I'm being eaten, and not in that nice way

The Winged Vermin Of Death are out.

Apparently, nine out of 12 months in Iraq are known as Biting Bug Season.

It started yesterday, and I now have so many red welts all over my body that you'd think I was trapped in a room all day with a bunch of hyperactive three-year-olds armed with miniature brass knuckles.

Even though the only parts of me which are not fully clothed at all times are my face, my hands and the top half of my neck.

So, of course, one of the flying hellspawn managed to bite my elbow.

The uniform I wear can hold up to eight trillion tons of sweat, but somehow breathes enough for a frigging mutant carnivorous insect to shove its mouth hole through my sleeve and drain half of my blood.

Oh, and bug spray? Forget it, it's like A-1 sauce to these little fuckers.

"Mmmm, this one tastes like Coppertone!" is what they say when they get together for their Tiny Venomous Beast Backyard Barbecues. "You should try that fat one! Just the faintest hint of 'OFF.' Really brings out the full blood flavor."

Soon I'm gonna start shooting them ... even they can't survive a 5.56 millimeter round through their nasty exoskeletons.

And don't go all "Mother Earth" on me, either, because I have no pity for those fluid-sucking specks of vileness.

Mangy bastards.
_____________________________________

It was another shitty day in the central level of hell -- I mean, the office. Since you asked.

One of my bosses has become highly skilled in the art of taking sick days.

Sick days.

On a deployment.

You don't take a sick day on a deployment unless your arm is hanging off from the shoulder or you're puking up intestines.

Because, damn, there's people getting blown up out there ... and you're whining about a head cold?

Unless it's the Demon-Infested Fatal Head Cold Of Certain Doom, get the fuck over it.

On that note, I'm going to slather myself with A-1 and go for a walk.

Is the blood running through my veins supposed to look like coffee?

I would like to thank the Academy for its recognition of my obvious victory in the role of "Most Tired Person Who Managed To Act Not-Tired For 33 Hours Straight."

I couldn't have done this without the help of:

* My bosses, who allowed me to be tasked out for 12-hour guard shift and ordered to report to work three hours after the end of said shift,

* Three consecutive cups of sugar with coffee flavoring, which made me so wired I almost forgot my own name, as my ability to concentrate on one thought for more than .3 seconds was voided after the second sip,

* The past 33 hours, which have passed achingly slowly, causing me to wonder if every clock in my immmediate world had been physically stopped by evil little Clock-Stoppers who work steadily through the night, setting the minute hand back one click every thirty seconds,

* My co-workers, who inspire such hearty sarcasm that I almost started believing my "Army smile" was real, and of course ...

* Dubya, without whom I never would have left the continental United States and ventured into this Godforsaken country.
__________________________________

Oh, before I fall unconscious, onto my beautiful Mattress Of Glorious Slumber, I'd like to let you all know that Husband is again forgiven, at least for now, having managed to send me the wonderfulest e-mail yet received in the two or so months I've been denied his company and/or sweet lovin'.

I swear, the man has brainwashed me. Two years ago, I could have crushed his testicles with a jolly chuckle if he had acted the way he has recently, but now ...

Now ...

Now, I just wait for him to momentarily come to his senses so I can forgive him and fantasize about all the explicit sexual activities we'll be partaking in once I finally get home.

Eh, maybe it's better that way.

I better go to sleep before I change my mind, though.

Nighty night!

Not even anal leakage is as shitty as today was

If I had to describe today as a hooker, it would be the oldest, scummiest, fattest, most disease-ridden nasty skank in the dirtiest part of town on the corner that even the serial killers are afraid to hang out around at night.

So now you might have the faintest idea of what kind of mood I'm in.

No e-mails or phone calls from Husband, no mail from anyone, a shitty, boring, ass-kissing photo shoot concerning hypocritical polititians, and no hope for ever getting to cover a story worth covering.

At least I get the day off tomorrow.

Until 6 p.m., when I have to start guard duty, which ends at 6 a.m.

And after that, I'm off until 9 a.m., when I have to go back to my regular work and fuck with the newspaper till at least 7:30 p.m.

Then I get to go back to my room and get a full night's sleep before I go back to work at 7:30 a.m., get off at (hopefully) 7:30 p.m., lather, rinse, repeat.

Yep, it's nice to know that this is how my whole year's gonna go.
_____________________________________

I'm sorry, I'm just too depressed and annoyed tonight to even talk about my day.

I love you all anyway, and hopefully I'll be back to my normal, entertaining self by tomorrow.

And, by the way, if anyone reading this is a high-ranking government official: Can I please go home now?

Oh, what a night

I'm a little more tired than usual this morning.

Probably because I used all my energy last night trying to convince Husband that in our marriage, the proper way to make decisions together is not "he makes the decisions, I follow along blindly like an ignorant underling."

You know, I love Husband, but there are times when I want to beat him soundly with a large wooden club.

Because, if he insists on acting like a caveman, maybe I should treat him like one.

In fact, the words "Know your role" actually came out of his mouth during the course of our conversation -- more than once.

To which I replied, "Which role are you talking about? The role of a deployed soldier in a combat zone, or the role of a woman who knows what she wants in life without you dictating her every move?"

Now, out of those two options, either one would have been acceptable for him to agree with.

But noooooo, Husband goes for Door Number Three:

"The role of my wife," he says.

"Meaning ...?" I ask, knowing full well that he hasn't taken any of my SUBTLE hints to heart.

"I'm the man, I make the decisions, you do what I say. You'll see, things will be better that way."

