Gems of wit have been spotted sprinkled throughout top secret padlocked to the wrist documents that issue from our tough as woodpecker lips infantry staff. Fear not, I will stop short of divulging state secrets, unless itâ€s the fact that infantry officers, once put in desk jobs involving such scintillating tasks as logistics and planning, actually retain a sense of humor.

USO sponsored entertainment does occasionally make it to my old outlying camp. The last comedian tour was not particularly well attended, perhaps due in part to the fact that the acts were performed by 4 middle age balding guys in ratty Hawaiian shirts. The upcoming comedy tour promises better attendance, perhaps not because of the sudden upswing in talent, but likely because the USO comedian is, in the words of one of my male compadre, A smokin†hot babe! Likely she is only average to pretty, but hey, months of deployment will turn even the most homely of gals into someone that can be put in quotation marks.

How do I know this, being that I am stranded up at Camp Tootie Fruity away from my old friends? I was privy a top secret document which demanded;

Appoint one Ranger qualified Infantry officer, preferably single, handsome and a shining example of the Infantry branch, to escort Ms T— throughout her time on the camp. Officer should take numerous photographs of himself with Ms. T— and then forward them to all other male officers in the brigade. If he fails to obtain a personal autograph with contact information, he shall be mercilessly ridiculed by his peers.

And yet there was more fodder. In an apparent attempt to lighten up the no fun command as we were prone to be called, another order to our subordinate units read;

The commander has ordered a completely spontaneous moment of joy and celebration at precisely 5:10 am on Monday morning to commemorate the end of — (a particular series of documents). Said moment of spontaneity will last exactly 116 seconds, at the end of which all fun will immediately cease and seriousness will promptly resume.

I kid you not. (Ok, I lied. I kid you all the time, but this weekâ€s column is true and pretty much wrote itself.) Both gems are now permanently locked into the annals of military history, inscribed forever in the operational orders of our mighty U.S. Army.

The post Postcards from a Hot and Sandy Place : And it drags on and on and on. Or does it? appeared first on That Little Redheaded Girl's Internet Den of Delights!.

When we started here our convoy signs proclaimed such dire warnings as Stay back or we will use all deadly force necessary to destroy you, your dog and your favorite ice cream. As political correctness and the reality of stability operations slowly seized the Army, the signs gradually toned it down to Please stay back or we may or may not shoot you. The latest iteration noted Please don’t come to close to our trucks or we will spank you. I am not sure whether this is effective in keeping people back or just ends up attracting the odd Arab gent into S&M.

In addition to provoking thought on the conundrum brought when war and politics try to get into bed together, mistakes in translation also make for some head scratching moments. While the Army endeavors to have the best and brightest linguists in the world, perhaps a better characterization would be that the Army has the best linguists the private sector could bother to spare and that were available at the time. For example, a sign to a secure building reads in the sternest King’s English Do not enter without permission, deadly force authorized. However, I am told the Arabic translation actually reads, Enter with all permission and please use deadly force.

Not only do we mangle the English to Arabic translation, but natives have been known to mangle Arabic to English. Of the three local shops on my old camp, none of them had correctly spelled billboards. One read in hand lettered red paint on a discarded wooden slab Shop – Manes and Womens Cloths. I don’t think they were selling equine gear, but so long as you get the general idea about the wares, the sign worked.

My favorite signs to date reflect the entrepreneurial spirit that runs in all humans, regardless of nationality. On one of our outlying camps, not yet big enough for an official Army exchange, a local national has taken over commerce on the camp with a vengeance. He sells everything from thousands of bootleg DVDs, cigarettes, computers, haircuts, kabobs and pay phones. Rumor has it he has already made quite a tidy sum of money. He bears such a striking physical resemblance to Bob Villa of Home Again tv fame, that the prior cavalry soldiers started calling him Bob Villa to his face. Rather than take his moniker as an insult (after all, the real Bob Villa was ignominiously fired from This Old House in a scandal that rocked the televised home repair community to its very asbestos free core) he capitalized on it, renaming all of his stores in bold red and black signs Bob Villa Cafe, Bob Villa Phonebank and my personal favorite Bob Villa’s Blockbuster. Remember, copyright and trademark laws mean nothing in a country that sold the latest Star Wars movie on DVD even before it came out in regular theatre release.

