Dear Family and Friends:

I've been a Marine for 1,620 days, 17 hours, and 36 minutes. I hope I remember what it was like for the first 1,095 days the rest of my life (before I made Corporal).

...

Today the Marines are being taken up to "the rock," a section of the base where there's a barber shop, post exchange, etc. They're all crammed in the bus that's waiting on the gravel road. I've just gotten done talking with the Sergeant I so politely tussled with last night. We exchange civil but meaningless discourse. I head towards the bus, needing a haircut myself.

I've been damp all day-- the rain here is nothing less than Champion grade these days. Even when I'm not out wallowing in it, it's hard to stay dry. If anyone had asked me at that moment whether I cared if I accidentally tripped and fell headlong into the mud, I might have shrugged indifferently. As it turns out (keep reading :) it was a good mood to be in.

Ever see Napoleon Dynamite? It's a movie you need to see. If you ever felt awkward and misunderstood ever, watch it. It's like seeing your most embarrassing moment over and over again. It hurts so good.

First, I Ieave the office and step into a puddle, foolishly thinking it's only a few inches deep. Turns out it's a small trench the Sea Bees had been digging and my left boot disappears in a gush of dirty water and mud.

"Tight," I whisper to myself.

Ahead of me are the HESCO barriers. HESCO is a Texan company that produces a very ingenious form of barrier for the military. It's comprised of a cube-shaped wire frame with a synthetic fiber lining. Fill it with sand and it becomes an oversized sand bag. If any of you could take a tour of bases over here you'd see these things lined up by the thousands in varying sizes. It's a very effective way to limit the explosive "kill" radius of indirect enemy fire.

There's an opening between the H. barriers just between me and the bus. In a moment of inspired leadership-- yes, i did actually decide this was a good idea in a split second-- I decide to run headlong at the barrier, smack into it, and in so doing reap a chuckle or two from the Lance Corporals on the bus. They're sitting there in the damp and stinky bus interior making their best Sardine impression. They need a laugh.

I'm running, my boots are slogging through the mud, and I hit the barrier at just the right angle to glance off it-- it's just this silly rifle I carry is a factor I hadn't allowed for. The carrying handle snags the barrier, the barrel and front sight assembly snap into the inside of my left knee ---oooouuch...--- and there I am.

Making out with the mud.

"ooohhhh..." I whine audibly. "DANGIT!!! I JUST CLEANED MY RIFLE YESTERDAY!!!"

I stand up. Peals of laughter are erupting from the bus. My rifle is stuccoed with mud, as am I.

I board the bus, standing there in front of two dozen smiling faces. I try to look like a cat that just fell out of a tree and pretends no one saw it happen. I yell in my best Drill Instructor voice

"I am an NCO-- Non-Commissioned Officer of Marines and I WILL NOT BE LAUGHED AT!!!"

They wail, they squeal, they writhe in their chairs. I see teeth and smiles from ear to ear. I grab the rank on my collar for emphasis and gesture like a true nincompoop. Their mirth is unquenchable.

"I didn't see it..." Chelsea complains. "Oh God I wish I'd seen it! How did it happen?!?!"

In the midst of the explanation provided by red-faced witnesses, I slam my rifle/stucco combo down on the floor.

"Reallllly?" I ask.

I walk off the bus. I walk back through the barriers, get a good ten yards away, about face in the mud and face the tinted windows of the bus.

"All you Nasties watching? I wouldn't want anyone to miss it! We good?"

A muffled chorus "yesssss" comes from the bus. I can see indistinct profiles from inside the tinted windows.

I run. I smack the barrier. I throw myself a bit further, end up rolling through the mud into a larger puddle. I jump up and board the bus, repeating my earlier tirade to the letter. The Navy bus driver is mortified. I drip wet sand unrepentantly.

Cackle, cackle, cackle :]

...

Later, at my new favorite watering hole (the Green Bean) an Air Force officer is sitting at the two tiny circular tables with a bunch of civilian contractors. I don't hear a single word they're saying. I'm too busy laughing with my buddies. Getting out of the bus, I smacked my head on the door frame. This was unintentional, just like the first fall, and we're having our fun.

"Excuse me, Marine," the officer interjects. "What's the red patch on your uniform for?"

"It signifies my Military Occupational Specialty designation as that of an In-Flight Missile Repair Technician, Sir."

This is total B.S. and I'm a bit confused in that instant as he doesn't even seem to have heard the preposterous words that just escaped my lips.

"Also, sir," I continue, "It's awarded to Marines who are qualified as Door Gunners on the Space Shuttle."

But he's trying to interrupt me and I don't catch what he's saying before I finish the last bogus explanation.

"Excuse me, sir?" I ask.

"Try again, Marine."

He hasn't smiled yet. What a dork.

"Actually, sir, it signifies us as the HIV-Positive platoon. It tells all the desert-hotties to stay away."

"Try again, Marine."

This guy isn't smiling. He's like a boring broken record. I'm holding my second mocha for the day-- my arm was twisted by my buddies and the Hadji behind the counter-- which signifies shots 4-6 for the day. I figuratively regard the first few ounces of chocolatey-beany goodness as "the party," the last few ounces as "Full Self-Destruction." I'm not in a place where I can respond to his perturbed inquiry.

"It signifies me as a Landing Support Specialist, Sir."

"Thank you, Marine," the officer says. I look at the civilians. They're smiling, even though he isn't, and I'm struck for a moment, in awe actually, of how large and dentally unsound their teeth seem.

"Sure, sir. You'd believe the most boring explanation."

I leave, instinctively watching the eave of the door as my head still hurts from my encounter with the bus. It's about six inches above my head and I'm not in danger. I'm giggling so furiously at my own expense that I almost trip on the stairs.

I hear the officer mutter an exasperated "ugh... MARINES..." as I leave.

Boo-hoo, Air Farce.

...

:D

Oh. I almost forgot. I'm in Kuwait now. I let that out in one of the last emails. It's like Iraq, except it doesn't smell bad, it rains, there's more coffee/internet/foofy things to do, and well, that's it. There's still a big flight line to run here. Oh, and there's no mortars or rockets falling in my general vicinity anymore. The phone system sucks, but I suppose trading good connections for less immanent danger is okay, right?

:]