Sure they will, sweetie. Why don't you just surgically remove my brain and lead me around on a leash, while you're at it?

I can't help but think that this wouldn't be as much of an issue if I was actually there with him, rather than in the middle of the damn desert, supporting a war that I want no part of.

We've been married seven months today.

Good thing I'm always up for a challenge.
______________________________________

So how was everyone's Easter, now that I'm ready for a total change of subject?

I personally ate more chocolate products than I could comfortably stuff in my cavity-filled mouth, mainly because people kept offering it to me.

You have to understand, when people offer me quality chocolate, I respond like an ugly dude being offered a good, hard fuck.

I take that shit, because you never know where the next piece is gonna come from.

Oh, and don't even get me started on the Peeps.

I would eat more of them, if some small sliver of obsessive-compulsiveness in my brain didn't force me to do a little "Peep Dance" (involving an elbow-flap, some chirping, and a booty shake or two) before chomping off each individual Peep head in the manner of so many chicken-head-eating circus freaks.

I think there may be something wrong with me.
__________________________________

I want to thank the two of you who have graciously deflowered my comments page.

It really needed to get some, and you guys knew just how to give it.
_____________________________________

Have any of you seen Bush's Exit Strategy yet?

I think it's a viable option, at this point, because God knows we'll never get out of this pitiful country the way we're currently going.

***MESSAGE TO DUBYA: THE TROOPS WANT TO COME THE FUCK HOME. THEIR MARRIAGE IS SUFFERING AND THEY NEED TO GET LAID***

Think that'll work?

Well, I'll be waiting for the call ... till it comes, I'm off to Perform My Duty As A Patriotic American.

You know, eat some chocolate.

Anyone who thinks I'm disrespectful can feel free to choke on a swollen cock

Husband is now forgiven of all past and future sins.

Not only was his letter the sweetest one he's ever sent me, but it smelled so strongly of his manly fragrance that I immediately stripped and rubbed the paper all over my body.

Yep, in case there was any doubt left ... I'm a dork!
________________________________

So. Even though I had the lingering scent of Husband permeating my being all the live-long day, work still managed to suck an unusually massive amount of rabid donkey dick.

I'm not going to bore you with the details, but suffice it to say that if ONE MORE person tells me that I lack "military bearing," I'm going to have to kick them in the nads.

Y'see (all you lucky non-military folks), military bearing is the Army's way of making you its bitch.

Pretty much, as long as you do whatever anybody higher-ranking tells you to do, you're gold. No questions asked.

Unless they tell you to get fucked, then you ask, "Which hole?"

So, since I have always had an argumentative, outspoken, bitchy side (that would be the front side, for anyone who's wondering), I manage to piss some people (read: all people) off throughout the course of my day.

Don't look at me like that; nature made me this way. I am a friendly asshole who gets along with everyone, provided they don't anger me.

I'm actually a pretty respectful person, unless someone disrespects me, and then I become the Hell Spawn Of Satan and write scathing commentaries about them on any flat surface I can find.

But for the most part, that doesn't really make me too many enemies, since it doesn't happen often.

ANYway, I have been told that this inability to withhold my opinion about anything means that I lack military bearing, and that I need to start responding with a mere "Yes, sergeant" when given any instructions from now on.

To which I can't help but ask, "Which hole?"
____________________________________

By the way, I'm just about sick of Baghdad.

Not that it's all that terrible, at least where I'm at, but I definitely wouldn't make a "Girls Gone Wild" here.

God help anyone who would, though. I can just see it -- "These girls bare everything! From the neck up, that is, everyone knows breasts are for infidels!"

Still, even though my quality of living is really nothing to complain about (I mean, I get to shower every day, which is more than some people get around here), it's not home.

So, I'm off to go sniff Husband's letter.

(Sigh.)

No imagination = no title

Today one of my co-workers threatened to stab me with a thumbtack.

I almost ruptured a kidney from laughing so hard, until I realized he was dead serious.

This is a guy who once purchased a book called "The Bad-Ass Bible" as a self-help book and studied it thoroughly for serious advice.

Then, he brought it to work and left it laying around.

So, the thumbtack threat was just another layer of icing on the Dorky Co-Worker cake.

More stories to follow, but I've just received a letter from Husband (yay!) and he's more important to me than you guys.

Sorry, but it's true.

But since you're second in my heart, I'll be back, as always.

Don't miss me too much!

Fuck variety, procrastination is the spice of life

Have you ever had to work for someone who knew an extraordinarily small amount about your job, yet still attempted to tell you how to do it?

Holy shit, me TOO!

I know I am perfectly capable of laying out a 24-page newspaper in less than four days, yet Almighty Boss Woman (who is also known as Verbal Diarrhea Woman in previous entries) seems to think that I should be spending my precious Down Time (i.e. Diary Updating Time, Book Reading Time, and Just Generally Fucking Around Time) in an unnecessarily mad scramble to get this thing done, when my deadline isn't until NEXT Sunday.

Now to me, doing unecessary, hurried work (even if it does EVENTUALLY need to get done)is just about as pleasurable as listening to that sound a fork makes when you scrape it across a porcelain dish, while getting a root canal and being fucked in the ass.

So of course, since I can't just up and quit my job to avoid dealing with retarded people ("Hey, Army, I've got a better offer in the States ... here's my two-week notice; can I get a ride to Baghdad International? Thanks!"), I've decided to just nod and smile when given instructions that seem to have been inspired by a brain-dead llama, and then go back to whatever activity I was previously engaging in.

