It's been ages since I've updated, I know, but the truth is that life has been keeping me busy. I feel like I'm getting swept along by some strange and dusty current. There are so many things I want to be able to put into words, but they're all jumbled together in one big sack of Is This My Life?

This deployment is now nearing its one-year mark. The end is in sight. After that, the Army will be kissing my ass goodbye. Life will be drastically changing. I will be Officially Single, the world will be at my fingertips, and The Man will have failed at getting me down.

But that doesn't mean I can sleep at night.

My days whiz by, and although I am productive, it all still seems worthless. It's exhausting without being rewarding. I'm not on the front lines, nor am I a blob, but I think the war would progress just fine without me, thankyouverymuch.

See, I can't even write anymore. My right brain has retired. Dammit.

It will all be over soon. Let's keep the faith, shall we?

Peace,

Ben Murphy

I am alive (HA! Take THAT, you poorly-trained Iraqi mortar/rocket-shooters! You MISSED! SEVERAL TIMES! GET A REAL JOB!) and reasonably well, although kind of about to lose my mind. So, normal.

Here is the thing. The Army, over the last few months, has been slowly draining my energy by making me do work. Work that requires thinking, as well as a mild amount of creativity. Hence, at the end of the day, I am able to do one of four things:

- watch movies
- read
- eat
- sleep restlessly

Every now and then, I am also able to do illegal things, which take my mind off work. However, I certainly do not do those illegal things, unless the Army is not reading this -- in which case, party on, Wayne!

But (and I promise we're nearing the end of the excuses, now) the part of my brain which composes journal entries and clicks the button marked "Save Changes" seems to have gone on vacation for a while. Perhaps it is back now, or maybe it is just checking in to say hi, or maybe it needs bail money. Either way, hello! And Happy Thanksgiving, America(ns)! I missed you!

P.S. Also, the Army has blocked nearly all blog sites from my work computer. At the moment, I am at an internet area run by the MWR center -- a.k.a., Land of the Trudging Connection.

Excuses now complete.

Since it's been a hillion jillion years since my last update, I have no idea where to begin. Life has been sauntering along, hacking up dust as it goes. Every day is nearly the same, with a few variations on who does or does not make me want to slap them in the teeth. I have still been spreading my particular brand of insanity to and fro (yesterday it took the form of our Division Song sung in the style of Harry Connick Jr., complete with vocalized brass and percussion, today, a fun game called "Let's throw shrimp into the cleavage portion of my civilian-contractor co-worker's shirt during dinner! Ha Ha Ha!" etc.), and my co-workers remain as entertaining as ever.

My job still consists of producing a four-page daily newsletter for our task force, and it has proven to be the bane of my existence. You see, the general is strongly averse to any kind of change (I know. Poor career choice noted.), so instead of me just getting the newsletter off the ground and then going out and covering stories, I get to sit at my desk and create the newsletter (read: hate the world) every day.

On the bright side, all of my superiors are finally leaving me alone to blossom into the vocally-disgruntled soldier I have always had the potential to become. I have convinced them it's part of my charm.

I went on leave back in October, during which time I traipsed around Seattle, Portland, Syracuse, Ithaca and the tiny tip of north-eastern Pennsylvania, glancing wistfully toward the welcoming Canadian border (so close, yet so close to prosecution for desertion!) more than once. Highlights included a trip through the edge of Olympic National Forest (which looks like Iraq, except the exact opposite), the best Dylan show I've ever seen, an enjoyable visit with Eventual Ex-Husband (I swear to you, we get along better now than ever before -- it must be the lack of commitment that brings the best out of us), and much drinking of various inhibition-ridding substances.

Of course, that had to end. I am now back in the 'raq, continuing to work/eat/sleep/repeat. To those of you who have left comments here, or e-mailed me, or continued to send me strange and exciting care packages, or all of the above: you are officially The Awesomeness. Thank you. For real. I am giving you affectionate nuzzles in my mind.

