And...rest.

So I'm finally home again -- for two weeks (slightly less now because I've been exceedingly delinquent in updating this little treasure trove of my intellectual and emotional detritus). Two weeks is a teasing length of time -- it's just long enough to cement a habit, as Shape magazine explains in this month's alliterative Better Booty article (not that I need a better booty, you understand, but one needs something to read when one is on the stair-stepper) -- but it's not long enough to completely shake the dust of Baghdad off my heels. That and there's the looming specter of Going Back hanging over my head...there's a niggling little part of me that wonders if I should've just stayed in Iraq.

People have asked me what it's like to be home, if it's weird, or if I'm having trouble adjusting...the tenor and scope of their questions leads me to believe that they expect me at any moment to scream "incoming" and dive under the table or attempt to lead a raid against the communist-sympathizers next door. Newsflash, civilians -- delusions, flashbacks, and all the other nifty symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder do not typically strike sheltered little chemical lieutenants whose experiences of the war thus far have closely resembled a survivalist summer camp (complete with scary wildlife, homesickness and bed checks -- general order number 2 is a real bitch). Anyway, no...I'm not about to take a nose-dive off the crazy tree, you all may stop worrying (or taking bets, either or).

Everybody expected me to come home and drink myself silly -- I tried that last night and it didn't really work. It felt so bizarre to be out at a bar with "normal people", competing for time and attention with all the other skantily dressed females in the room -- females who don't have biceps the same size as half the guys and shoulders like a defensive lineman. I felt out of place, to say the least. I stood in a corner watching my friends salsa dance, explaining to "Beautiful Grant" why I didn't need him to find me someone to sleep with (and we were sober having this conversation), nursing a vodka-cranberry and wishing I was home in bed. Now I'm sitting at my kitchen table with my aching feet up on a pillow (you try going from 8 months of combat boots to sparkley pink sandles and see if your tootsies don't complain -- mine are singing Ave Maria) in sweatpants and a chemical corps pullover with my hair pulled back...and this feels slightly more comfortable. Has the Army destroyed my ability to be a girlie girl? God I hope not. I don't have the energy for another major personality shift.

I'm meeting my replacement tonight -- my dad has this pharmacy tech named Becky who apparently walks on water. She's 21, married to an Army specialist stationed at Fort Belvoir, and she has "THE CUTEST BABY" named Alan, who's picture currently graces my picture phone, which has been commandeered by my little sister because her phone wasn't cool enough. I'll have to break her fingers to get it back. Anyway, Becky apparently comes over all the time for dinner because she's lonely, she runs errands with Molly to the mall and my parents love her. Why this bothers me on some innate level I don't really know, but it does.

Anyway, no more complaining. I have two or three extremely exciting things in the works and I'll post on those as they occur -- until then, dear reader...