Which is what I just did, in case any of you haven't figured it out yet ... since I really wasn't very clear, concise or fucking OBVIOUS.
_____________________________________

As I sit here in my personal hell -- er, office -- surrounded by uptight, ass-kissing superiors, I'm listening to a specially-selected playlist made up of whatever music I happened to have available.

Just a minute ago, a song came on which is basically some kind of fucked up freestyle about Beast Man and Skeletor engaging in rather nasty oral/anal sex.

Perfect for mixed company, of course, as well as for people who get huffy over the word "fuck."

So perfect, in fact, that I almost broke myself in a frantic effort to get to the computer it was playing on and turn the volume down before someone's ears started to bleed and I got sued.

Luckily, I made it in time, and Beast Man and Skeletor continued their man-beast lovefest much more quietly as I returned, scraped and bruised, to my chair to continue this entry.

All for YOU!

'Cause I love ya.
___________________________________

Someone told me today that I walk very erect.

I think they meant it as a compliment, which is really sad, because as much as I love attention, I'd hate for it to be based on my ability to make good use of a straight spine.

That's like, "Hey, good job breathing through your nose! Way to stretch those sinuses!"

And my response would be the same ...

Thanks, I think.

But hey, now you guys can relax and take heart in the fact that I don't walk around like Quasimodo and pant like I just got done giving extremely good head.

I am NORMAL!

Or something.

A nap is more entertaining than this entry. Don't say I didn't warn you ...

Today was possibly the most boring day in the history of boring days.

In that, a valid source of entertainment was watching one of my sergeants try to learn how to do yoga, and fail miserably.

Thus, I have nothing at all of interest to anyone (including myself) to say.

Which, of course, won't stop me from saying it.
________________________________

I was going to post you all a kick-ass, potentially prize-winning aerial photo of the place in which I am currently living, but I was informed that that would be a humongous violation of operational security.

Fucking terrorists ... why they gotta hold me down, yo?

So instead I just stuck an almost-as-cool aerial shot of the general area in which I am to be dwelling for the next year (or so).

You can kind of see one of Saddam's palaces, the one I went swimming near the other day.

So feast your eyes, because the likelihood that Meany will ever again be released from her Office-Dungeon is growing smaller and smaller by the day.
___________________________________

The reason why I'm being held hostage in Desert Cube World, by the way, is because I seem to be the only person who's ever bothered to actually LEARN my JOB.

I guess it was just too deep a concept for most others to grasp ...

"Okay, so I just finished going to school to be a military journalist ... I guess the next logical course of action would be to FORGET EVERYTHING I'VE BEEN TAUGHT! Yeah! I can't believe I'm so smart! Now I'll never have to work again, because the one person who actually takes pride in what she does will pick up the slack!"

Army logic at its finest.

Have I ever mentioned my deep, nonexistent love for my employer?

Thanks to my day off yesterday, I am now revived, refreshed, and ready to be burned out again by the end of the day.

I spent most of my day sitting outside reading, because it was gorgeously sunny outside, and I've never been one to waste a day of non-rain by holing up indoors.

But I did manage to get as little exercise as possible and that, to me, is what constitutes a successful day of.

In fact, a perfect day off would consist of me remaining completely still, possibly asleep, taking breaks only to eat meals, which others would bring and serve to me as I reveled in my utter uselessness.

Yep, that would be the life.
____________________________________

So, now it's back to work.

Apparently, yesterday while I was off, the power in our side of the building went out for, um, the whole day.

And here I want to relate one of the many differences between the Army workplace and the civilian workplace:

Civilian workplace
"Hey, the power just went out! Oh well, since no work can be done today, we might as well go home. See you tomorrow!"

Army workplace
"Hey, the power just went out! We better wait here for hours on end for it to go back on, even though nobody will get any work done and the air-conditioning doesn't work. Oh, and in about six hours, when everyone has been soaking in cabin fever for the majority of the day, let's walk around and yell at them for not being productive and then see who flips out, because we're Soldiers, dammit."

Yeah, well, fuck that.

Do I say "fuck" too much? I do? Ah, fuck it.

Today marked the triumphant end of yet another deadline week, which I am pleased to say I survived with only minor mental damage.

Meaning, my brain hurts, and I dream nightly of newspaper layout. ("must ... make ... the boxes ...fit!")

Also, I feel the need to copy-edit EVERYTHING.

Someone, please ... save me from this nightmare before I dash wildly into the street with a red pen and begin correcting people's flawed facial features.
____________________________________

Apparently, I curse too much in the office.

As in, some of the f-bombs I frequently drop have been hitting people in uncomfortable places.

So now my "fuck" useage has been limited.

It's not that I need "fuck," but it's just such an all-purpose, expressive word, and so convenient in any situation.

"Listen, you butt-fucking fuckert! Stop your fucking around before you fuck up, and then you'll be royally fucked!"

Consarn it!
___________________________________

I actually did something yesterday that, were I back in the States, I never could have done.

Other than go without sex, that is.

I went swimming.

In a pool that is conveniently located within walking distance from what used to be Saddam's main palace.

And all I could think about was, "I wonder if Saddam ever pissed in this pool?"

I bet he did, that nasty shitmuncher. It's just the kind of thing a sadistic dictator would do.

"Hey Akbar, would you like to come in for a dip? Oh yes, the water is quite warm!" (giggling maniacally)

Anyway, I had a fantastic time, and of course thought of the lovely hissandtell (who I, for some reason, am unable to link, but if I could I would) because this pool is watched over by soldiers in the illustrious Australian Army, who only have to be here for six months.

