Readers, I apologize for my hiatus, sometimes my job as a desert lawyer gets in the way of my career as a humor columnist.

I have discovered I have an evil twin. No kidding readers, there is someone running around our encampment who looks exactly like me, confusing the heck out of soldiers and civilian workers alike. Now, for those of you who know me and not just my virtual persona, you know that I am fairly distinctive looking person amongst a literal army of male infantry soldiers, petite, athletic, with long brown hair and my most defining characteristic, being a girl. Well, I have discovered that there is another petite, brown haired, DCU-clad female on our encampment, a perfectly nice medical service corps captain named CPT Z. While I do not think we look much alike up close, apparently being female is just too overwhelming a characteristic for people to see beyond.

When we first moved into our camp, I was assigned a room with all the other staff captains in the staff barracks. Immediately, we all started scrounging for furniture and decent mattresses, cleaning and throwing away all the crap left by the not so tidy cavalry soldiers we replaced. When I heard that you could get a real mattress from one of our supply offices, I headed over and grabbed one. As I was walking out, a concerned looking NCO stopped me and said, Ma’am, your room is the other way, are you lost? No, I replied, trying to heave the mattress out the door, I am pretty sure the room I have been living in for the past two weeks is that way! Ok he replied and walked away looking confused and shaking his head.

That afternoon, the head of the supply office came up to me and said Ma’am, you sure are picky about your mattresses, I heard you exchanged yours 5 times! No, I am quite sure I only took one and I like it just fine! Then I remembered that CPT Z lived in the same building as the supply office and she was a quite finicky about her living quarters, turning her nose up at a room on the staff barracks floor for a nicer one in a different building nearer to the laundry room. Lord, I thought, why could not my evil twin be super athletic or fly around doing good deeds that I could take credit for, instead I get mistaken for a girly girl!

The next week, I went to visit one of our paralegals in a different section of our area. We were touring his area, seeing where he lived, what local shops were by his barracks and checking out the gym and movie centers. One of the American civilian workers came running up and said Hi Ma’am, glad to see you back again today, you must really like the gym. I was a bit perplexed, as my friends know I really do like the gym, but had only come over to the area that morning. My paralegal started laughing and said Ma’am, CPT Z was here yesterday Yikes, she strikes again!

Recently, my finicky evil twin decided yet again she did not like her room and that she wanted to move to a different building. Apparently this caused some consternation amongst the civilian maintenance workers, one of them pulled me over in the street and said Ma’am, do you need to move right away, we are having problems getting the room ready right away. Arrgh! I said, pointing to my branch designation on my collar, I am legal, you are looking for the other short brown haired female captain, the medical one! Nothing like getting a reputation for stuff you didn’t do!

But, after getting multiple questions about medical issues, I decided to give in and just go with the flow. But it did not last very long, since soldiers figured out that when they asked me what to do about the heat rash on their toes, my response of immediate amputation was not the right answer. Although, I get to have a bit of fun by treating a few cuts and scrapes by tying the bandages on with fluffy pink bows and ordering the soldiers not to remove it for 24 hours on pain of death. I think that’s when they figured things out and were on to me not being a doctor.

Although, I must say, being a female amongst a sea of infantry has its advantages and I am enjoying my 15 minutes of fame. For example, when I go to do legal assistance in one of our satellite offices, I don’t have to advertise that I will be available to see soldiers, because word of the arrival of the female lawyer spreads throughout the infantry sections within minutes. Soldiers who I have never met before come streaming in looking excited, Ma’am, I sure am glad you are here, they said you just came in, I got a problem with my (credit) (baby-mamma) (truck payment).

While I can understand being mistaken for my evil twin, it was a bit much when my tall, strawberry blond, blue eyed, military intelligence captain friend got mistaken for me. A soldier had urgently elbowed his way through the chow hall to speak with her. He asked what her hours were and when could he come see her, he had a question he need to ask her right away. Flattered, she replied that their office ran 24-hour operations on the second floor of the staff office building, so he could come by anytime. The soldier looked really impressed that she was available 24 hours a day and started telling her his life story and how he might need help with a divorce because his wife had just stolen all his money are run off to Jamaica. She started laughing and said, I work in the operations office - you want the other female captain downstairs in legal!