The post Postcards from a Hot and Sandy Place: Emily Post Stands to Post in the Desert appeared first on That Little Redheaded Girl's Internet Den of Delights!.

The following are my observations of the ten most asinine incidents/rules I made during my first couple of days at Camp Tuitty Fruity;

10. You have to wear a tan colored desert camouflage uniform, tan boots and tan t-shirt, but you have to wear a bright orange or yellow reflective belt while doing exercise in the morning.
9. You canâ€t wear your weapon into the gym with the physical training uniform, but you cant get into the chow hall wearing the physical training uniform without a weapon.
8. They moved the helipad away from the main cluster of office buildings because it kicked up too much dust, but then they cut down all the brush and grass surrounding the office building so that nothing anchors the dirt down.
7. They water the gravel roads every morning with gray water in order to keep the dust down, but the water has now made gravel so permanently slippery and slimy that its impossible to walk on parts without falling down.
6. Two days ago, my convoy driver was told by a Camp Tuitty Fruity gate guard that he was driving like a bat out of hell because he was going at least 18-20 miles per hour down one of the exit roads. This comment incited a great deal of laughter in my humvee. Apparently this gate guard never been on a convoy or patrolled with Assassin battery (the soldiers I usually ride with) who think that the proper way to avoid traffic jams is to go 65 miles an hour down the wrong side of the road until they get around the jam.
5. My female office mate wears make up and never picks up her weapon when it falls on the ground (those of you in the military will understand the horror of this one).
4. The boss wants to design a deployment t-shirt to give to everyone when they get home. Screw the military medals, awards or bronze stars, etc, my reward for a year away from hearth and home will apparently be; I went to war in Iraq and all I got was this lousy t-shirt.
3. One of the chaplains is named MAJOR BLESSING (well, thatâ€s more cute than anything).
2. I can get better cable service and internet service here than at home in Georgia.
1. I struggled to get out of the backwoods bayous of Louisiana and yet I now live in a muddy trailer park!

The post Postcards from a new sandy place: Top 10 Asinine Rules of Camp Tuitty Fruity appeared first on That Little Redheaded Girl's Internet Den of Delights!.

Before I came on active duty, my last abode was in the shabby but gentile and now extraordinarily overpriced suburbs of the metropolis we refer to as our nation’s capital, and being friends with the great TLRG, I liked to consider myself somewhat savvy in the ways of urban living. I had a Starbucks within walking distance, (a key indicator of a Carrie Bradshaw wannabe) and I enjoyed hanging out at the neighborhood bookstore on the weekends. A hop on the subway and I was in the heart of the city in 10 minutes.

So it has come as somewhat of a shock to me that I, in my new desert abode, find myself in danger being Foxworthy. I am spending some time at our higher headquarters encampment this week, practicing my shyster profession and missing my regular, more urban, encampment. I, the litigation luminary that I am, would have never expected to be a single female, albeit only geographically, love you honey!, living alone in a flooded out trailer park, with no hope of a decent glass of pinot noir or a sushi sampler tray for many many months, yet, here I am.

I have measured myself on the Foxworthy Scale, and find I tip it like a 300 pound unemployed trucker with greasy hair eating cheetos for breakfast. For example, you know you’re a redneck if you can holler at your neighbor in the next trailer to shut the hell up when he is watching WWF. Well, last night, I had to bang on the wall of my trailer to quiet down the my overzealous neighbors at midnight who had the cable blasting on wrestling. As military as I am, I had no desire to learn about Wrecker Bob, or Crazy Crazy Cab 1.

You know you’re a redneck if you stumble out of your trailer at 0600 am to go to the outhouse in the morning and get accosted by a neighbor who hasn’t seen you in a couple of weeks and wants to know how your life is going. This morning, as I attempted to blunder through the last dregs of sleep to the latrine trailer in this unfamiliar living area so I could pee before I burst, I hear Ma’am, Ma’am, what are you doing at Division? It was one of my favorite sergeants from the brigade who had just taken a different job up here and was curious to see me outside his trailer. Water cooler, latrine trailer, outhouse, whats the difference?