But yet, they always have beer.

It's like Dubya called 'em over to hang out at his new summer place, and they were like, "Sure, buddy! We'll bring the booze!"

But the coolest thing was that while I was frolicking in the refreshing, chlorine-filled water playing pool basketball with nicely-built men (who are not Husband, unfortunately), I was able to almost completely forget that I was really still in Baghdad.

Until I looked to the north and noticed the Blackhawks landing, and a few suspicious clouds of dark smoke.

As my great-grandma would say in her straight-forward, old Italian lady style, "Eh ... whatchou gonna do?"

Just keep swimming, just keep swimming ...
___________________________________

Husband's doing fairly well this week.

He went out with his buddies for St. Paddy's Day, which in my mind is a recipe for disaster, but I'm pleased to report that the man was reasonably good.

Good and drunk, that is.

He told me skanky girls kept encroaching on his "boys'" personal space, and that he did not punch them in the face, despite my specific instructions to do so if any woman other than his wife ever invited herself to become acquainted with That Region.

But the good thing is that when Husband gets as drunk as he tends to get when he's with his buddies, all the functions he would need to use in order to cheat on me (should he completely lose his mind) become more or less invalid.

Gotta love some good old-fashioned debilitating drunkenness!
___________________________________

I've been told that there's a possiblity of our division leaving this marvelous place sometime in December.

Keep your fingers crossed for me, but as of right now ... ten and a half months to go.

Wheee!

Hey! Hey you there! Can I get the shirt off your back? Yeah, that one you're wearing. Thanks!

So, when I first got here I heard a lot of jokes about how Iraqis are the type of people who will give you anything you express a remote interest in.

Of course, I never really put much stock in it, seeing as how they charged me an arm and a leg for a rug I bought from them ... but whatever.

Fact is, I was wrong.

Today when I was at lunch with a couple of my sergeants, one of the Hajis sat down at our table. He was wearing some kind of fuzzy sweater thing that looked really comfy.

One of my sergeants (the vocal-diarrhetic I mentioned yesterday) took a break from her 30-minute monologue about the barbequed ribs ("I think they're a little dry don't you I mean they didn't put quite enough sauce on 'em you know I mean I had these ribs one time that were so juicy...") and, just as I was about to stab her in the throat with my spork, decided to comment on the guy's sweater and how comfy it looked.

Okay, in America, the recipient of such a compliment, especially a complete stranger, would probably give a little nod of acknowledgment and (who knows?) even an awkward smile, and then go back to eating and ignoring us.

This guy, who looked like he was maybe 30 or so, gave my sergeant this HUGE grin (like "Dear sweet Allah! She likes my sweater! Could this be ... HEAVEN?!?!") and proceeded to remove the sweater.

"You like? You want?" he started repeating, as he attempted to thrust the sweater into her hands.

Keep in mind that while we're deployed, we are allowed to wear NOTHING but our military uniforms unless we are locked safely in our rooms, away from terrorists who target people who look like they're not in the military.

So my sergeant was trying to communicate to this overly-friendly weird-ass that NO, she did not want his clothes, that she was just being nice and that maybe he better hang on to that sweater in case he planned on, oh, not being half-naked the rest of the day.

Finally we convinced him, and got out of there like we were Mary-Kate in an all-you-can-eat buffet.

(What, was that in poor taste? Yeah, I thought so too! Heehee!)

I mean damn ... sometimes, nice people make me uncomfortable. Especially when unwanted clothing is involved. (Shudder)

___________________________________

Otherwise, today was an average day ... wake up, go to work, eat, work, eat, leave work.

Now I'm about to go to sleep, and then I can wake up and ... oh, I don't know, the options seem limitless ... but maybe I'll go to work again!

YEAH! What a great fricking idea!

Sometimes I can't stand how smart I am.
______________________________

When I walked into work this morning, I mentioned to the door guards, "Oh, you've changed shifts!"

Because I'm a nerd like that.

So one of them looks at me and says, "Hey, I didn't know you got promoted to Captain!"

Of course, I am not a Captain, nor even an officer, so I looked at him with vague, early morning confusion.

"What the sweet crap are you talking about?" I asked him curiously.

"You know, Captain," he said. "Captain Obvious."

Derrr.

Guess I asked for that shit.
___________________________________

Oh, hey! I got my first official package o' goodies today!

Good ol' Mom 'n' Dad sent along some Godiva chocolates, gourmet coffe, photo albums, books ...

Basically, I'm happy as a dominatrix at whip convention.

Except for the painfully obvious fact that my folks are trying to fatten me up.

But oh well. Godiva's worth it.
_______________________________

Anywhey, time for me to get a little sleepy-sleep.

(Yawn)

Happy St. Paddy's Day tomorrow! Drink lots of green beer for me! You fuckers who are allowed to drink!

Spew lots of extra drunken vomit for me!

Bastards ...

This is what three days without a decent entry can do to me

Remember when I first started this diary and I mentioned that those three entries a day I was averaging probably wouldn't last?

I told you so.

________________________________

Let's see, what's been hap'nin over the past few days ...

I almost killed my Extremely Incompetent Yet Somehow Not Retarded Co-worker.

Anyone wanna take a gander why?

Let me just say that if he competed for the job he has against any inanimate object, whatever object it was would get the job.

That's how worthless this guy is.

Example: He was assigned a feature story to write about a guy (who he's friends with) who works around here.

