make up a greater percentage of the Armed Forces than females. Trust me though, IEDs don't make allowances for ovaries.

Since women have entered the Army in large numbers since 1974, the social problems that commanders have had to take on have been extraordinary. Most of them will not admit it because of fear of ending their careers.

And this is the women's fault? That old 'women as the root of original sin' argument went out around the same time we realized we could have orgasms. Men must take responsibility for their penis – it doesn't just wander off and them in bad situations while they aren't looking. If soldiers are doing what men & women do when put together in a close situation for months on end…it's up to the leadership to enforce the standards, and it's up to the individuals to take a little responsibility.

What kills me about this letter is that this jackass is probably a civilian contractor -- which means he's over here making three times as much money as me, running his mouth and utilizing the right to free speech that I and my fellow soldiers joined up to protect. It takes all kinds, hm?

Friggin' IDIOTS.

Something Completely Different

So one of my Favorite People™ sent me an IM today complaining that my blog has become too depressing recently. "You used to be funny." (I'm not sure how, but she manages to make the written word sound reproachful. I'm feeling guilty for having written two downer blogspots in a row.) "Nobody wants to read about Child-Molesting Mall Santas."

In my defense, everybody wants to read about Child-Molesting Mall Santas. If they didn't, Jerry Springer wouldn't be nearly so popular. I see what you mean, though...there's a definite dark cast to the past few blog posts. Humor is usually just Anger with her makeup on, but lately it's like the old girl is getting a little sloppy with her application.

I wish I could be funny on command, girliepie, but I can only be funny when I'm in the MOOD to be. Lately, nothing has seemed all that entertaining. The last thing I want to do is complain about my situation – I made my own bed, now I have to lie in it, blah blah – but you all have to understand. It sucks out here. Period, end of story, thanks for playing. I'm thankful for all the things I DO have – internet in my room, a fridge, a TV, the entire Harry Potter oeuvre, diet coke, all the books I care to read (and that is saying something)…but as dressed up as this place is, it's still Baghdad. This is also why I've been avoiding the "Day in the Life" blogspot that several of you have been pestering me for…I don't really want to write about what it's like out here. It's very boring, very frustrating, extremely on-edge, and fraught with sexual tension and snide gossip. If you want to imagine what Iraq is like, head down to your local Middle School and spend a day observing the hormonal mental patients that pass for adolescents these days. That about approximates it. Petty, underhanded gossip, unrequited crushes, mandatory fun, false motivation, and extremely cranky superiors who are convinced of their own moral, physical and intellectual superiority and have absolutely no respect at all for you or your abilities. This is my world, boys and girls, welcome to it.

I read your away messages, blogs, emails, etc…and I am so jealous of you that if envy were acid all that'd be left of me is a couple of teeth and a belt buckle. Something as innocuous as reading about someone drinking a glass of Merlot can put me in a bad mood for the rest of the evening -- and I'm not that big a fan of red wine. So why have I turned into the Poster Child for Antidepressants lately? I despise getting my ass chewed by the hydroencephalic individuals appointed over me. I hate that there are cretins in charge of my career, who may blithely write whatever they please on my Officer Evaluation Report and that one little checkmark in the wrong column could condemn me to beaurocratic hell for the remaining 36 months I must spend in uniform. I abhor that my fellow officers are Brutuses who smile benignly while knifing you in the back. I am foul with resentment, and if I open the floodgates then you as my readers will be subjected to my litany of bitterness, my song of rage, which I assure you, with my tendency towards the dramatic, would be operatic in its scope. So I'm not going to talk about that. You wonder why I shy away from personal topics…well, that's why. Do you all really want to hear about the soldier who was killed in the PX bombing two days ago? Or the soldier who lost an arm when a rocket hit the trailers in the pad next to mine? Or that one of the soldiers had to get her uniform replaced because she helped a guy injured in an explosion and her pants were covered in blood? I didn't think so. Don't ask me again what it's like out here. I promise, you will not like the answer.

Funny though…I might be able to do funny. The man who runs the bazaar asked me to marry him. He said he'd give my father two goats for me. I assume that's not too shabby an asking price, the guy standing next to him looked kind of impressed. I told him my father lives in the suburbs and probably wouldn't have any use for goats. He paused for a minute, thinking, and said, "How about a car stereo?" You let me know, dad…I might even be worth a TV.

Andrea coined a new term yesterday as well. We were in the dining hall and we were talking about guys (duh). She pointed out a guy behind me who was pretty cute – probably not a heartstopper back in the states, but at least worth a second look. I said as much, and she replied, "Yes, that's what I meant. He's totally Baghdad-able." You're my hero, Andrea…you make me giggle even when I'd rather be punching things.