You know you’re a redneck if you have a satellite TV, play-station, 500 DVDs but you still scam free food at every available opportunity. The soldiers in my office compete to see who has the biggest DVD collection, yet whenever care packages come in, the food disappears as if they were the starving Ethiopian children my mother always made me clean my plate for.

You know you’re a redneck if you keep waders by your trailer door so that you can muck through the mud on your dirt road in order to reach your pickup parked at the end of the driveway. Substitute in combat boots and a humvee and you have my life, ladies and gentleman. The dusty desert creates some spectacular sunset photos, with the light filtering through the dust into prisms of color, but ever wonder what happens to all that dust when it rains? It doesn’t magically wash away, like it does in the U.S. What was dust and dirt becomes heavy, cloying mud that takes weeks to dry out and for some reason, always smells like ass.

The post POSTCARDS FROM A SANDY PLACE #9 – You Know You’re a Redneck If appeared first on That Little Redheaded Girl's Internet Den of Delights!.

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 canâ€t be that blind about females already!

The post POSTCARDS FROM A HOT AND SANDY PLACE #8 – All female Captains look alike appeared first on That Little Redheaded Girl's Internet Den of Delights!.

(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.

The post POSTCARDS FROM A SANDY PLACE #7 – Seriously, Ma’am, we love the fashion channel! appeared first on That Little Redheaded Girl's Internet Den of Delights!.

I expected many things when I came here, heat, flies, dirt, dust and a year away from hearth and home. I did not expect to have to ford my way through a raging flood in order to eat lunch. It has been raining here steadily for only a day or two and the lack of those pesky holes in the street we call a drainage system and take completely for granted has suddenly reared its ugly head.
After only a few hours of rain, our little corner of the world has disappeared blanket of muddy water. My first hint that something was amiss was yesterday, after being absorbed in work at my computer for an hour or two; I stood up and realized I was standing on a soaking wet floor. We set to work pulling up power cords, rearranging furniture away from the door and sweeping water out of the office and down the front steps. Much to our surprise and delight, we discovered that our brown tile floor was not really brown, but a lovely pink and yellow pattern.

This morning, the deluge had only worsened. After mucking out the water that had crept in overnight, we all stood in the front door looking out on the main road in our encampment, taking in the transformation to our little corner of the world. I felt as if I had been transported back in time to Genesis 7. My first hint was the parade of pairs of rats, mice, donkeys, and bedraggled cats and dogs that paddled by, headed down the road toward a destination unknown. The next hint was the complete absence of local nationals which usually hang out around the back corner of the building. Curious, I looked down the end of the road and saw them furiously engaged in building a boat like structure, with the pairs of animals crowded around in eager anticipation. Hmmm. Apparently Americans are not as good as the local folks at taking a hint.

Getting to lunch was a dampening experience. I never would have thought I would say thank goodness for speed bumps, but they are now the only way to cross the road without wading through knee deep water. For those of you who can recall the hazy 60s might remember a favorite Beatles album cover where the Fab 5, in full regalia, cross a British street exactly in stride. The sight of soldiers, all in uniform and a perfectly straight file line, carefully marking their way across black and white hashed speed bumps could have been a slightly more dusty version of that famous pic.

The rain has continued throughout this afternoon. While I have felt quite safe in our hardened buildings, just a minute ago I thought I saw a humvee float by, and the little donkey cart the laundry workers ride into the camp in the morning has sprouted fins and a webbed tail. Tonight is lobster night at the chow hall, I now understand how we get lobster in the sandy place.

The post POSTCARDS FROM A SOGGY PLACE #6 – And God said to Noah, build me an arky arky appeared first on That Little Redheaded Girl's Internet Den of Delights!.

For example, in America the thumbs up sign usually means, ok, great, good to go. In fact, soldiers use it frequently as one of the many hand signals and gestures required to communicate without words in a silent, tactical situation, such as out on patrol or searching a building. Yet, in what I believe to be a completely futile attempt to make soldiers culturally sensitive, the Army has announced that the thumbs up gesture should not be used here. Why you ask? Well, in our sandy world, a thumbs up gesture does mean up, but up a part of your body not frequently discussed on TLRG’s politically correct website!

