Rain, Rain Go-Away

Oh Washington, I can't wait to see you in my rear view mirror and never have to look back.

I'm not on orders to leave Fort Lewis, Washington just yet. But I've put in my request to be relocated. I am no longer willing to play with Washington any more. Sure, it's a beautiful green state full of evergreen trees, but you know what? Everything is green for a reason: rain.

Rain, rain, rain. I'm sick of being soaked. I don't want to run in it, lay out inventories in it, drive in it, go to the range in it... and the list just goes on and on. I want to have several pairs of running shoes because I like to buy shoes, not because every set needs two days to dry out before you can run in them again.

A new bothersome thing about this particular area of Washington is the traffic. Fort Lewis is located right off Interstate 5. I-5 is the only north/south corridor running through Olympia, Tacoma and Seattle. Fort Lewis is smack in the middle of those busy cities. Every day I contend with Army traffic, civilian traffic, and commercial traffic all at once... and in the rain.

Today the traffic was so awful, my 10 mile trip home took an hour and 10 minutes. And it was raining. And it was super dark thanks to the day light savings time change last weekend. I go to work in the morning and it's dark. I come home from work at night and it's dark. It's also raining both ways.

Picasso Screams Like A Girl

People say puppies whine when they are alone in their crates for the first few nights.

Picasso screams like a wet cat and a banshee are giving birth in his crate when I put him in it. It's very disturbing. What is even more disturbing about his screaming is his endurance. That puppy can scream for hours before he tires himself out. My downstairs neighbor doesn't care for it too much. Said neighbor banged on my door around midnight a few days ago and gruffly explained that he "works for a living" and I need to "shut that animal up" or he will "complain to the office" and have him "removed".

So, I don't put Picasso in his crate at night anymore. Mean downstairs neighbor doesn't need to pay me any more intimidating midnight visits.

I don't care if it sounds like I'm torturing a pig in my house in the middle of the night; I am a Soldier proudly fighting for that freedom in the United States Army! Sheesh!

It's A Boy!

Meet Picasso The Destroyer of Worlds (yes, this is his official American Kennel Club name)!

I got this precious little French Bulldog two days ago and he's already stolen my heart and all of my time. I never knew I had a mothering instinct in me until this puppy came along. I love taking care of him and making him happy. I don't like to disturb him when he's sleeping in my lap and it really hurts my heart to hear him cry in his crate when I go to sleep at night. I want nothing more than to have him sleep with me in my bed, but something about an unpotty trained dog and a white comforter makes me reluctant.

I was aware that French Bulldogs have a unique bark, but you really can't get a good idea of what it's like until you hear it in the flesh. It's a cross between a dying cat and a screaming old woman. Really. It's disturbing to wake up to at 3am.

Wax Lips

Are you ever truly too old for wax lips?

I think not!

Hooting Owls

I stepped out on to my mom and dad's back porch around sun down this evening and I heard owls hooting. Yes, my parents live in Iowa, which most people think is all farm land, but they do not live on a farm and I've never heard hooting owls before. So went back inside to spread my joy and I ran into my dad first. I said, "Dad, did you know there are owls out back?" And he looked at me like I was freaking stupid. But my mom overheard my joy of owls from the back bedroom and was excited about the prospect of hooting owls, too. She came out to hear them. Mom spotted them. There were two of them.

It was spooky and very Halloweeny (hee hee, that sounds funny) for the owls to be hooting so close to the house this evening.

Dog Tags

I have an issue with Identification Tags, or Dog Tags. They are issued to Service people as a form of identification. Our name, social security number, blood type and religious affiliation appear on these tags. We are to wear them at all times while in our uniforms. Dog Tags were originally used to help identify bodies on the battle field or to help medical personnel identify an unconscious patient.

So what the Hell is wrong with Soldiers who want to wear them in their civilian clothes? Let me clarify, on the outside of their clothes. It's not a piece of jewelry. It's not pretty. If you want people to know you're in the Army that badly then just tell them. Your hair cut generally hints to your profession anyway. You don't need your social security number dangling around your neck to show off your military pride!

I also have a problem with wives and girlfriends that wear their Soldier's Dog Tags. I get it that you're proud. But do you get it that your man's social is dangling between your boobies or off your key chain and if you lose them you are putting his identity at risk? They were not issued to you, honey, to be cute. So leave them to the Service member to "rock" those dog tags.

I just wanted to get that off my chest.

Viva Las Vegas

I got my groove back, so to speak, in Las Vegas. My tolerance for alcohol and I were reunited. It was a joyous occasion. Tolerance certainly does include black outs. Tolerance to alcohol as defined by Jackie means the room is not spinning and I am not vomiting everywhere. Blacking out is perfectly acceptable, and actually preferred. When I black out I am still in motion, it's just like someone turned off the recorder. It's a very drunk, loud, out of control motion, but definitely motion.