Cynicism

I just finished Sarah Vowell's Take the Cannoli, sent by the parentals in my last care package. For those of you unfamiliar with Sarah Vowell – hie thee hence to Amazon.com. I will not go so far with the adulatory ass-kissery as some of her reviewers (the publisher's blurb on the back of her latest is almost masturbatory in its exaltation of this "madonna of Americana"), but the woman IS a brilliant writer, if occasionally a little smarmy and self-important. (She lives in New York, so that's to be expected.) Trivia Time: she was also the voice of Violet Barr in Disney's The Incredibles.

Sarah Vowell writes the sort of quirky, educational pop-lit that liberal university professors love to assign to their introductory level classes. Entertaining enough to be brain-candy, with enough substance to let you feel like part of the Intellectual In-crowd – especially if you get the pop-culture references – reading her books you feel as though you're having a chat with a close friend…a close friend with numerous phobias, an obsession with death, and a nasty case of verbal incontinence. I chuckled my way through her latest trip along the seedy underbelly of our nation…until she got to Disney World. Sarah darling, here we are going to have to agree to disagree.

I am a product of my generation – cynical, self-congratulatory, and viciously devoted to pulling back the Wizard's curtain to reveal the ersatz underpinnings of Oz. People my age have no sacred cows. How could we? How can we believe in anything? We've grown up in a world where the best selling video game is a first person shooter, where sports stars are more likely to appear on America's Most Wanted than a Wheaties Box, where politicians kiss interns instead of babies, where you can't sit on Santa's lap at the mall anymore because he might cop a feel while asking for your wish list. This is a world of rainbow parties, Columbines, three separate instances of government-sanctioned genocide in just the last decade alone, the Jackson trial and September 11^th. It's been said so many times that it's lost a lot of its meaning and become just one more thing to bitch about – but kids today really do grow up too fast. In 1897 a little girl wrote the New York Sun asking if Santa exists. She was 8. The Sun's response is one of the most reprinted editorials of all time, and one of the greatest examples of the innocence of children. In 1993 Robert Thompson and Jon Venables kidnapped 2 year old James Bulger and beat him to death before dumping his body on near-by train tracks. They were 10.

Disney's a huge, multinational corporation dedicated to making money, with several television channels, a thriving film industry, ready-made consumer tie-ins to all movies and TV shows, a satellite radio channel, and bi-coastal theme parks. Does its status as a media conglomerate automatically render all things Disney soulless and evil? Let's consider this a moment.

People criticize Disney for a multitude of sins, but primarily for sanitizing the fairy tales from which its most popular movies have been derived, drawn from the collections of The Brothers Grimm and Hans Christian Anderson. People, have you ever stopped to READ the original Grimm's Fairy Tales? In the original Cinderella, the stepsisters slice off bits of their feet so they can fit into the proffered glass slipper. Blood dripping off the hems of their gowns give them away. At Cinderella's wedding, they get their eyes pecked out by doves for their wickedness. Not convinced? Let's consider The Robber Bridegroom, in which a young bride-to-be visits her lover's hideaway deep in the woods and watches him rape and murder a young girl, then conducts an elaborate j'accuse with the girl's finger at a dinner party the next night. Or Sleeping Beauty, in which it isn't a kiss from the Prince that awakens our heroine, but giving birth to twins gotten on her while she slept. Don't even get me started on Hans Christian Anderson. In his two most celebrated stories, a little girl freezes to death in an alley on Christmas Eve, and a pretty mermaid drowns herself rather than murder her lover's new wife. And we get uppity with Disney for taking some liberties with the source material? Kids don't need to read fairy tales for exposure to this sort of bloodshed – open up the Washington Post any day of the week for things ten times worse. The Giant in Jack and the Beanstalk wanting to grind a boy's bones to make his bread can't hold a candle to the real life horror of the DC snipers, or the monsters with normal faces who turn babies into broken dolls.

I love Disney World. I love the pure Stepford escapism of it, the fake castle with Communications majors dressed up as cartoon characters, the aggressive good cheer, the syrupy black-and-white moral lessons and the rampant commercialism. I love the themed hotels, fake beaches, the fact you can't buy alcohol in the Magic Kingdom, the long lines, and the absolute perfect shining wonder on the faces of the kids. I love the stupid Country Bears, the monorail, the suspiciously warm pools, the gigantic turkey legs sold in lieu of pretzels in Frontier Land, and the creepy animatronic things in the stupendously boring Epcot Center. I love the light parade.

I think Disney World is a symbol of all that is right and wrong with America – it's a crass celebration of all things commercial, true…but it's also a sincere effort to provide kids with a haven, a place where all things are sanitized for their protection, where the scary bits are clearly labeled and the entire atmosphere is geared towards the small, the wide-eyed, and the innocent. Even in our cynical age, how can we sneer at a place where dreams really do come true?