Geez, we have cable TV out here, soldier can’t be that blind about females already!

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When I learned I would be stuck in a dirty urban desert for a year, restricted to wearing nothing but Army issue garb 24/7, the haute couture junkie in me groaned in despair. How would I be able to keep up with the latest Ann Taylor wraps, model the chicest of Jimmy Choo kitten heels about town, or feel the flow of Roberto Cavalli washed silk over my legs when I was limited to tan, tan, or tan. The choicest accessory allowed here is a leather shoulder holster, sold for exorbitant prices by LNs at the camp junk store. I have been fortunate to get a bit of my monthly fashion fix when my mother forwards the bible of all Fifth Avenue Bergdorf Blondes, Vogue Magazine. I devour the hundred or so pages of photos, gossip and ads, and drink in the color which my life so desperately lacks here in sandy country.

(Vogue was the cause of a hilarious verbal gaff last year which I have yet to live down. My legal team was armed, packed up, geared up and mounted up in our humvees ready to convoy out to a 14 day field exercise when my paralegal/driver mentioned that he had forgotten to bring magazines. Being a bit new to the whole going to the field thing, I reassured him that I have got Vogue and would (jokingly) be happy to share it with him. He looked at me like I had just sprouted aliens from my nose and said politely, Maam, I meant ammunition magazines for the M9 pistols. Well, needless to say, the legal office slogan for the rest of the field exercise was I have Vogue! which the team also felt obligated to inscribe on the JAG announcement board in our corner of the field office.)

Part of my job as a lawyer in the sandy place takes me to the different company offices around our encampment. Each company office, or orderly room has a different atmosphere, depending on the temperament of the company commander and the mission of the company. Some bustle with constant activity, some are a bit quieter with the TV being the main source of stimulation.

It was one of these orderly rooms that gave me the laugh of the week. The company (or battery as they are sometimes called) was one of my all male, testosterone filled artillery units. The slogan for certain of these units is Big Guns Go Deep so you can imagine how my interactions usually go, generally filled with lots of grunting and gems of questions such as what do you mean we can not flog the soldier naked in front of his entire team for being late to PT?

As I entered into the office, I noticed all the soldiers working in the office were seated at their desks, quiet as mice, eyes glued to the television. Broadcasting is perfect color and cable clarity was none other than the Orbit Fashion Channel. A European-accented, most definitely effeminate male voice was extolling the latest delightful creations strolling down the runway during Paris Haute Couture Week. Phrases I have never heard anywhere close to an Army office such as Delicious Lavin hammer sequins, Bold and fresh Zac Posen tribal prints and Daring Michael Kors ruffled sea chiffon skirt rolled off the silky tongue of the announcer and fell upon my amusedly shocked ears. Forgetting whatever legal action I had come to consult the commander about, I plopped myself down in the nearest chair and installed myself in the office for the next half hour while models flounced their way down the runway, air kissed designers and squealed with delight at the latest Chanel beaded metallic strappy heeled sandals. I sighed with contentment at the sight of gorgeous wispy Prada tops and patterned Marc by Marc Jacobs skirts.

After the segment on the Paris Fashion Week, I came to understand exactly why the Fashion Channel was playing in this all male dominion of big guns. Now flashing across the screen in all of its 32 inches of color and vive was the Victorias Secret Tour Across America Show. Models in Vickys finest bounced through public appearances, hugging, giggling and bursting forth with such pearls of wisdom as I am studying to be a veterinarian because I just LOVE children! I learned that the favorite fashion segments involved Brazilian clothes, not because of the plucky cleverness of bias cut satin, but because when the models present the latest in wide-legged military style button trousers, frequently, all they wear is, well, trousers.

Honestly, I could care less about motive. I was just delighted to learn about a refuge from tan, tan, tan. The commander offered me my own desk in the orderly room, so in exchange for my personal attention to all battery legal actions, I get to watch the fashion channel to my hearts content. Even my husband will not let me have such a generous offer; at home he keeps hiding the remote whenever the TV finds its way to the Style Channel.

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