This deployment is more than halfway over. Christmas is around the corner. Love is in the air (in the form of dirt, bugs and explosives), and I am going to bed. I love you all, and I promise you I am not dead. Can I get a What What!

Peace,

Ben Murphy

Anyway, I've been kind of preoccupied with Life, such as it may be. Drama abounds on any deployment (seriously -- it's like high school, except, with a higher divorce rate), and this one is no different. I doubt I can sum up any of my own accurately, but I'll give it a shot, since it's 3 a.m. and I won't be falling asleep any time soon.

A couple months ago, Husband and I decided to call it quits for good. That, incredibly, was not due to any particular event, but more of a mutual feeling of "Ummmm yeeeah ... I think we're done." Somehow the magic that was nearly three years of passion, adultery and periodic bouts of domestic violence was just, well, gone. We both recognized and acknowledged it, and now we are carrying on a successful relationship called Just Good Friends. Who knew? So there's that.

In the wake of my pending divorcee' status (which is going to wait until after I'm out of the Army, because did you know they pay you more when you're married? I'll give you a moment to let the pieces of that statistical puzzle fall into place), I've coped by developing some unattractive habits, such as smoking more, eating less, exercising none, drinking anything alcoholic that I can get my hands on (which, in case The Man is reading this, is ABSOLUTELY NONE AT ALL, haha!) and forming unhealthy opinions on the world in general. Now let's just throw in a dash of homesickness and a pinch of hair-melting weather, and there you have it -- a recipe for Suck-Asserole. It's the perfect contribution to any Pity Party, and might I also suggest some cheese to go with that vintage whine?

[Having carried the analogy far enough, she pauses to consider the fact that there are many people far worse off than she is -- most of whom don't have access to an online journal in which to complain -- and so calms the hell down.]

One major bright spot in this life o' mine is the fairly regular arrival of lovely packages and cards in the mail from people like you and you and you and all the rest of you whom I may have mentioned in previous posts as being undeniably AWESOME. You all have brought sunshine into my world, and it's not the vicious kind of sunshine that we have here in Isuq, but the warm and happy sunshine that you always see drawn on the walls of your local preschool. Thank you for that, from the bottom of my Grinchy heart.

Another good distraction came recently in the form of me getting to kind of be a reporter. I ventured out with a civil affairs team to one of the patrol bases here -- a place where infantrymen go to acquire their trademark scent of Outdoor Latrine In The Summer for Men. They're doing a fantastic job out there helping the locals to not completely lose their minds, so I thought I'd give them a bit of well-earned positive attention and maybe even their picture in the paper. As soon as I've uploaded the photos, I'll be able to show you exactly how these guys (and one girl, a medic) have been living for the past few weeks. I was only there for a day, but I returned with my body fully coated with dust and sweat, so I can only imagine that when they fall asleep under nothing but a camouflage net and the stars in triple-digit temperatures, they dream of a giant bathtub filled with ice water, beer and high-speed wireless. It made me that much more grateful for my comfy, air-conditioned, floor-having tent, that's for sure. Not to mention, a bed -- as opposed to a cheap and only mildly bearable cot. Which is why I really ought to bitch and moan just a little bit less.

Additional good news: rather than shortening our mid-tour leave, as I'd thought might have been the case, the Powers That Be have actually lengthened it by three days. I am slightly placated for the moment, as I now get to look forward to 18 days in America, starting somewhere around the first of October. Wooo!

Soooo, now I believe I have proven my Not-Dead-ness, and also gotten a few things off of my chest. Now it is time for me to go to sleep, lulled into a peaceful slumber by the knowledge that those Blackhawks flying overhead all damn night are just doing their job. As, apparently, am I.

