Stories left untold.

Like many soldiers, CPT Dick didn't really talk much about his deployment in Baghdad. He simply summed it up as, "It sucked ass," and saw no need to elaborate further. I think the most descriptive he ever got was in one letter back home after he had been there for a few months. He wrote, "The city smells like a combination of sewage, diesel exhaust and more sewage...the sand gets everywhere, including behind your balls." Poetical, no?

But being in Cairo did prompt him to tell me a few stories about his Iraq experience, albeit a few years later. Maybe it was all the sand (still getting behind his balls, I'd imagine, given how much I found in Munchkin's diaper), or the pervasive smell of sewage, or perhaps the crazy drivers always asking for a "baksheesh."

But as we were being taxied around Cairo by a particularly insane driver, CPT Dick laughed to himself and finally told a story. He said that while he was in Baghdad, there was a suspicious vehicle that was called in by a patrol. The guys at the base were asking for details about the car: make, model, distinctive characteristics, etc. The soldier calling in described the car in detail and was then asked to provide the license plate number. The soldier paused, sighed dejectedly, and then said, "Squiggle dot, squiggle squiggle dot, circle squiggle dot." He couldn't read the Arabic script and just did the best he could.

As I laughed at the story (because I certainly could do no better in deciphering Arabic script, especially on a dirty, banged up license plate), I thought about how strange it must be for soldiers to be in Iraq. How completely foreign it must all be. Different world, different culture, different language and different alphabet. For us, on a leisurely trip to Egypt (where everyone speaks English, at least to ask for some money), the foreignness was part of the allure. But for someone going on a year tour, I can't even imagine how completely and utterly unsettling a world of squiggle dots must be.

As I prepare for CPT Dick to make a year's return to that foreign land, I hope I remember how strange it all can be and be more patient with him.

A belated Happy Holidays.

My apologies for the lack of contact in the past week. We spent in our Christmas in Egypt -- well, why not? -- and I stupidly thought I'd be able to update from there. Let's just say that "state of the art" wireless Internet access does not mean the same thing here as it does in old Cairo. And sadly, I'm so addicted to the WWW that I found myself actually surprised at that development. What's wrong with me?

But Happy Holidays, everyone! I hope that Santa was good to everyone and wish you all the best in the coming year.

To get us in the holiday mood.

Tomorrow, we're leaving for the week. We're headed to a place about as far away from Christmasland as you can get but it will be nice to sip Mai Tais and enjoy the scenery.

I left CPT Dick at home with Munchkin to do some last minute shopping and came back to hour 3 of "Das Boot." When I raised an eyebrow, CPT Dick said, "Nothing says Merry Christmas more than 'Das Boot'!"

Again, he's dead serious.

The must have gift this Christmas.

Check out this SNL Short starring Justin Timberlake. Hilarious!

The burden of knowing too much.

The other night I attended a wives' party. Usually, these parties feature Pampered Chef, Tastefully Simple,Tupperware or, at this time of year, some god-awful Christmas decoration manufacturer.

I said I'd go, mostly to get out of the house for a couple hours. But as I walked out the door, I yelled back to CPT Dick, "If the food isn't good, I'm so outta there!"

So imagine my surprise when I got there and realized that it was a Slumber Party. No, no. Not a slumber party with jammies and ouija boards and bras in the icebox. Oh, no. A fuckerware party. I decided I would stay for the entire event even if the food did suck. Maybe I'd win the free gift. A girl can never have too many pairs of crotchless panties, you know.

It was actually a good time, though it was a bit strange to see a Colonel's wife playing pass the vibrating double-dildo with such enthusiasm. Let me tell you, she certainly doesn't muster the same kind of excitement for raffles or fundraisers. But I suppose it's not a fair comparison. I ate a lot of food, laughed very hard and learned that a lot of wives that I thought were total sticks in the mud are actually a lot of fun. But there is one item from that night that is haunting me.

What do you do when you learn that a certain high ranking NCO, one that inspires fear and bedwetting in most 18 year old privates, one that attends church standing at the same force of attention he would for a three star, one who will go on and on about the sanctity of home and family if you let him, well, what do you do when you learn that the man has some rather unexpected tastes? How do you react when his wife tells you all about those tastes and why exactly she's tired of licking his ass hole after he sticks things in it (and, of course, is interested in a lubricant that might mask some of the aftertaste)? And knowing all this -- and even more, really -- how do you face him in the future with a straight face?

I'm still trying to figure that one out. Maybe I'll ask CPT Dick for his advice. But I'm afraid I might scar him for life.

