Currently Chasing: The route from Z back to B

So let me explain something to you about Afghanistan (and a few of you may know this already from being stationed other places…) there is a term they use around here, “tactically hot.” In the Air Force I think they are called desert princesses. Whatever the label, the meaning is the same. A girl with average looks who may be considered a stateside 3, comes to Afghanistan and all of a sudden transforms into total hotness; an Afghanistan 10!  With the ratio of 100 guys to every one girl … even the most unfortunate looking girl is a stand out over here.

So, when there is a girl up for grabs, some guys will go to some ridiculous levels to get their attention. 

Case in point: There are two guys out here that I know. I’m friends with them both, but I only really care to know one of them. And of course he happens to also be the cuter of the two. Either way, they are buddies, so you don’t get one without the other. And they share a phone. Now, when I text them or call them I’m not actually texting and calling THEM, more so I’m just texting and calling my friend B. However, unless they make it clear who is on the other end of the phone, I’m never clear on whom I’m actually texting.  But then again, it is VERY CLEAR to both B and his friend Z, that when I text or call I’m looking to speak to B. Have I totally lost you?

So the other night I text to invite B out. I should have just called. The conversation goes something like this:

Me: Hey you wanna hang out with us later on?

B:  Well, we are hanging here since it’s our last night, but you can come hang here.

Me:  Well maybe later?

B:  Absolutely.

Me:  Cool, can you pick me up?

B:  Yes. When and where and should I be alone?

Me:  lol…how about by the boardwalk, and whatever.

B: Beautiful, I’ll see you then.

I was anxious to see B before he left to return home, so I called and asked him to come get me early.

B: No problem. OMW (on my way)

So I wait, and when the truck pulls up and I open the door, it’s not B, instead it’s his buddy Z. And I’m pissed. He sees my obvious look of disgust and says something about B being in the middle of a poker game or something and so I get in the car, arms crossed, and silent. He tries to make small talk before finally revealing the truth. B didn’t even know he was coming to get me. He had never shared my texts with B at all! I said, you knew the texts were for B right? He said that he thought I was ‘someone else’ and that the texts were for him and by the time he realized, it was too late. I said, and what time was that? When you fucking pulled up here to pick me up and I wasn’t ‘someone else?’ He was embarrassed. I was embarrassed as well … FOR HIM.  And I wanted to just go home.

I mean, what did he think? I was going to be like…oh, what a pleasant surprise. It’s a guy I can’t stand to be around … let’s make a night of it? HELL NO. I mean, the guy spent three hours one night showing me every picture and video he could find of himself and couldn’t stop talking about how EPIC he was. And then at one point he flashed a picture of himself in high school and it all made sense. HE WAS TOTALLY COMPENSATING for a childhood full of ridicule, self loathing and self doubt. But in the famous words of Alanis “I am not the doctor.”

I take comfort in knowing that he probably hates himself way more than I could ever hate him. I never did get to say goodbye to B. And Lord knows I’m not going to dare send another text.

Currently Chasing: The rest of the Story

So I've mentioned the Brit a couple of times and now have gotten a request for the rest of the story. I'll fill you in. Said Brit and I went on a few dates. His last name is Johnson, which results in the nickname Johnno. If your name is Jackson, it's Jacko. If your name is Renshaw, it's Renny. If your name has is McDonald, it's Mac...and the list goes on. Everyone has a nickname. So I say, should I call you Johnno? And he says, people at work call me Johnno..my friends call me Matt. Matt it is then. (Although I did have reservations about labeling myself a friend so quickly.)

Some things you should know about Matt. He thinks I have amazing legs (although I'm not sure of his baseline for this) he's thinner than me and he's 24. I've caught the eye of a few guys out here...they have all been thinner than me. and 24. WTF? So we go get a smoothie and he forgets his wallet, so I pay..and I notice a name tattooed across his arm as he pulls his shirt up. So later when he tells me he has a daughter I feel relieved because...otherwise, who is this girl he has his arm named after. So I say, let me guess ... Phoebe? And he says, yes, you are very observant. Then I say, I thought that was maybe an ex girlfriend or wife's name...and he says, no, that's further up my arm near my shoulder. Perfect.

But let me tell you this...he's funny and he makes me laugh. But he also lives in Britain and his hobbies include cage fighting and we just don't have much in common. Except that we are both looking for distractions from the obvious. The obvious being Afghanistan and the assholes that live here and insist on killing us.

I met Matt when he checked my ID so that I could enter a compound on base. But I found out he was only doing that job because he got into trouble for missing a meeting. His regular job is providing security for VIPs on base. He escorts them outside the wire. Of course he does. Every guy you meet here is carrying a weapon and bragging that he has a job that requires him to do really dangerous things he can't dare talk about.