Assigned it three weeks ago.

The story, about a person he sees EVERY DAY, is still not completed.

The deadline everyone ELSE has to adhere to is: two days after you cover the story, it must be completed and turned in to the editor or associate editor (me).

Apparently, when you're incompetent in the Army, you're Special and you don't have to do what everyone else has to do.

Unless everyone else gets a day off ... then you go ahead and jump on that thing faster than a fat kid on a Twinkie.

So anyway, I didn't kill him, but I'm thinking of using my feminine wiles to get someone else to do it so I can watch.
_________________________________

Speaking of feminine wiles (SEGUE TIME!) ...

If you didn't get to behold the photo of me in all my resplendent glory charming the bejeepers out of Colin Quinn, go back to my last entry and check it on out.

Go 'head, I'll wait.

I don't know about you, but I think "desert" is definitely my color.
___________________________________

I don't know if I mentioned this, but ...

The sun is out again! (Trumpet fanfare)

Now we just have to wait for the lake that seems to have swallowed the ground to evaporate a bit, and it'll be back to dry feet every day.

Yay!
____________________________________

Last night the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff came by to our camp to gossip with our general about which chiefs of staff he thinks are gay, and I had to take pictures of it.

Of course, I rocked the hizz-ouse and got better pictures than anyone else there, INCLUDING all the nosy-ass Press People.

I have to say that (TANGENT ALERT!) as a military journalist, civilian media are some of the most annoying motherfuckers out there, comparable to the little kid who sits in back of you on a bus, kicking the back of your seat, screaming for candy and/or to be punched.

No offense to any of you out there who ARE civilian journalists, of course I'm not talking about YOU!

But some of your colleagues are really asking to get dick-slapped.

Why?

Because they all want THE BIG STORY.

And in this world, THE BIG STORY is never THE MILITARY-FRIENDLY STORY.

Don't get me wrong, I personally don't give two shits about people who want to tell the alleged TRUTH about WHAT'S REALLY HAPPENING IN IRAQ.

But honestly (and I'm speaking as someone who DOES NOT WANT TO BE HERE) ...

It's really not that fucking bad.

Except for the fact that I'd rather be home getting creatively dicked out by Husband every night, I don't mind it too much.

And as for that thing about the Italian journalist ... I'm sorry, but that girl is full of shit.

I probably shouldn't be talking about this, but I'm gonna, because it pisses me off, and this is MY DIARY, so I'll say what the fuck I want to.

Here's why I think she's full of shit:

First, I have NEVER seen a military checkpoint that is not, at all times, flooded with light.

So that whole "I never saw any lights" crap goes out the window.

Second, you have to be damn near brain-dead to try to speed past a bunch of armed soldiers at a checkpoint in a combat zone, because the only people who try to do that around here are usually people who are about to blow shit up.

So obviously, if you're acting like a terrorist, you should expect to be treated like one (i.e., shot till you no longer pose a threat).

Third, why in the fuck wouldn't anybody let the Friendly Americans know if they're gonna try to spring a prisoner from captivity? We're the largest occupying military force in the damn country!

That's like someone with no mechanical abilities tryng to fix a car engine, while sitting in a garage with a bunch of mechanics around who aren't allowed to help.

Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! (resounding thuds as I bang my head against a wall)

___________________________________

All right, I'm done ranting about political/common sense bullshit; it's safe to come out now.

Wake up, Munchkins! Meany's back to normal again!

I have to tell you about my Competent But Extraordinarily Annoying Boss.

This is a different boss than the Profoundly Retarded Boss, by the way -- I have several bosses, all with their own cute little frigging habits.

Anyway, the EAB talks more than any human I've ever met who isn't directly hooked up to a caffeine/speed IV.

She can talk about, oh, the lunch menu, and that alone, for a good twenty minutes without breathing pauses.

"I don't know about this steak it seems pretty dry and possibly undercooked oh did you notice they have fried chicken I love fried chicken anything fried is delicious because I'm a fat-assed food addict who never shuts up isn't that so funny I sure think so by the way the dessert's loking pretty good huh they have chocolate pie and strawberry pie and cake and brownies or maybe I'll just get a cookie or five because I never stop eating nope eating and talking that's all I do eat and talk eat and talk yup yup yup" (BREATHE) "so did I tell you about the cheeseburger yet blah blah blah blah"

SHUT! THE! FUCK! UP!

And I'm spent.

Sometimes, work can be fun!

I love celebrities.

I especially love comedian celebrities.

So I REALLY love the fact that I got to interview Colin Quinn tonight!

Whee! (Happy Dance follows)

(One last booty shake)

Here's a photo of me and Col-Dawg kickin' it g-style ... it kind of looks like he's doing the Zoolander "Blue Steel" look!:

Sorry it's kinda big ... if anyone can tell me how to "smaller-ize" it, please do!

More later; but it's been a busy weekend, and I'm about to get kicked off this computer.

Lesson of the day: If you want to interview celebrities as a young, relatively-inexperienced journalist ... just go to Iraq! The Army will take it from there.

Once it owns you, that is.

Aw, fuck it, I can't be bitter ... I interviewed Colin Quinn!

(More Happy Dance as the screen fades to black)

Another day in paradise ... or whatever the opposite of paradise is

Note to self: Candy hearts and Swiss Cake Rolls are not ideal breakfast foods.

Note to stomach: Please forgive me. I'll never do it again. (groan)
____________________________________

Well, it pissed down rain all the livelong day ... again.