My prayers answered.

Earlier this month, I pined for Harry Potter. I did what any girl would do in the same situation. I re-read one of the earlier books. I watched the movies on DVD again. I scoured the Internet for nudie pics of Daniel Radcliffe from his new play (kidding! -- well, maybe).

And somewhere, out there in the abyss, some kind person heard my cry and released the movie trailer for Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. Sure, some of you cynics may think it has something to do with Christmas marketing. But you can go scrooge yourself. I'm sure this release date was all about me, me, me.

In any case, the trailer looks pretty good. Hopefully it will do the 800+ page tome justice. And in the meantime, will this small token have the ability to carry me through to the movie's July 13, 2007 release date? Time (and how many times I can watch the trailer online before my husband starts an intervention) will tell.

Something to really get you in the holiday mood.

Brought to you from our friends at the Sprinkle Brigade:

It's so wrong. And yet, it's one of the first things that's put me in the holiday mood this year. I wonder what that says about me.

Stating the obvious.

Today, I gave a carless soldier a lift into town. My CD changer was in random mode and one of the CDs that was getting extra play was Robbie Williams' "The Ego Has Landed." I know that Robbie ain't all that in the states but when I lived abroad he was *the shit* (TM) and I associate his music with good times fueled by a lot of scotch. Brilliant his music may not be, but oh my, is it fun.

As one song finished, the soldier -- all of 19 years old -- asked me with a scowl, "Who is this on the radio?" I should have remembered that if it ain't Slipknot, it ain't music. But I thought maybe I could share my interest in catchy Brit pop with someone new.

"Robbie Williams," I replied. "Have you heard of him?"

"Oh, right. Yeah. He's gay."

Now, I wasn't sure how to take this exactly. When I was a wee one, "gay" most often meant dumb or too insignficant to be bothered with. Like, homework was "gay," the Barbies we would never admit we played with in private were "gay," and so was Ethan, the guy whose left pointer finger was permanently attached to the inside of his nostril.

But these days the word has a whole new connotation. So I had to ask, "Do you mean gay as in stupid or gay as in homosexual?"

He raised one eyebrow and said, "Well, I meant stupid but the other most likely applies, too."

I didn't reply for a moment. The fact that there was some overlap in lexicon between an old broad like me and a boy that I technically could have given birth to made me a little giddy. But then, I started to take offense. The music was not stupid (well, not much, anyway), nor is Mr. Williams a homosexual (at least, not if Page 6 is to be believed). And so right when I was about to protest, to explain Robbie's overwhelming "shitness" abroad and how he's more likely to be suffering from an overabundance of pussy, the sounds of track 4 filled the car.

My breath smells of a thousand fags
and when I get drunk I dance like me Dad
I'm starting to dress a bit like him

And with those words exploding in my ear, I thought better of saying anything. The soldier already got an education in nostalgic, old lady music. He didn't need me to explain the finer points of British slang, as well.

Still lame as far as I'm concerned.

The Democrats are in a tizzy as South Dakota's Senator Tim Johnson recovers from surgery after a most ill-timed brain hemorrhage. Apparently, the Republican governor of South Dakota is the one who will name Johnson's replacement and his choice can swing the balance of power back over to the dark side. I was discussing this yesterday with a friend and fellow misanthrope and loved his final word on the matter:

"I can't wait for the reports that the GOP somehow engineered his stroke."

A perfect fit.

Tonight is our company's holiday party. It's been sort of a pain in the ass to put together. And a lot of it has involved me showing up at CPT Dick's office yelling about needing something or other from him so I can get everything done in time. So not so much fun all around.

And of course, whenever you have an event of this size, there are always going to be those little last-minute, ass-chomping things that come up a few hours before go time. This morning was no exception. And so, I wandered into CPT Dick's office before I went to the gym to make sure that he could get these things done for me.

He glared a bit as I told him what I needed, then looked at me thoughtfully, and said, "That sports bra is way too small for your boobs."

I looked down. "No, it's not. It's just the right size for my boobs. Especially if my boobs are going to run."

"No. I can hear your boobs. They are screaming, screaming for freedom! They are saying, 'please, in the name of all that's holy, let me out, let me free!'"

"Oh, I see. Some sort of boob Morse code, eh?"

"Yes, they are staging a coup for freedom."

I just wanted to get to the gym at this point (and stop the discussion about my boobs) so I point-blank asked him, "So are you going to do what I asked or what?"

"I don't know. Are you going to set your poor boobs free?"