That is just like the time I chatted with a guy online. The conversation went something like this:

Me: What do you do?
Him: I'm a firefighter.
Me: What do you look like?
Him: I'm tall and I have blond hair and blue eyes.
Me: Of course you do you fucking liar.
Him: No really, I'm gorgeous and single and I SAVE LIVES.

He didn't bother to mention that even though he wasn't married, he did have a live in girlfriend and yes he was tall, but also about 84 pounds overweight, and he did have blue eyes, but he also had yellow teeth, and I don't even know if he was really a firefighter or if he just liked to spray shit with a hose.

So, who knows if Johnno (if that really is his name) is outside the wire right now getting shot at and risking his life for his country. Or if he's behind some desk somewhere chatting with some stupid girl on messenger about being in Afghanistan and how hard core it is. I will say this though, he's got good teeth.

Currently Chasing: Highlights

So it's the middle of the week. There is a Social tonight at 6 so I'll probably go to that. Hmmm, what on earth will I wear? My deserts? My PT Uniform? So many decisions.

I had to dye my hair back to brown, and most likely it will stay this color for the rest of deployment. I'm very unhappy about that. I just don't feel like myself when my hair is in standards. No different colors, no faddish hair cut. God, I'm plain. Go Navy.

This place is almost worse than a ship for two reasons. #1 There are too many people to get to know so people end up just getting to know the people they work directly with.
#2 No one likes the people the work directly with.

There is a place here called All Seasons. It's a resteraunt. The food sucks, the service is shitty, hamburgers taste like cardboard, chicken nuggets are made with dark meat, there is no restroom, you are expected to tip even though you pick up your own food and clear your plate when you're done and it's crowded. It's pretty much our favorite place to go.

The other day the lights went out in our office. At noon I figured I'd go home since I couldn't get any work done. The next day in a meeting I said, "not that it affects any one else, so who cares, but my power is still out." They said, do you see what it says on your chest? Seabee! Get up to the attic and fix that shit. I said, "um ok. So really, my lights are out." They said, didn't you get the email about priorities and how you are not one? I said, "I didn't get that email, you know why? Because my power is fucking out dick." I just love those guys.

I went on my first convoy the other day. Of course I was all buckled in for safety, but the guy across from me was not. I said, hey, you need to buckle up. He said, why? I said, because your big ass will fall on me and kill me. He said, this thing isn't going to roll over. I said, you bet your ass it will. He said, how many rollovers have you been in? I said two. So finally he put his seatbelt on. I didn't bother to mention that those two rollovers were controlled training rollovers. But he didn't need to know that. Just get your damn seat belt on assmunch.

Every time we arrived at a new place, I could tell where we were by the bathroom facilities. At the first place there were regular port o johns. At the second place, there were port o johns with broken doors, stained walls, disease and no toilet paper. By the third place there was a fuel can that I could use and 'burn my shit' when I was finished. And by the fourth place I stepped on poop on my way out of the MRAP.

Later that night before we entered back into the base we had to clear our weapons. I get out and something is wrong with my weapon. I keep trying to clear it but it will not open. I look at the colonel and say, Ma'am, maybe there is just too much dust in it, it's stuck. She said, "Pull it Back toward you, stop pushing it forward." Holy hell I'm a dumb ass. Good thing I'm cute. Although now that I've dyed my hair, even that's up for debate.

Currently Chasing: A few more pounds

So I’ve been getting hit on out here…mostly by twenty somethings who weight one hundred and twenty something pounds. What is the deal? What is it about skinny guys that make them want to take on some heavy junk like me? I’ll crush you dude!

Don’t get me wrong. They are cute, with their tiny little abs and their tiny little asses. But good lord, I’m not looking for something I can wrap my arms around, but I am looking for something I can wrap my head around…and this whole little guy, big girl thing is throwing me for a loop.

When we are walking down a dark alley, or you know what…let’s get even scarier, when we are walking down a dark alley in motha fuckin Afghanistan…and someone walks up on us, I don’t want to throw you behind me as I lock and load on some insurgent. And I also don’t want to be standing behind you if you decide to sacrifice yourself for me…CAUSE THEY WILL STILL BE ABLE TO SEE ME BEHIND YOU.

Maybe I’m being too hard on the little guys. After all, they are the ones stepping up to the free throw line right? Although recently a rather freakishly tall man has made his way back into my life, which is a good thing, but the majority of men who have been trying to court me these days would have no business being on a court of any kind.