Peace,

Ben Murphy

- My new alarm clock

I've been oversleeping quite a bit lately, ever since my shift was changed to noon-to-midnight, and last time, I was forced to pay for it in a cruel and unusual way: not only was my scheduled day off taken from me, but I was given the task of coming in to work three hours early to take pictures of a group of visiting New Orleans cheerleaders. You can probably see me shuddering from there. I really have nothing against cheerleaders in general, but in this case I can sincerely say that I had never felt manlier than I did that day. It went something like, "Hi, you must be Boobs and Butt! Nice to meet you, I'm Squarish Camouflaged Blob With Bad Hair."

Needless to say, they boosted the morale of the (heterosexual male) (and not-asking-nor-telling lesbian) troops, but at what cost? Exactly three hours of my life and several ounces of self-esteem, since you asked. Although I did get inexplicable joy from the knowledge that my derriere was not, for once, the one being eye-molested by dozens of involuntarily celibate soldiers.

Anyway, that incident prompted me to forego sending the Sonic Bomb clock to my brother (as previously planned) and instead use it to deter any future loss of my precious down time.

In spite of the fact that the electric outlets here function in a way whic causes the clock to not always tell the right time (accuracy is for LOSERS, the Sonic Bomb says), it is for sure the Chuck Norris of alarm clocks. Not only do I wake up when its nuclear siren of a buzzer goes off, but I also get to hear everyone in my tent bellow obscenities toward my hand, which is usually lunging for the snooze button at breakneck speed. I'm pretty sure that I'm in love with this clock, is what I'm saying.

- The Best Present Ever

My dearest darling genius of a best friend took a random trip to Bolivia a couple of months ago, during which she purchased a good luck charm for me. It is a dead llama fetus.

Why, hello PETA! It's so nice of you to drop by with your angry letters. Would you like a nice bowl of bald eagle soup?

Anyway, well-meaning friend mailed me said ex-llama in a box, wrapped in newspaper. Consider the fact that the package took nearly two entire months to finally arrive after she'd sent it off, as well as the added Absent Package Insulation and possible Not Quite Legal Status of the Whole Damn Thing, and you have the most wonderful, creative, thoughtful, nose-shriveling present ever given to anyone in the history of Ever.

Ewwww.

And a close-up:

- My Return To The World Of Editorials

Some of you may remember that back in early November, I was expressly forbidden by Head Boss to write any more of my infamous (in certain circles, anyway) commentaries for our division newspaper. That made me sad, because I am infinitely better at talking shit on paper than I am at expressing myself verbally. (Seriously -- my most witty retorts generally run along the lines of "Oh yeah? Well ... that's what YOUR MOM said." God, I slay me.)

Now here we are, more than eight months later, and I am being hounded to do some writing for the publications our office is producing -- a daily newsletter (all me, baby) and a bi-weekly twelve-page paper. Since I have very little interest in covering the goings-on at the headquarters building (highlights include People Sitting At Desks! Plus, People Sitting At Desks While Pretending To Work! Fascinating.), I suggested to my sergeants that I could try to ease myself back into writing opinion pieces. After all, Head Boss is quite preoccupied with being yelled at by the general all the time and probably won't even notice, was my reasoning. So I was given a shot at it.

And, hey, wouldn't you know? I was right. I penned a thousand-word rant about the bullshit that goes on when you make people live in tents for too long (without even using the word "fratricide" once. I am so proud of me) (although, I did use the phrase "beating you with a bat." Hell, you can't win 'em all) and it successfully went to print. Head Boss didn't say a word about it, and I am taking that to mean that I am now un-banned.

- The Reenlistment Debacle

A couple months before we deployed, you may recall that I had planned to reenlist for a duty assignment in Virginia, thus effectively getting myself moved far away from the division I'm currently in. At that time, I was told that I would not be allowed to reenlist because I was deemed "unretainable." Luckily for the Army, though, "unretainable" does not mean "nondeployable," so during the mad rush to get everybody over here and miserable as quickly as possible, I was stop-lossed and swept up into the folds of idiocy along with everyone else.