Apparently, this is the "rainy season" in Baghdad.

To be followed by the "sweat till you die season," which precedes the "rainy season" once again.

Whee!

I have never been this muddy in my life, unless it was intentional. The mud gets caked on the bottom of my boots so thickly that by the end of the day, I am actually taller.

So I stomp around all tall and muddy all day, feeling like the Bride of the Swamp Thing.

Sometimes I do this little growly, grunty thing to get the whole effect going, but no one else pays any attention because THEY'RE all busy being stompy and growly and grunty.

So now you got all these muddy, grunting freaks trudging around Iraq (a.k.a. "The Pit Of Despair") trying to Win The War On Terrorism while we look like a bunch of unshowered, brain-damaged, homeless people.

We need help.

Send Martha! We hear she's out.

I bet she knows a BUNCH of fun stuff you can do with miles and miles of mud.

That don't involve getting naked, that is. We've already come up with all the naked things.
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I have now officially been away from Husband (sex) for ... oh let's see now ... carry the one ... A LONG FUCKING TIME.

Or a month and a half. But it feels like for-freaking-EVER.

Ten and a half months to go ...!

He e-mails me daily (now that I whipped the darling little fucktard into shape) and describes all the things we're going to do when I get home, and tells me about all the girls who have been hitting on him.

Yeah, you heard me right. Her Blueness will be doing some righteous-anger ass-kicking in about 10 and a half months.

Good thing I'm (cracks knuckles) trained to kill!

Even though I couldn't kill anyone because I love all of God's creatures.

But not that cum-guzzling gutter slut who put her skanky little paws on my baby's balls.

Nope, she's goin' DOWN.

Have a nice day!

All your lovin', I will send to me

Let's see, what went on in the land of Me today ...

Oh yeah, I had a DAY OFF!

I'll give you all a moment to mark this day down in your calendars and/or history books, because it may never happen again.

Either because I'm indispensable, or because the Army doesn't believe in quality sleep time (i.e., all day).

You go ahead and be the judge.

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Soooo, how did I spend my day off?

Well, I woke up at 8:30 a.m. because my body has been conditioned to wake up at 6 a.m., and I wanted to sleep in.

My plan for the ENTIRE DAY was to 1) turn in my laundry to the Haji Cleaners Who Look At All Your Underwear, 2) go buy a rug so I can walk barefoot on my floor, and 3) bask in the glow of the World Outside Work.

I can say with pride that I accomplished all three of those things, PLUS I watched two movies, did a crossword puzzle, played volleyball and took a nap.

Including eating and potty breaks, I'd have to say I packed a lot of shit in, for one who is usually a non-shitpacker.
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So, I have come to the conclusion that my roommate is a freak.

Not in a good way, not in a bad way, but more of a "I'll just try and stay out of her way" way.

This chick is currently planning her big church wedding for when she goes home on her mid-tour leave in August (for the same weekend as the Meany's one-year anniversary, no less!) and apparently her theme colors are red and black.

Red. And black.

For her Big Church Wedding.

Granted, it's not her first marriage (and I'm not knocking all you wonderful individualists, so don't come after me in a wonderful individualistic crazed frenzy), but unless you're planning Elvira's wedding, that's not something you'd pick for a church, especially when your groom is going to be wearing his Army dress uniform.

Be I crazy? I be not, methinks.

Gar!

Oh, and she also wants to use shower curtains to separate her side of the room from mine.

To which I would like to ask her, "Have you made some sort of pact with the God Of Ghetto-ness that if you put up a shower curtain in a room which is not a bathroom, you'll be blessed with eternal wealth, fame, and of course, privacy?"

I would like to ask, but I'm afraid of the answer.

She's really not a bad person, but I'm afraid if I push the issue, she might want to throw in a giant Rubber Ducky, and I'm just not ready for that.
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I got The King Of All Zippo Lighters today at our neighborhood Camp Bazaar.

It's got a picture of Saddam on it with little rockets flying at him and exploding, and when you open it, the rockets light up and flash in different colors.

Also, the words "Anxiety peace we" are inscribed on it.

In that order.

If anyone has a clue as to what the translation was supposed to be, feel free to let me know. I think what it was shooting for (pun intended ... har!) was "We want peace," or something.

But for five bucks, I'm happy with my purchase -- everyone needs a little jibberish in their life once in a while.
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On that note, snuggermorf harbleshnib.

Anxiety peace we!

Lord, I was born a ramblin' woman

Oh what a beautiful eeeeeevening! Oh what a beautiful niiiiiiggght! I've got the day off tomoooooooorrow; everything's going all riiiight!
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I am SO PSYCHED for my first day off since mid-January (not counting the days I spent dying from congestion in my tent).

I think if I had to spend one more consecutive day in the Office Of Concentrated Evil I would probably shrivel up from exhaustion faster than a hooker's twat.
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Today actually wasn't quite so bad ... I got to spend the first half of it out of the office, but (and there will always be a "but") that time was spent standing in the mud at the motor pool trying to convince the mechanics that when a humvee has no roof, no windows, nonfunctional lights and a steering wheel that tends to randomly fall into your lap, that's usually a sign that it's not driveable and should be sent to the Land Of Frequent Oil Changes to be with its dear departed.

They finally saw the light of reason, but I still have to go check on it once a week to make sure it didn't run away or miraculously fix itself like those retarded fucking robots in that sucky-ass movie that just came out.

Go, go Army logic!
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Anyhoo, I've been reading lots of diaries lately and something I've seen recently has piqued my interest.

