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A Normal day in The Pod Life
July 23, 2020
A Day in The Pod Life
The pod life:
Living in a CHU inside a pod must be different for men than it is for women. At least I am assuming as much. Men are simpler creatures by nature and generally speaking require less to keep them happy.
Women who chose to work in Iraq (and stay longer than one rotation or year at best) must be of hearty stock, able to fend for themselves (mostly) and be inventive/ingenious. In order to be successful here you must improvise, adapt, and overcome. You must be able to ask for help from others when needed (that’s the hard part for me). I’ve gotten better at it only because I have had no choice when unable to resolve an issue on my own. Lastly, it is extremely important to be able to laugh at yourself; because the craziest things can happen.
It was imperative for me, due to my previous experiences in Afghanistan, to have certain “creature comforts” in order to sustain working here long term. Not long after I signed my offer letter, I packed up a Keurig machine and mailed it to Iraq. I then bought a big suitcase and proceeded to fill it with other “necessities” like a hair dryer and my favorite shampoo. I am old enough and wise enough to know the things I need to make myself comfortable. I don’t “have” to dry my hair every day, but I prefer to style/dry it, lest it do its own crazy thing, which isn’t pretty.
It took well into my second 90 day rotation to really get settled and get my room set up to my liking (thank God for Amazon), but once I did, life was grand (as grand as it can be in the Middle Eastern desert). I fell into a daily routine, which included drying my hair every morning after showering. Herein is one of the differences between men and women (generally speaking). We women need to do things that make us feel good, or at least better than not doing them. Drying your hair, putting on earrings; little things that make us feel “normal”, or as normal as we can in the sandbox.
One morning not long ago I had what I call a “Murphy’s Law” moment. There I was, drying my hair, maybe a little too enthusiastically, when I accidently knocked something off the shelf next to the sink. I instinctually bent over to pick it up, never taking into account that the hair dryer was still in my right hand, and still on. As I bent down my hair fell forward and was instantly sucked into the intake at the back of the hair dryer. Yikes!
I immediately shut the dryer off and attempted (not very successfully) to gently pull as much hair as I could back out of the intake fan without pulling it all out of my head. After a few minutes I became so frustrated I just grabbed it where it went into the intake and yanked on it until it broke off. Ok, so now what? Well most of my hair is still wet, and I still need to dry it. I can see a small hairball that was left behind inside the dryer…well that should just burn up or blow out, right?
In a moment I will come to regret, I turned the hair dryer back on. SPARK AND POOF! The entire room goes dark. Shit. I open the door to look around and see if I just blew the entire pod, or just my room/CHU. Ok, just my CHU. Good. Climb up on the bed and flip the breaker back on. Wait – unplug the hair dryer first. OMG. Can’t make this shit up. When I have “Blond” moments they come in groups and perpetuate themselves. I flipped the breaker and was able to restore power to our CHU (for which my CHU mate was thankful). Alas, the hair dryer would not work, and after handing it off to several “tinkerers” it was discovered to be damaged beyond repair. We unceremoniously laid it to rest in the dumpster outside the pod, to be replaced by a new one in short order.
Just another day in “The Pod Life”, lol!
M.B.
M.B.