Unfortunately for me, thumbs up is a habitual gesture which, despite my best efforts, I have not quite been able to shed from by gesturial vocabulary. This morning, I went in to pick up my laundry and drop off my uniform to be pressed. The Iraqi gentleman was quite courteous and efficient as usual, took my top and pants and told me when it would be ready for pickup. Since it was quicker than I had anticipated, I was delighted and began raising my right thumb to show my appreciation. Midway through, with elbow poised at hip level, I remembered exactly what sentiment I would be expressing, hid my hand behind by back and ran out of the shop as soon as humanly possible. One can only hope that I get my uniform back in one piece.

Yesterday was the holy day of Ashura. In the sandy place, Muslims mourn the death of an ancient holy man by marching through the streets in white, beating themselves until they draw blood to express their piety and grief. For those of us not assigned to the more riskier Army jobs that take us outside our encampment, we are able watch these activity on CNN, which is constantly on in the chow hall. As I lined up for lunch at the sandwich counter, I overheard two soldiers discussing the activities outside. As Jimmy Buffet says, You just might wind up in my song; little did these budding leaders know that they just might wind up in my column. Following is the enlightened exchange I was privileged to eavesdrop into;

Man, did you see all those dudes beating themselves?

Yeah, I think they were hitting themselves with clubs or whips or something

Why?

I think it has to do with some holy holiday – I think its called Shaquira or Ashanti or something.

Dude, I am glad I’m not part of that religion, it would suck to have to self-flatulence yourself like that.

Don’t you mean flagellation?

Yeah man, that’s what I said!

Gentle readers, fortunately, I had not gotten my lunch yet, or peas could have shot out my nose I was laughing so hard.

The possibility for misunderstanding, perplexity, confusion, bewilderment, mix-ups and mystification extends beyond cultural differences. While I freely admit to taking liberal license with the truth in the sandy place, the following is completely verbatim, a quote from a hearing transcript. The investigating officer (Q) is questioning a medic (A) about how severe a wound was by getting him to classify it in (hopefully) understandable layperson terms.
Q. —-For example, how would you describe beheading?
A. Beheading?
Q. Right.
A. Chopping off of someone’s head.
Q. Right, well–let me put it this way. Is that considered a- -an obvious, nonsurvivable injury?
A. Yes, sir.
Q. Okay, was there an obvious, nonsurvivable injury here, just by looking at it?
A. Just by first glance, no, sir, but when you combine the fact that he wasn’t breathing, had no pulse, pupils were fixed and dilated, and he had exposed brain matter, I would call that nonsurvivable, sir.

One can only hope that the investigating officer does not choose a second career as a doctor.

The post POSTCARDS FROM A SANDY PLACE #5 – As my evidence professor would say, hearsay can be verbal and non-verbal communication appeared first on That Little Redheaded Girl's Internet Den of Delights!.

After leaving the sandy place, we flew into the international airport
servicing our destination. There are many things I expected from a military airport, stark buildings, warehouses, the usual shoppette, food places, hundreds of soldiers standing around, smoking, joking, playing cards until the flight left. I had even heard rumor that it may have a Starbucks (unfortunately, false). This particular airport was very bare bones military airport – the waiting room was a tent, the “ticket counter” was in a tent, and the “baggage area” was really just a gravel area surrounded by concertina wire. Soldiers abounded, sleeping, eating, smoking, watching portable DVD players.

I am not surprised easily, TLRG fans. I have been to many airports in my life, domestic, international and military. Military airports are all exactly the same, tightly controlled, stark, lit with florescent lights and the exact same big screen TV tuned to CNN or Sports Center. Soldiers sprawl on the floor to sleep, weapons and gear strewn everywhere. And yet, even in our sandy place, life can be tres amusant when you least expect it.

We had just landed, pulled our bags off and were all sitting on our duffle bags in the “baggage area” outdoors, feeling rough, tough, soldier like while eating MREs. Hooah, as the Army likes to say. The last thing I expected to see in this place was civilians. Yet, no sooner had I finished my eating beef and broccoli breakfast when I saw the best non-sequitor of the journey. Three young Japanese touristy-looking women hurried bewilderedly by, dragging pricey designer wheeled luggage across the rocky gravel yard. They were dressed in the most expensive outdoor gear from North Face and REI, the lovely scent of perfumed shampoo wafted in their wake. They even giggled nervously and had cameras around their necks like tourists. They looked intimidated as they tried to squeeze by the hulking soldiers tossing bags into piles, however, much to their obvious relief, these young (male) soldiers parted like the red sea, mouths agape, duffles falling unheeded to the ground as the young women filed by onto the flight line for their flight. I guess airports are all the same, Japanese tourists and all!