All of this wouldn't have bothered me as much if it hadn't just so happened that the second my boots touched Iraqi soil, my "unretainability" was virtually forgotten. In fact, within a couple weeks, the same individuals who had gone out of their way to keep me from reenlisting were asking me on a constant basis when I planned to do just that.

The reason this item is on my "Things That Make Me Happy" list instead of my "Things That Make Me Want To Write Angry Letters To My Congressperson" list is that now, when certain high-ranking officers ask me when I plan to reenlist, I can say, "Sir, I don't plan to reenlist." When they ask me why (because they always ask why), I can look them in the eye with confidence and reply:

"Well, sir, I was told a mere several months ago that I was not allowed to reenlist, and I find it ironic that now that I'm deployed, I'm magically worth hanging on to -- so ironic, in fact, that I would rather be homeless and destitute than remain in an organization that would resort to such sleazy tactics."

And seeing the look on their faces is always the happiest part of my day.

This brings me to ...

Things That Make Me Want To Write Angry Letters To My Congressperson

- My M16

Okay, The Army -- in addition to issuing me an M16 in the first place (instead of an M4, which is smaller and easier for a short person like me to carry around), you have also given me one which I have never zeroed or even fired. It's a good thing I rarely leave my camp, because if I ever did need to shoot anyone, I'd probably have some serious accuracy issues that have nothing to do with my nearly-legally-blind eyesight or my already-poor marksmanship.

- Did I Mention We're Still Living In Tents?

Our division was originally supposed to deploy to an area further north than this one -- an area that was already established and waiting for us. When the bright idea for a "surge" came bursting forth from Mr. Bush, we were told there had been a change of plans: instead of going north in July, we'd go south in March. Easy-peasy, right?

The area we arrived in, although technically capable of supporting life, was not completely ready for us. We were told we'd be living in fifteen- to thirty-person tents "at least through May." This gave us the tiny hope that we'd be living in trailers by June.

Oh, look, tomorrow's July! And the only people living in trailers are the highest-ranking officers! Good, good. That's perfect.

- Mid-Tour Leave

Each soldier is authorized two weeks of R&R leave at some point during the deployment. Last time, we were given an official fifteen days, plus travel time, which usually ended up to be about twenty days total.

I received an e-mail the other day from one of my supervisors, announcing the dates each of us would be given to take leave. The dates do not seem to include travel time, and the total time is a day shorter than it was in 2005. Seeing as how we're staying here an extra three damn months, you'd think they'd at least refrain from giving us one less day of leave.

Hopefully I'm mistaken about this, and the temptation to use those fourteen days of leave to pack my bags and head for the northern border will not have to be so strong. Oh PLEASE let me be mistaken about this. Oh dear GOD, let me be mistaken.

O, Canada ...

Peace,

Ben Murphy

This week contained the day that my original five-year contract in the Army was (read: was supposed to be) officially complete.

Would you like to help me celebrate? Great! Because I have a plan, and although I'm not technically allowed to talk about it publicly, it rhymes with "schmimpeachment." And it may or may not involve a certain commander-in-chief who allows stop-loss to be legal.

Five years. It seemed like absolutely forever when I first signed up, especially because I had never voluntarily committed to anything more involved than, I don't know, putting on clothes, for five straight years. I'm sure I would have thrown in the towel way back in basic training, had my parents not, on my way out the door, given me a big hug and a reminder that if I failed to graduate, I'd have to find someplace else to live. After all, the Army wasn't exactly the right place for someone like me -- the girl who couldn't even stay in one high school for more two complete semesters (unless it was a locked-down boarding school, and even then I left before graduation, due to being in a frame of mind I refer to as my "Screw that" phase).

I don't remember if I've ever expounded on the circumstances that led to my enlistment, but it went something like this:

Me: "La la la! Look at me, barely affording community college! I'm going to be a famous homeless journalist someday!"