The Pod Life
Picnic table talk. It’s like pillow talk, only different! I’m getting ahead of myself, so let me start at the beginning. We have what we refer to as the “cigar circle” or the “smoke pit”. There’s a cut down metal drum that is used as a fire pit and usually broken up pallets or scavenged scrap wood is used as the fuel. In the winter we have bon fires, and the cigar smokers (and anyone else that wants to socialize) bring their camping chairs and form a circle around the fire. This is all well and good, but in the summer time, the temperature gets over 115 degrees Fahrenheit, and no one wants to sit around a fire at night. That’s when the smoking circle moves over to the picnic table. It’s only large enough for four or five folks to sit comfortable, so first come first serve, and the rest of you mooks bring your camping chairs and gather around. The conversations are as diverse and eclectic as the people involved in them. They range from cars and campers to stocks and investments (we all want to get rich and get out of here) to the latest stomach virus going around and bowel movements. You just never know, and there’s no guarantee that even though a conversation starts as one topic, it won’t veer off down some random dirt road, over a berm and down a slope, traveling somewhere completely different. That’s the fun of it. Six degree of separation in Iraq, lol! For instance, not too long ago I came out to smoke a cigarette and complain to Mr. IT that it took me 45 minutes to download the pictures that I want to send to my tattoo guy. Mr. OPS made a snide remark and I told him to shut up, what did he know, he didn’t have any tattoos, to which Mr. IT quipped, “He has tattoos – haven’t you ever seen him out here with a wife beater on?” Mr. OPS was immediately offended and said it’s not a wife beater, it’s an “A” shirt. No, it’s a wife beater. And so the argument ensued until suddenly all eyes were on Mr. Mech who was minding his own business, quietly sitting at the end of the picnic table smoking a cigarette….wearing a wife beater and shorts. He looked up and realized everyone was staring at him, and a puzzled look came across his face. In his Southern drawl he said, “What?!?” to which we all burst out laughing. You see, there's very little entertainment in Baghdad, so you have to get it when you can, and sometimes just make it up yourself. Picnic table talk. It’s like pillow talk, only different!
I am a tree hugger, otherwise known as an environmentally conscientious person. I openly admit it. I am proud of it. I live to reduce my carbon footprint and the amount of waste I send to the local landfill. One of my most difficult endeavors has been training my husband and two sons (and their friends) to recycle. Do NOT contribute to the landfills, or God forbid the pile of garbage circling in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. Recycle bottles, cans, paper, plastic; anything you can. I have reusable grocery bags that are made out of hemp. I do everything I can to reduce the amount of household garbage that we put out on the curb every week. Now that’s all well and good when I’m home, but recycling in Baghdad is a bit more challenging. There are no separate bins for cans or bottles, paper or plastic. The DFAC (dining facility - aka chow hall) plates and bowls are cardboard and the forks, spoons, and knives are plastic. They used to have the option of real plates and metal silverware, but alas, staff reductions have made dish washing a luxury we can no long afford. What’s a girl to do? The answer is that I do what I can with the limited facilities available. One thing we do have in the office common room is a recycle bin for batteries. I use my fair share of batteries, with a few portable lamps and lanterns in my room (the power grid is notoriously unreliable), not to mention remote controls for my TV and A/C. One morning, as was I in my room getting ready for work, I spotted 3 AA batteries that I had set on the edge of my desk for recycling. I grabbed them off the desk, threw them into my pants pocket, and continued getting ready for work. I was almost ready to leave when I sat down at my desk for a minute to glance at my email and get an idea of what the day had in store for me. Suddenly I head a loud “POP” and felt like someone had just shot me in the thigh with a pellet gun. I jumped up out of my chair and instantly dropped my pants to inspect my leg. There was a red circle about 1/4 inch in diameter, but no broken skin. Once the initial shock and subsequent inspection were over, I looked around my room befuddled. What in the heck had just happened?!? It took a few more minutes of complete and utter confusion before I stuck my right hand into my pocket and felt something bizarre and unidentifiable. I scooped out the contents of my pocket and dumped them out onto the desk. One of the batteries had actually exploded!! WTF!! One end had popped off and the insides were hanging out like a disemboweled animal. When I got into the office and started telling my tale to my co-workers, one of them (to whom this had happened before) asked me if I had placed any metal objects (like keys) into my pocket along with the batteries. I started to say no, my keys are always on my lanyard and my lighter in a cargo pocket, when I mindlessly stuck my hand in my pocket and felt my knife. My trusty knife, that I never leave my room without, is always clipped onto the edge of my pocket. Son of a gun. My coworker explained that if something metal touches a negative end and a positive end, the result is what I had in the ziplock bag that I was holding out away from me like it contained dog poop. Lesson learned. No more batteries in my pocket.