My dear %%diary-rladyofpunk%% has had to issue an apology recently.

And I would like to say to the offended party, "Tough shit! This is her diary, and she can say anything that comes into her kooky little head!"

Now, please, I'm not being insensitive -- no, I'm not! -- because I am aware that some people, (not me) have people reading their diaries who they actually mention in their diaries, and those people may be a bit fazed by a little thing I like to call Honesty.

If you can't deal with Honesty, don't make your friends feel bad for being honest. At least they have the balls to say what's on their minds to people who might be affected by it.

Power to the Honest!

Maybe -- one day -- I, too, will be able to take the giant step of telling my near and dear ones where they can go to see what a crazy ball of crack I really am.

Till then, let the wild rumpus begin!
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Okaaay, how about ... a competely different subject!

After a month and a half of deployment, I've noticed that men tend to get a little more, shall we say, forward, than they are back home.

That is to say, I have been propositioned more in the past week than I was in the past YEAR.

Someone, please! Send these lonely, horny bastards some pocket pussies or apple pies or SOMETHING, before I have to cause physical damage to their Personal Areas.

Me, of course, I'm okay, because the anal raping the Army performs on me every day pretty much has quelled my sexual appetite.

But DAMN I'm sore!

If I had a nickname, it would be "That Chick Who Works Till She Falls Asleep At Her Desk"

I just had a really long entry written, but this fucking computer deleted it.

What a perfect addition to my already fabluous and ongoing 15-hour workday.

15 hours and 15 minutes, by now.
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Anyway, the newspaper's almost done, and I'm sufficiently proud of myself for escaping from Deadline Week mostly unscathed.

Go, me!

It's a good thing, too, because I was definitely on the brink of a breakdown for a while there.

Driven insane by 16 little pages ... the story of my life.
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The usual Stress Factor in my office (Chicken-With-Head-Cut-Off level) was compunded today with the arrival of several Congressional delegates who apparently had nothing better to do than drag their asses out here to do some campaigning with the soldiers from their states.

How did this affect moi?

Well, the Meanymeister was designated to take some official photos of the Suited Ones with each of their states' constituents to show how much They Care About Our Soldiers.

Right.

So, judging by the freaked-out-ness of the Designated Ass Kissers in the protocol office, this little visit was what one might call a Big Fucking Deal.

I realized this because they spent the entire day questioning my abilities as a Trained Army Photojournalist/Propaganda Spreader, thus elevating my personal Stress Factor to somewhere around Oh-My-God-Did-I-Leave-The-Oven-On level.

Needless to say, the shoot went off without a hitch, and all my bosses are now ready to leave their wives for me because I made the public affairs office look sooooo good.

Not really ... maybe just leave their girlfriends.

Well, at least give me a pat on the back.

In this business, you take what you can get.
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I actually did fall asleep at my desk today, by the way.

I was in the middle of editing a page, and I passed out with my hand on the mouse.

I only woke up when one of my sergeants started throwing Hi-Liters at me.

It took two to the face before I jerked out of my slumber.

I love my job.
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Husband is back to being his sweet, loving self, so anyone who was interested in stealing him away from me during our Time Of Trouble can kiss my ass and watch their back.

On that note, you guys kick serious booty as always, and never fail to cheer me up when I'm feeling like boiled asshole on a stick.

That's why I hang around here.

Until I have to get back to work, that is ... which is now.

15 hours, 35 minutes, and counting.

Another day, another quarter

Today was possibly the longest and most frustrating day I've had since I've been here.

First off the newspaper deadline I thought was tomorrow had been moved (without anyone telling me) to TODAY.

Then, the power kept going out in my office, and even though the computer I work on is a laptop and has battery power, it sucks to work in the dark, because I always fall asleep, and then I wake up with little keyboard imprints on my face and everyone knows I've been sleeping.

"Hey, how ya doin'? Pay no attention to the Q, W, E, and R that have settled into my cheek for awhile! Me? Sleeping? No way!"

So, of course, when the power went out, I had to go outside for a smoke break.

Which would have been fine, had it not been HAILING out.

Yes, you read it right. Apparently it hails in the desert when it's 60 degrees outside. Go figure.

So, after the power went on and the building got flooded, I got to go back to work and commence cursing at my computer since all the photos in the newspaper are all pixelated, possibly because God hates me.

Fast forward ...

It's 7:30 p.m. I've been at work for 12 hours, and the dining facility is about to close in 30 minutes.

It's dark outside. It's raining. It's muddy (because let's not forget what happens when rain and sand get together, whee!). And all I really wanted was dinner and sleep.

And sex, of course. Can't forget that. But since my likelihood of getting laid in the next six months is not too great (Damn you, Husband! Why aren't you in Baghdad with me?!), I don't even bother to count it any more.

Since you can see that I'm still awake, it should be clear that I'm already one for two (or three ... argh!).

But I did finally get my din-din at Chez Chow Hall, and when I got back to my room, my feet were so covered in mud that I decided I MUST have my shower before bed.

First, I stopped to chat for a minute with a friend.

Note to self: NEVER stop to chat with a friend before bed.

An hour and a half later, I was at last on my way to the shower, still covered in mud, still exhausted, but now wired because that conversation just got so animated, I might as well have been chugging coffee by the gallon; it had the same effect.

Phew! Then, off to hit the shower.

If the power hadn't been out in the shower trailer, that is.