My type has pretty much been the same for quite some time. Tall and heavier than me. At 5’6 and 160, that doesn’t seem like an outrageous request. Ok, maybe a bit more than 160, but hopefully by the time I leave here I’ll be around 145-150 and then that will open up the door for a few more of these 12-year-olds, but goodness. I think that anyone looking at me would be like, damn, that’s quite a bit of woman right there…let me gain a few pounds and ask her out.

There are a couple of positive points I should bring up about these lean stallions. When they send pictures, it is hard to find a flaw. The abs are usually very defined and there is nothing hanging somewhere it shouldn’t be. But that is also the case with victims of malnutrition. And a lot of these guys have tattoos that end up unintentionally wrapping around their bodies because they ran out of room. Trust me, every tattoo I have has PLENTY of breathing room. There is a guy here who has already lost 30 pounds since being here. He’s been skipping meals and working out twice daily. That is a hard regiment to maintain, so he recently gained a few pounds back and he’s been depressed about it. Two months ago he was heavier and happier, and in my opinion a more well-rounded person, no pun intended. Now he’s just skinny and miserable. And now, at two pounds less than me, completely un-dateable. Not that I was considering it, just saying.

If I have to lose 20 pounds to feel comfortable around you, I’m going to go out on a limb and say; it’s just not going to work. The Skinny Brit I’ve made friends with may read this. Don’t worry love; I’m talking about all skinny guys, except you. (Wink wink.)

Currently Chasing: The Go sign

So I’ve ranted and raved a lot about men since starting this blog. And even before. And mostly I’ve ranted and raved about one guy in particular over and over throughout the years. He has been on and off of my good side for almost five years. He’s cheated. He’s lied. He’s been a total asshole. In fact, he wouldn’t even leave his golf clubs at my house when he went to Iraq because he was that confident we would break up while he was over there and he was afraid I might…I don’t know…do something CRAZY. However, he’s also been my savior more times than I can count…and I need to know, is it ok to love him again?
Now, before we go into the most recent bailout he’s provided, let me just say that I know he will never change. Men spend their lives staying exactly the same and women spend their lives changing their hair, clothes, style, friends, makeup and minds. I get it. I’m constantly different, and he’s forever unchanged. But is it possible that I’ve finally changed into that person that can accept the fact that he never will?
Let me give you the background and then let’s figure this out together.
I’m in Afghanistan. Most of you know that if you’ve been following my adventures for any length of time. My first leg of the trip was spent in Gulfport and during that time the unthinkable happened. My tenant was doing laundry and the wash cycle never turned off. Water spilled out for a few hours causing my condo (and the condos of two of my neighbors) to encounter plenty of expensive and inconvenient water damage. She freaked. I freaked. And thus efforts began on her part and my part to get the situation rectified. A restoration company came in and tore up the floors and baseboards. Fans were put in to dry the carpets. People ran in and out of the house for days causing nothing but more mess and more pain and suffering for my girl living there. It was a nightmare. For a month no amount of phone calls from her or I could get answers from anyone on when the work would start or finish or how much the damage was going to cost.
So I called my on again, off again man, (the same one I’ve vowed at least 10 times to never speak to again) and explained the situation. He told me to send him a power of attorney – and so I did. I may not be able to trust him to be faithful, but I fully believe I can trust him with my house. I can also trust him with my daughter. For a week while I was away for work he made sure she got to school and back every day … hair done and everything. And she was fed. That’s more than most men can do with their own kids. So back to the story.
He received the power of attorney and went right to work. Within two weeks he had my house back to new. He even made them redo the carpeting because he wasn’t happy with the way it turned out. The light was flickering and he paid them to fix it while they were fixing everything else. The table behind my couch was broken and he was sure they caused the damage (even though they didn’t…I broke it trying to build it initially) so he had them come back and fix it. He made sure they left with my place looking better than it did before the flood. The TV in the living room had also went out, so he switched it out with another TV in another room and that was just one more thing she and I didn’t have to think about.
When my tenant had other problems with the toilet, bathtub and washer … he went over and took care of the problems. When she notified him that my tags were expired on my car and the condo management was going to have it towed, he offered to move it to his house. He had me send him another power of attorney so he could get the tags renewed for me.
And so I ask again, can I love him? Yes, he cheated. Yes, he lied. Yes, he’d sometimes rather play call of duty than sleep with me. But when I need him, he’s always there. And when my life seems to be falling apart, he helps piece it together. And when I think back on my life, he’s always been a staple. And recently he told me I could have power of attorney over his golf clubs. I’m pretty sure that’s as close to a marriage proposal as I’ll get. And maybe it’s all I need.