Army Recruiter [phoning me randomly]: "Hello, Person Who Could Help Me Fill My Quota! I can get you a journalist job in the Army, if you want."

Me: "Oh really?"

Army Recruiter: "Certainly! And it pays MONEY."

Me: "Sounds great, I'll take it!"

Army Recruiter: "Really? I mean, fantastic! You do realize this means you have to, um, join the Army ... right?"

Me: "Sure, what the hell!"

Army Recruiter: "Okay! By the way, do you have any medical issues?"

Me: "Hmmm ... I have slight asthma."

Army Recruiter: "Oh, ah, that could be a problem."

Me: "Oh, really? Eh, well, whatever."

Army Recruiter: "Wait! Let me ask you again -- do you have any medical issues?"

Me: "Nope!"

Army Recruiter: "Perfect! Let's set up a meeting."

And there you have it. See how I carefully thought that decision through after fully researching it and considering every possible alternative? Ha ha HA! Six months, five pounds and one official waiver for extremely, horribly, practically-legally-blind eyesight later, I was in, and I can't even blame it on being drunk.

Happy anniversary to me: five years down, one more to involuntarily go!

Although I do (and just did) spend the majority of my time bitching and moaning about how the Army done me wrong, I do have to admit that it has some perks, even during an excessively-long deployment to a dust-coated country in support of a war against people who have been killing each other without our help for thousands of years.

For instance! I get to meet famous people, like Toby Keith and Al Franken -- sometimes twice, seeing as how Toby came back a couple weeks ago and I kind of, uh, neglected to mention it, due to my being a bad journal-updater -- and go to places like the "Baghdad Hilton," which some of you may remember from the last time, which I wrote about back in September 2005, but am too tired to search for and link.

Oh, by the way, I went there again. Wanna see? Okay!

This was how I spent the majority of my time. Looks taxing, doesn't it?

We were dancing to "Baby Got Back." Especially, it appears, "Back" with VPL. Hello, the cover of Vogue!

I climbed up these (yes, in order to jump off the 35-foot high dive -- this is because my brain was temporarily taken over by some form of extremely mentally-stunted being, and not at all due to the fact that I never learn from my mistakes), and as I neared the top, my entire body began to shake with fear or adrenaline, neither of which kept me from screaming like a a set of bald tires on a Ford Windstar as I dropped to my near-doom.

The main building of the Baghdad Hilton. It used to be Saddam's presidential hotel, but now is used for soldiers, because we don't commit genocide.

A fellow soldier, gripped with apprehension -- probably because he is about to do something mildly death-defying ...

... like a back flip. Which already appears to be turning out Not So Great for him.

Back in 2005, when I dared my Midnight Plunge Of Idiocy from the high dive, this pool was not lit up at night -- which was a large part of the reason why that little stunt was way graceful, in the same way that Britney Spears is "way classy."

Oh, how I long for a decent telephoto lens -- and perhaps a tripod, seeing as how my hands are about as steady as a seesaw on crack.

The on-site chaplain challenged six of us to play a game of volleyball against him. We laughes, thinking that surely six reasonably-athletic soldiers could manage to beat a doughy, middle-aged chaplain. I won't tell you what the final score was, except that it was embarrassing.
Okay, it was really embarrassing. As in, had the group of us been any less than emotionally stable, a suicide pact would have been in order. I'm not saying that the score was 15 to 3 or anything ... but the score was 15 to 3. And at the end, when he was trying to let us win? It was still 15 to 3. And I could have sworn I heard him humming "With God On Our Side."

This is how the chaplain looked every time he served. Apparently God will only be on your side if you know how to make a face like a golden retriever.

There was a pool table, but since I am almost as good at pool as I am at volleyball, I decided that taking pictures of the table would have to suffice. When I did cave in and play, I was forced to used my Pool Skank Strategy in order to keep from losing too badly. (In case you've never heard of the Pool Skank Strategy, it involves a) being a girl, b) playing against a heterosexual male and c) possessing at least a minimal amount of cleavage. You do the math.)