Now, fear not, I had my own mouth agape moment. Sitting in the waiting area, bored out of my mind in the 11th hour of waiting for the next leg of our journey to begin, I saw the most handsome young French reporter stroll by. His hair was a perfect confection of slightly tousled natural brown curls, his nose aquiline to the perfect degree, his jeans had that perfect loose but still suggestive fit. Perhaps the years of hanging around soldiers have gotten to me, but I swear, I just had to ogle him as he crossed the breadth of the tent. A true mmm mmm mmm moment and a pleasant diversion from the endless wait of military transport.

It was a true journey of odd moments. On our last leg, we stayed overnight in a god-forsaken warehouse, no heat, no plumbing, just rows and rows of cots. You stumble outside to the port-a-potty and running water was whatever you had brought in your camel back water carrier. The most primitive of primitive. And yet, when we got up in the morning and headed to the camp chow hall, I dined on freshly baked quiche Loraine! Sometimes the Army can be downright schizophrenic.

The post POSTCARDS FROM A SANDY PLACE #4 – Planes trains and automobiles appeared first on That Little Redheaded Girl's Internet Den of Delights!.

While I have it on good authority that TLG would never be caught dead holding an assault rifle and wearing combat boots (in other words, she told me), she would certainly have felt quite at home in our sandy place the other morning. While there are many things that make this deployment a brand new and weird experience, there are some odd things that make me flash deja vu to my days in our nation’s capital. Long lines for everything, constant delays and snarled traffic spring to mind.

Yesterday, as I hiked my less than perky behind from the sleep tent to work at the office tent, my nostrils picked up an odor that shot straight to my brain and sent synapses firing and nerves flaring. It was a wonderful scent that I had not picked up in many weeks, not since the morning I left the relative civilization of Savannah for the sandy place. It was, yes, without a doubt….. COFFEE!

Now fearless readers, I love gourmet coffee. Back home, I will walk from the office to the coffee shop ten minutes away to get Seattle’s Best rather than drink the brew offered down the hall. But here in the sandy place, I have done a very brave thing and de-caffeinated myself. Yes, I have sworn off all caffeine, be it coffee or soda. Much has to do with plumbing, both my own (bladder of a squirrel, according to my husband) and that offered in the desert (ie, none). While we don’t have to squat, my parents will attest that I am certainly not a fan of port-a-potties.

But much like Eve, lured by the fresh scent of a crisp red delicious, I too was lured by the pungent aroma of fresh brewed joe. I followed my nose around the office tents to discover that to my delight, the little coffee café trailer was finally open for business. I lined up behind the dozen or so other soldiers waiting to get in. As the line moved up and I was able to step up into the trailer, to my amazement, I was transported into another world. Yes, I was in what could have passed for a mini version of the Dupont Circle Starbucks on Connecticut Avenue. (My husband can give directions to anyone who has yet to experience that mecca of funky Woodly Park eclectic and yellow Lewinsky power ties)

While this little taste of home made me sigh with pleasure and contentment, it still was rather strange to hear the Private in front of me, with his M249 SAW (a really really big rifle) carefully tucked out of the way behind him, still smelling of gun grease and sand coming out of crevasses I don’t want to know about, order “A vente white chocolate mocha please, extra whipped cream and cinnamon” So far, one of my favorite non-sequitors of the journey.

Well, I did get my café latte, and it certainly soothed my soul for the day. For a few minutes, I was home – happy to smell the ground espresso beans, enjoy the modern art decorations, marble counters and fresh pastries.

And yes, the prices were even just like home – $3.00 for my d@#$ tall latte! I guess some things never change, even in the sandy place:pigtails:

The post POSTCARDS FROM A SANDY PLACE #3 – “Yes, I’d like a half-caf, skim mocha appeared first on That Little Redheaded Girl's Internet Den of Delights!.