Working and living in an austere environment overseas, especially in a “combat zone” can be overwhelming your first time. When you first arrive in country, before you are even remotely settled, you get a barrage of information while you are still jet-lagged, overwhelmed, and half-asleep. You will be told about incoming IEDs, alarms, and accountability. You are told about the different alarms such as “Incoming” and “Duck and Cover”. You will not truly understand it until you actually experience it. Everyone thinks they will react a certain way (or at least hope so), given extreme circumstances. Until we actually experience those circumstances, we can’t really know for sure. Having been in Afghanistan during 2011 and 2012, I experienced almost daily rocket attacks and went through the process. Eventually I became accustomed to it. That made the transition to working in Iraq 10 years later a piece of cake. My ex-CHU mate, Evelyn was the same way. Being a helicopter pilot who had served in the Army and then contracted in the Middle East for many years, she had gotten used to it as well. I was sad to see her go, but ultimately we will all find that time where we need to move on from this crazy world we live and work in. The CHU next me was empty for a few months before Mo (Monique) came on board. I welcomed the addition; as weird as it may sound, although having the bathroom to yourself is wonderful, there’s comfort in knowing someone is there next door, even if you don’t talk every day. Mo arrived with much fanfare as the newest addition to HR. I could tell right away that although she had a much different demeanor than Evelyn that we would get along. I instantly fell in love with her eternally positive attitude and constant smile. She is quite the bubbly one! One thing about living overseas is that sleep can be allusive. For me, it comes and goes in cycles. When Mo arrived, I was far enough into my rotation to sleep pretty hard once my head hit the pillow. The next night after her arrival, we had incoming. I refer back to where I was in my sleep cycle, when I tell you, I did not hear the alarms. I drifted out of sleep, into reality to the sound of someone knocking (tapping really) on the door and squeaking my name: “Mary” tap-tap-tap “Mary” tap-tap-tap Then my mind registered the alarms going off as well. As I cracked open my eyes, I saw Mo’s head peaking around the partially open bathroom door. I sat up a little, and motioned for her to come in (I wasn’t up to words just yet). She opened the door more, and started across the room to my bed in what I can only describe as a duck walk of sorts. She scrunched down as close to the floor as she could while still walking. She came across the floor in sync to the “Duck and Cover” alarm that was sounding at the time. I had to stifle a laugh. She plopped down on the bed next to me, and asked where we need to go. I instinctively put my arm around her and she rested her head on my shoulder. I told her we are under hard cover and don’t need to go anywhere. She said, “Ok, just don’t leave me”. LOL! I am sitting in bed half naked – I’m not going anywhere! After a bit of consoling, she calmed down. The adrenaline had worn off and I was dying to get back to sleep. I shooed her back to her room, and laid my head back down on the pillow. The next morning she was telling the story to co-workers. She said she ran to me like a child to its mother. Yeah, that’s about right!
Safety Stand down comes twice a year, Don’t everybody at once stand up and cheer. We learn about safety at each station, It’s almost as painful as a male castration. To put out those flames that are absent of fire, Make sure that the extinguisher does not expire. Time to rotate to learn CPR, But watching the guy dance leaves a huge mental scar. Three hours in to the Safety Stand down day, It comes to an end with everyone yelling hooray.
Here I sit with the 61’s in Kuwait, Where they end up, is a huge debate. While the head shed screams, just wait and see, I wouldn’t be here if I had spent time on a knee. I drive two hours to go to work, Just to deal with security, he’s such a jerk. Things will be better with AVI Doug, When he gets here, I'll give him a big Kuwaiti hug. Me being here, I’ve avoided the rif. Which is one more, great Kuwaiti gift.
I'm here on a bus in route to the plane. This R&R nearly drove me insane. 8 hours I will seat all in one spot. Cramped in economy, when business I should've bought. Chicken or beef the stewardess will ask. Double whiskey straight, and the food I will pass.
All day and all night on the Huey's we slave. Waiting for the extremists’ flashy first wave. I should be more worried, about those called ISIS Than the PX's horrible, no coffee crisis. Management says, don't be concerned. But another fives towns, ISIS has burned. Here is a chem mask, to keep in your office. Just in case, you start filling nauseous. So we are all left, sitting in the dark. Just cause they don't, want us all to depart.