Some people look up and wave at Coast Guard helicopters while on vacation at the beach -- we look up and wave at Apaches while laying beside the pool. What?

Here's one of the decorative doorways in the main building. I am thinking of going back and stealing this for my dream house.

Same with this chandelier -- it's already mine, in my imagination.

There was a bidet in the bathrooms, in case your behind was in need of a good geysering. (Mine, it turns out, was not.)

This guy created a kilt from the material of one of his uniforms, and that is not something I would ever be capable of lying to you about. During the Big Splash Contest, he chose to go for Style points by jumping off the high dive wearing it ... and nothing else. And we, on the ground below, were surprised, to the tune of "Is that ... oh holy CRAP lookawaylookawaylookaway!" And through our burning retinas, we awarded him a perfect score, in hopes that he would never, ever try to outdo himself.

So, that was my return trip to the Baghdad Hilton, which is not its real name. It was odd, at first, not being there with the same friends as last time, but I managed to make some new acquaintances. Here is how I did it:

"Hello, People! Be my friend! Or not, whatever!"

This worked, possibly because there was a bikini involved, and I was undeniably in the minority, gender-wise. (Seriously -- did I ever say I had any shame? No, I did not. Shut up, Feminism -- boredom overrules you.)

It was also a bit of an adjustment being there without any COMPLETELY NON-ALCOHOLIC beverages, but I guess the corruption was exposed sometime between now and then, so it was a NON-HANGOVER-free four days. And of course, you can see the rest of the photos here, if you so desire. And I know you DO desire, because you have nothing better to do. How do I know this? Well, this entry is approximately seven patrillion words long, and you have read this far already. Just bite the bullet and click on the link, why don't you? And while you're at it, let me know how that MySpace-surfing is going for you, eh?

I have to give mad propz to my peepz right here(z), because the care packages have been abundant and useful and mildly disturbing in ways that I could never have known to ask for. My energy is draining fast, or else I would go through and give each of you a ghetto-style shout-out ("Werd! Thankz fo' the giftuses, HOMIES"). At the moment, I would just like to show you that not only am I enjoying your presents, but so is everyone who walks past my desk. Anything you don't see on the desk has either not been received yet or was too "unprofessional"-looking, according to the bosses, to be put on display. To which I have always said, "FINE, but my pink Jesus STAYS, or he will bring vengeance upon thee, assface."

Check it out:

Ze cube -- note the Saint Bob of Dylan painting in the corner from my lovely friend Barb, and the various postcards on the wall. I plan to put every postcard I get on the wall, so if you see an interesting one and feel like mailing it to me, I am totally more into that than in trying to get people to spend real money on me. (That's right, I said it -- stamps don't count as money. But if you steal my forty-one cents, I will still beat you with a brick.)

My desk -- feast your eyes.

Fairly self-explanatory, unless you were born after 1997 and, as an Uneducated American Youth, have no idea what is this "book" of which I speak. (Speaking of which, congratulations, America! We're the That Guy of the world.)

I killed this fly with my HAND, and am exceedingly proud of that, as this was a kamikaze fly, and I hunted it down like Chuck Norris.

I went up to the International Zone Sunday with Deputy Boss, and since no photos were allowed in the embassy, I used up my camera's memory card in the bird on the way back to try to make up for it. Because they look so much alike, you know, the embassy and the city.

Our division's commanding general held a media event in the IZ that day, which is why were there (well, that and to do absolutely nothing). Notice how skeptical everyone looks as he speaks. Hunh.

"Nice to meet you again, Toby! Thanks for taking me to the prom; we'll remember this picture forEVER."

Sleep is beginning to overtake me, and the coherency of the rest of this, if even possible, is doubtful. Go you make for good day now.

Peace,

Ben Murphy

Currently Listening Say I Am You By The Weepies, The Weepies Gotta Have You see related