And I, no matter how brave I pretend to be, will NOT shower in a pitch black room by myself ... especially when all the mirrors are fogged up for no apparent reason (like a KILLER lurking in the STALL! AAAAAAAHHHH!).

So I haul ass on out of there, still wide awake, and choose to spend my last half hour or so of consciousness with you.

A good choice, of course. The last few minutes of one's day should ALWAYS be spent with people who kick some serious booty.

And now I'm off to bed at long last, to crawl under the covers with no shower, only to get up in 6 hours and start the whole messy process ALL OVER AGAIN TOMORROW.

Now isn't that spay-shul!

Booty-wiggling at its finest

Chachachachacha, CHA! Badum dum dum dum dum DUM!

Yep, I learned how to Salsa tonight!

My hips are So. Fucking. Sore.

But now I can actually do my famous Random Booty Wiggle and actually look like I'm doing a Real Dance!

Chachachachacha, CHA!
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Of course, I wouldn't have brought my new, smooth moves up without mentioning the really creepy guys that kept dancing with me once I finally learned how to ...

This one Casanova thought it would be appropriate to just push himself as far on top of me as was physically possible, while his buddies yelled encouragement from the sidelines in Spanish.

Now, I don't hablo espanol all too well, mis amigos.

In fact, you just read pretty much all I understand/know how to say.

So I was a tiny bit apprehensive when I kept hearing all these words being yelled out in my direction which could have been anything from "Nice ass!" to "Slit her throat open, amigo! Ole'!"

But, I had trusty old Bungalow Bill by my side, so I figured nothing would happen that a quick M16 butt-stroke to the groin couldn't fix.

And nothing did.

But I'm afraid that poor guy's nuts will never be plural again, if you get my drift.

Ha! Just kidding! I didn't have to deliver any violent defense moves on the dance floor.

Unless you count my lethal hip-swish.
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Okay, who remembers the Incompetent Co-worker?

Come on, it was YESTERDAY!

Okay, I'll give you a second to go refresh your memory ...

Ladedadeda .... (flush)

All right, ready?

It seems that said co-worker now has company in Incompetent Land.

Meet Profoundly Retarded Boss.

Yep, the ol' PRB has been doing the same job for more than TWENTY YEARS ... and he still really doesn't know how to do it.

Let me give a little example.

In Army Public Affairs (where we work), as soon as something newsworthy happens, my bosses' job is to write up a press release about it and push that press release out to the general news media.

NOT wait 12 hours, then maybe THINK ABOUT mentioning to someone that something newsworthy happened.

But that's obviously how it's done in PRB's World of Idiocy.

So, needless to say, Profoundly Retarded Boss got to have a little meeting with Head Honcho Asshole Boss this morning after utterly failing to do the ONE JOB he was responsible for during the night shift.

And this man is in charge of ME.

No wonder I'm so fucked up.

Acting a fool and working with a fool ... ah, the joys of being me

I have some bad news.

Remember when I said I was going to Salsa Night?

Well ... I was wrong. It wasn't Salsa Night after all.

It was KARAOKE NIGHT!

And, don't you know, your favorite Meany LOVES lookin' like a fool.

Especially when there's only about six people in the room, and two or three are taking turns getting up and singing one of the maybe twenty songs the DJ brought with him.

Because apparently the Army has better things to spend its money on than karaoke discs ... pshaw!

Crazy Army budget.

But that doesn't mean I didn't sing my little heart out!

Yu'd be surprised how many of those six other people ALSO had Friends in Low Places.
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For anybody who's wondering, Husband is once again forgiven.

(Pause, as I fend off the mob of raging hormonal feminists beating down my door in protest.)

We had one of those two-hour long-distance phone conversations in which I came to the conclusion that yes, he does love me more than he loves his job, but that yes, he is also an immature manling who needs to learn how to express his feelings of frustration in a way that would not consist of antics one might see on MTV's "The Real World" ... or MTV's "Jackass," for that matter.

I've come to accept that Husband doesn't handle his emotions like I do (he tends to go the obnoxious-temper-tantrum-throwing-child-in-the-grocery-store-who-you-want-to-throw-through-the-candy-shelf route), but I figure, what the hell, he'll learn.

Or else I'll throw him through the candy shelf.
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This week is deadline week for me.

Or as I like to call it, Everyone Has PMS week.

The stress level in the tiny little office/cube/hell shared by four of us was high today that even if someone walked up to us and told us we'd won a million bucks, we'd still probably have chopped off their head and fed it to the Evil Computer of Doom that plagues us daily.

If you ever walk into a gym with no air conditioning that's full of sweaty people who don't believe in deodorant AND there's some kind of rabid animal in one corner forcing everyone to huddle together in the other corner breathing in each other's sweat and grime and overall nastiness, you MIGHT be able to understand what the comfort level is like during a military newspaper's deadline week.

Personally, I'm amazed I've lived to tell the tale.
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To add on to the Nightmare of Unending Terror that is Deadline Week, I am also cursed with the Co-worker Of Amazing Incompetence Who Is Surprisingly Not Officially Retarded.

Example:

"Amazingly Incompetent Co-worker, that is not how you lay out a page. This is the proper way."
"Oh, okay."

Repeat. For the same mistake. Over and over and over again.

Oh, and unlike a normal workplace, the Amazingly Incompetent Yet Somehow Not Retarded co-worker will NEVER get fired.

Because this is the ARMY, dammit, and we keep our people until they demand to be let go ... and usually not even then.

You literally Can't. Get. Fired.

Ever.

No matter how useless you are.

I love my job.

And I LOVE the fucking Army.