Did someone say “FIRE”?!? It was just another day in the pod life. Work, eat, sleep. Repeat. I was in the “work” cycle, and after an hour and a half in the office and three cups of coffee, it was time to go to the ladies room, aka W.C. (water closet). Why is it called a water closet? Because everything in the Middle East has a weird, different name than what we are accustomed to in the good ol’ US of A. As I exit my office and walk down the hallway, it is impossible for me not to glance into the offices that have open doors. Maybe some people can put blinders on and walk down the hall with their head down, but not me. I know where I am, and I am always (mostly) situationally aware. PLUS, I am a woman, and a nosey one at that. I was almost to the ladies room when I walked past, and glanced into, the office of one of our State Department advisors. I continued on, taking one more step, when suddenly what I had seen registered in my brain and stopped me dead in my tracks. Was I seeing things? In one swift movement I took a giant step backwards and pivoted to the left so that I landed smack dab in the doorway to the office. The scene unfolding before me confirmed that I was not in fact hallucinating. I stood there aghast for a moment with my mouth wide open as I stared at the State Department advisor holding his fancy coffee maker which was engulfed in flames. The moment of shock quickly passed, and I promptly switched gears. I turned around, sprang across the hall, grabbed the fire extinguisher off the opposite wall, and then leapt back across the hall and into the office. As I reached to pull the pin (you know, pull, squeeze, sweep), I realized there wasn’t one. What kind of effing newfangled sh*t was this? I spent the next few seconds surveying the extinguisher in an attempt to figure the dang thing out, and then looked up to see the advisor still holding the coffee pot, only now the plastic parts of it had melted and were dripping down in gooey streams from the bottom of the pot. Presto, the carpet was on fire too! Sh*t. The situation was escalating quickly. I promptly put down the fire extinguisher, picked up a bottle of water, and poured it onto the carpet and coffee maker (the advisor had finally put it down on the floor and had thankfully unplugged it from the wall outlet). As the flames gave in to defeat and were snuffed out, pungent smoke rose up from the ashen remains and set off the fire alarm. Time to go! There are no secrets in the pod life; everyone knows everyone else’s business, and word of my “heroism” quickly spread, eventually making its way to the safety office. I received a ration of sh*t for not knowing how the fire extinguisher worked; and sure enough, the following week our safety brief included a torturously long and drawn out lecture on the proper handling of fire extinguishers. Sorry folks; that was me. M.B.
So, back when we were doing "topple Saddam" things, circa early 2003. At a base that never existed, with an airstrip we took over, there was sand. Lots and lots of sand. Talcum powder bullshit sand. Walking was a dangerous things. Knee deep holes everywhere, but, they were camouflaged by this powder. Looked like the rest of the ground, until you stepped on the wrong spot and found yourself a foot shorter than normal. Pain in the absolute ass. What brought all of this nightmare sand were the daily storms. In South America we had daily deluges. Enough rain would drop that we built little ponds to have boat races in. The boats were water bottles powered by MRE heaters. These were fun storms. In the place that never was we didn't have fun storms. We had lunch time solar blackouts of sand. Looked like a permanent dawn, but with no visibility and breathing was a struggle. These were the early days, back when war was fun and the mission is what mattered, so we didn't have air conditioning or any of the long stay stuff. We would have the sides up on our tents for the airflow and it was a good life. I think it was February, or there abouts, that we noticed an anomaly on the horizon. WTF is that? And it got bigger. We realized fairly quickly that it was a storm front, but not of clouds. We dropped the tent sides and began stitching them up. We were slow on that first day. Didn't get everything buttoned down before the sands hit us. Lesson learned. Imagine standing in front of a fan, behind the fan it a propane blower. Behind the blower is a jackass throwing handfuls of talcum powder at your face. That guy is an asshole, much like the sand storms. Moon dust got into every orifice that existed, on both body and equipment. This continued to happen every day at lunch time for the next couple of months. The mission didn't really stop, so we quickly adapted. It would take about an hour to drive a mile, due to how limited visibility was. I recall one day in the chow hall when I made my SSgt's ass pucker. Due to the daily storms, the chow tent would block off the doors that faced the wind. Yes, plenty of sand still got inside, but at least it wasn't thick. They were kind enough to even put up a sign saying the doors were blocked, just in case a moron walked up and couldn't think his way out of a two sided box. This Lieutenant walks up to the door, stops, reads the sign, then tried going through it anyway. Fuck the rest of us eating our food, right? I watch this all go down. My highly experienced E3 self didn't have much of a filter. I laughed as he face planted into the door, because it was blocked closed. As he turned around to walk the other way in shame, I didn't even use my inside voice. I simply said "dumbass". My SSgt was watching it all go down as well. He had a better filter, but he still clenched when that Lt faltered in his steps at my accusation. But, in good form of knowing when he's beat, the Lt hung his head in humiliation and meandered his way to the unblocked exit. C.T.
