"I can't live like this!"

"So what happened the other night?" Shorty asks me in the car on our way home from work. "All I heard was Twig saying 'I'm 34 years old and I can't live like this, I shouldn't have to live like this!' and 'I like her, I think she's intelligent, we talk, but I can't live like this!' Were you in there when she said all of that?"

Oh yeah, I was in there. Not only was I in there, but our Barracks NCO was as well. She had woken Twig up to talk about why a bunch of my stuff was dumped on my bunk. And Twig? Well, she woke up, but not exactly happy.

Twig can't deal with clutter and I'm not the neatest person on the face of the planet. I'm also not so good with deadlines, either. So not only did I leave clutter in the room for Twig to cringe over, I didn't clean it up in a specified amount of time. Okay, fine, I can accept that. But in no way shape or form am I responsible for her -- or anyone else's -- emotions. Including waking up and yelling at people.

Long story short, they're trying to move me to another quad. Which is sad because I really do like my roommates. But I can't, and I shouldn't, have to deal with someone that complains about dust bunnies under my bunk and then promptly gets upset about them.

"You don't really want to go home."

When I was in high school, I participated in a competing marching band circuit over my summers. I remember one year -- my last year? -- how I had a very bad day and complained to Rocky, my boyfriend at the time, about how much I wanted to go home.

You want to know what he told me? "You don't really want to go home. You want that because you think it's too difficult here." He was right. It was difficult, it was challenging. And I kept on going back for more.

Day Zero of basic training, I cried. No, scratch that, I bawled my eyes out. My hair had fallen out of my bun and touched my collar. I had three drill sergeants in my face, screaming. I was quite literally paralyzed in fear. All through basic training, Rocky's words became my mantra even though letters from him were rare. I stuck it out, I hung in there, I didn't give up. In nine weeks, I ripped the skin off of my fingertips, I had shin splints so bad that I was on crutches, I cut off all of my hair, I fell during a group run, and I injured my elbow. But I didn't give up.

At graduation, one of the drill sergeants told my mom how proud he was of me. They didn't think I was going to make it.

Since then, whenever things get rough I think about Rocky's words, how I got up and kept running after I fell, and what the drill sergeant said to Mom.

Sometimes it's comforting, sometimes it doesn't feel like it's enough.

Lately I've been having those "gosh, I really just want to go home" days. My roommates are going crazy about dust bunnies under my bed, my supervisors get themselves and everyone else all worked up about things that really aren't all that important, and I'm probably going to make another grown man cry.

It's not easy. It's not comfortable. It's definitely not how most would choose to live their lives. And yet, it's mine. All I can do is do the best I can. How good is good enough?

a whole other world

"Tu me manques" he whispers in French. Even when speaking another language his voice is laced with a southern drawl. Not like I'm going to complain. I won't have the chance to hear his voice for a few weeks.

When he returns he'll tell me all about it. It's all very real to him. For me, on the other hand, it's a whole other world. He'll point out every dent, every hole and I'll reach up and caress it. I can only imagine the roadside bombs that leave the damage, the same ones that he describes vividly.

He's one of the fortunate ones. Some that I've talked to have scars or nightmares. Or both. He doesn't. I hope it stays that way.

comrades, friends, family

Waiting for my class to start, I whip out my camera and start snapping pictures of Driver. A handful of excellent shots later from my more than willing model, he confides that he never lets anyone take pictures of him.

He's writing, too. Offline, private, for his eyes only. I'm not even going to bother to ask to read, although I occasionally wonder what he writes about.

Driver is not a fobbit. Driver does not ride the same bus to work day after day. Driver goes out of the wire and on the road. On his last mission he earned a Combat Action Badge -- there are dents and holes in vehicle to prove it. There is some crazy stuff that goes on out there, and sometimes I don't think I have the stomach to hear about all of it.

He amazes me with his ability to laugh and smile just minutes after hearing explosions in the distance. On the rare occasions that they do happen, they are minor compared to what he's used to.

This war isn't some distant thing that's happening on the other side of an ocean, in countries whose geography is unknown to me. The soldiers that are here are not anonymous numbers, figures or statistics. They are comrades. They are friends. And some of them are family.

I can only imagine what they've seen and what they've been through. In the end, it truly is a different experience for each of us.

where does a week go?

It's funny how easy it is to settle into a routine here -- good, bad or otherwise.

Day-to-day life is very repetitive. (And boring.) Three days a week, I wake up early and exercise. Then I'll pick up something for breakfast and go back to the barracks so I can get ready for work. Stay at work all day, sometimes meeting friends for lunch and sometimes heating up ramen noodles instead. (Really, it all depends on who's around.) After work, it's off to dinner with Grunt and Shocker. We let our food digest a bit and then hit the gym. I am usually one of the few -- if the only -- females in the free weight area. And then? Bed. Only to wake up the next day and do it all over again.

The realization of it is that while it's mind-numbingly boring, it helps pass the time. I am getting out and socializing. I am not counting the days down, but I know that weeks are flying by.

Before I know it, I'll be hanging out in Hong Kong with Dragonette.

baby!

Lucky's a daddy!

Well, kind of.

His godson was born the other day and he was finally able to chat with me about it. The baby was overdue and all week I've been asking him "is the baby here yet?"

Last night he stayed up with the baby, just holding him.

He's so excited. It's all so very cool.

how do you measure life?

Lucky: "I'm glad you didn't go back to him."
Techno: "Me too."

You-know-who (and if you don't, you can guess) volunteered to be deployed, again. And it's not like it hasn't been discussed, and I totally understand why, but it is a little sad.

Is life supposed to be measured in years at home and years overseas?

busy bee

I've been putting out fires and starting small riots simulationiously at work.

"We want to match the report!" / "Does this match our downtrace?" / "Why do you spend all of your time working on this?"

Nuts, I tell you. Definitely a never ending story. And if there's a day where I'm not bent over a report, there's something wrong. Or somebody's late. Take your pick.

colorful new year

The New Year was brought in with fireworks. Lights from campsites in the desert dotted the horizon. Color, color everywhere.

Techno: "What time is it?"
Driver: "We missed it by five minutes."

I never thought that I would ring in the new year in the desert.