Rosie and I managed to get cut off from a bar in Las Vegas and kicked out of the MGM Grand because I was black out drunk. I didn't even know you could get kicked out of a bar in Las Vegas. I don't think I was even too out of control... while I was still sitting at the bar. The second I stood up, it was all over. I fell into a slot machine and thought it was quite possibly the funniest thing ever.

I sat down on Las Vegas Blvd because I was laughing so hard I could not physically hold myself up any more. By the way, Las Vegas Blvd is quite possibly the dirtiest street in America. I'm sure I picked up an STD through my jeans.

Rosie made a decision to get food in me to try to sop up some of the booze. She took me to a food court with a Del Taco, bless her heart. I devoured a burrito like I hadn't eaten in a month. I also made a loud, laughing scene. So loud that Rosie took pictures of me:

She wasn't the only one who took pictures. A man behind me took pictures of the spectacle I was making. Rosie told me, "The Mexican Elvis behind you is photographing you." Well, I hated that idea and went on a drunk yelling rampage about how rude that was. I turned around and yelled at Mexican Elvis. It was a string of obscenities, but I got my point across. Rosie removed me from the food court as quickly as possible.

I'm glad Rosie was sober enough to handle me. She's a good friend to deal with me! I knew I'd be able to get my groove back sooner or later. It just took a weekend in Las Vegas to find it.

Cirque Du Soleil

I celebrated my 27th birthday in fabulous Las Vegas, Nevada this weekend with one of my VERY best friends, Rosie. It was a great trip! The highlight was when we saw the Cirque Du Soleil Beatles show, "Love". It was very fitting for Rosie and I to see that show together, since we are both long time Beatles freaks... I mean fans. Also, we saw "Love" on October 9th, which happened to be John Lennon's 70th birthday. I am a freak for knowing that trivia fact.

The show was an audio/visual orgasm. I'd never seen a Vegas show before. It sounds so old person to me. But it turned out to be amazing and now I'm a fan of the Vegas productions. I'll go to more. Because there are more trips to Las Vegas planned. There always should be.

Uncasing Ceremony

Today was the Uncasing of the Colors Ceremony. Before we left for Iraq over a year ago, we had a ceremony to case the colors. Basically we put our brigade and battalion flags in an ACU printed sock and left them in it while we went to war. Now that we're back, we can remove it from the sock and add a little streamer on the flag that says we were awesome on our deployment. It's a long ceremony. People give speeches. The I Corps band plays their instruments. Soldiers stand at attention. There is singing involved.

I lucked out and got to pull medical coverage. Which basically meant I stood behind the spectator bleachers with a litter and an aid bag and talked shit with 2 other medics. There was a lot to talk shit on. I love getting to see Soldier's wives. Because all Soldiers generally look the same, but wives come in all shapes and sizes and classiness.

There were an insane amount of babies present. If you do the math, that means most Soldiers had a really good mid-tour leave with their wives or there was some scandalous stuff going on while Daddy was at war. There even seemed to be designated, yet unmarked, stroller parking behind the bleachers.

The best part of this particular ceremony is that it kicked off our block leave period. 30 days where every Soldier who deployed has a chance to take leave and finally relax and go on vacation. I have quite the vacation planned for myself. First off: Las Vegas with my bestie. Then I'll be whisked away to wonderful Richmond, Virginia to visit another bestie. Lastly, but certainly not least, I'll go to fabulous Davenport, Iowa to visit my fabulous parents! It'll be nice to put my uniform away and feel like a real human being for a month.

Mourning A Dear Friend

I am in a state of deep mourning. I lost something very dear to me. Something I fear I will never find again, even with a lifetime of training. I feel lost. I feel alone. I feel deep regret.

I lost my alcohol tolerance.

That's right folks. I was in the best drinking shape of my life before taking that vacation to Iraq for 12 months. I was a champion, a master of my craft. I could have gone places and been someone, you know? But it's gone now. I'm starting at square one.

It's scary to start over. I feel like I might accidentally be that girl who gets too drunk too fast and makes an ass out of herself. An amateur. I prefer to make an ass out of myself after having an outrageous amount of booze so people are more understanding of my situation. "Oh, she's flashing the bartender because she's had 17 shots of Jack Daniels," is way more hard core than, "Holy crap, she's only had 2 beers and she's puking in the street."

Last night I got pretty tossed off of 3 Long Island Iced Teas. I didn't puke in the street or show my boobs to strangers. I wasn't that wrecked. But I wasn't at a level I was comfortable with, either. I've got to find my alcohol tolerance and self respect! ASAP.