REFERENCE: https://www.health.harvard.edu/blog/misophonia-sounds-really-make-crazy-2017042111534 Misophonia: When sounds really do make you “crazy” Posted April 21, 2017, 6:00 am , Updated June 25, 2019, 8:49 am By James Cartreine, PhD, James Cartreine, PhD, Contributing Editor You hear your spouse breathing nearby and you instantly get angry. Your 6-year-old yawns and it triggers a fight-or-flight reaction in you. You avoid restaurants because you can’t stand the sound of chewing. Sounds other people don’t even seem to notice, drive you up a wall. You might have misophonia. What is misophonia? People with misophonia are affected emotionally by common sounds — usually those made by others, and usually ones that other people don’t pay attention to. The examples above (breathing, yawning, or chewing) create a fight-or-flight response that triggers anger and a desire to escape. Misophonia is little studied and we don’t know how common it is. It affects some worse than others and can lead to isolation, as people suffering from this condition try to avoid these trigger sounds. People who have misophonia often feel embarrassed and don’t mention it to healthcare providers — and often healthcare providers haven’t heard of it anyway. Nonetheless, misophonia is a real disorder and one that seriously compromises functioning, socializing, and ultimately mental health. Misophonia usually appears around age 12, and likely affects more people than we realize. What causes misophonia? New research has started to identify causes for misophonia. A British-based research team studied 20 adults with misophonia and 22 without it. They all rated the unpleasantness of different sounds, including common trigger sounds (eating and breathing), universally disturbing sounds (of babies crying and people screaming), and neutral sounds (such as rain). As expected, persons with misophonia rated the trigger sounds of eating and breathing as highly disturbing while those without it did not. Both groups rated the unpleasantness of babies crying and people screaming about the same, as they did the neutral sounds. This confirmed that the misophonic persons were far more affected by specific trigger sounds, but don’t differ much from others regarding other types of sounds. The researchers also noted that persons with misophonia showed much greater physiological signs of stress (increased sweat and heart rate) to the trigger sounds of eating and breathing than those without it. No significant difference was found between the groups for the neutral sounds or the disturbing sounds of a baby crying or people screaming. The brain science of misophonia The team’s important finding was in a part of the brain that plays a role both in anger and in integrating outside inputs (such as sounds) with inputs from organs such as the heart and lungs: the anterior insular cortex (AIC). Using fMRI scans to measure brain activity, the researchers found that the AIC caused much more activity in other parts of the brain during the trigger sounds for those with misophonia than for the control group. Specifically, the parts of the brain responsible for long-term memories, fear, and other emotions were activated. This makes sense, since people with misophonia have strong emotional reactions to common sounds; more importantly, it demonstrates that these parts of the brain are the ones responsible for the experience of misophonia. The researchers also used whole-brain MRI scans to map participants’ brains and found that people with misophonia have higher amounts of myelination. Myelin is a fatty substance that wraps around nerve cells in the brain to provide electrical insulation, like the insulation on a wire. It’s not known if the extra myelin is a cause or an effect of misophonia and its triggering of other brain areas. There is some good news regarding misphonia Misophonia clinics exist throughout the US and elsewhere, and treatments such as auditory distraction (with white noise or headphones) and cognitive behavioral therapy have shown some success in improving functioning. For more information, contact the Misophonia Association.
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