Rainy season is upon us.  Lucky!

When it rains here, it gets right down to business.  Lightning and thunder, then the skies open up and dump rain with the fury of 23 hormonal teenage girls.  I was fortunate enough to make it home from Halloween coffee the other night (I dressed as a civilian; it was that or the Playboy bunny and, well, we all know the status of my tail) just before it really started pouring.  It sounded like we were being sprayed down by a firehose.  I was waiting for the ceiling to start leaking or the rain to start coming in through the windows despite the fact that they were closed.  Funny thing, the next day my friend reported that the rain was coming down the door in the trailer - on the inside.  Miraculously going right back out at the bottom instead of pooling up on the floor. 

At any rate, the next morning is dreadful.  I like rain.  I love downpours.  I loved listening to the rain beating on my trailer, to the thunder rumbling in the sky; I loved how the breeze picked up right before it rained and then you could smell it in the air.  All that niceness was gone come the morning when I stepped out of my trailer and into a puddle of mud.

There is no grass here.  There is dirt.  There isn’t even sand, just dirt.  IF you’re lucky (like me), you’ll live in an area where there is gravel, which we cursed for the first 3½ months living here, until the rain started.  Walking through other living areas where they do not have gravel, I have realized I am very lucky despite the fact that I swear, loudly, every time (still) I walk through them.  But when it rains, at least it provides a buffer from the mud in most places. 

Unfortunately, the gravel isn’t everywhere, but what is everywhere is MUD.  MUD, MUD, AND MORE MUD.  Thick, sticky, muddy mud that sticks to everything and splashes on everything and gets tracked EVERYWHERE.  Not only that, if you walk anywhere, you’re bound to get passed by trucks/humvees/cars/buses who throw mud everywhere and make life that much more miserable. 

So then you walk to wherever it is you’re going and try as you may, there is often no avoiding walking through puddles of thick, sticky, muddy mud. 

The liquified mud is actually not quite as bad as the stuff that’s dried out a bit more, because that stuff cakes on your shoes and no amount of kicking, stomping, or brushing will remove all of the mud, so when you walk into any building you track it in behind you and the rest of your day is spent sweeping it all up.  It is so bad that you can literally spend your day starting at the top of the stairs and working your way down and as soon as you get to the bottom of the stairs, there’s so much more mud that you have to start at the top again and it’s an endless task that makes you wonder: what’s worse, 136° or MUD.

The one great thing about this place is that you never EVER have to do your laundry or iron your own uniform if you don’t want to.  For the low low price of $2.50 a set you can have your uniforms pressed at the pressing shop.  Given that our per diem is $3.50 a day (or something like that) I don’t feel too guilty about spending the $2.50 every 3 days or so.  Also, it’s not like I’ve got anything better to spend money on.  Our food is provided and entertainment is limited so unless I’m online shopping there’s nothing to spend money on. 

That being said…  I’ve never had an issue with getting my own uniforms back until two days ago.  I picked up, what I thought were my uniforms on Sunday night.  Monday morning I got dressed in my usually groggy, slinty-eyed state.  I noticed the waist was a little bigger then usual but I attributed to losing weight (which made me very happy).  At the same time I noticed they were a little longer than usual as well.  Again, I attributed that to lost weight.  I left for work without another thought about it.

As I’m walking to work I can’t help but notice that no matter what I do that pants that I was wearing were just too darn big.  While I was happy about the prospect of new loss I knew there was no way I could have dropped that much since the last time I wore a new clean uniform.  So, I got an idea. 

See, the Naval service is the only service that puts their names on the back pocket of their pants.  I waited until I got to work to check.

OH.

MY.

GOD.

These are not my pants.

Instead of TREPPE on my back pocket it says MERLIN*.  I don’t know anyone named Merlin so why do I have their pants?  So, I looked up the name in the global address list on Outlook.  Merlin is the last name of a Lieutenant Commander (O4) that is the Officer-in-Charge of a command across the lake from me.  

So, I sent him an e-mail.  Lo and behold, he has my pants too.  I forwarded my e-mail to Karyn who in turn sent it to a few select people.  I would have done the same thing because the situation is pretty damn funny.  I was a little taken back, however, when random people came up to me and said they were the “Pants Police” and needed to see my butt.

On a good note.  I’m glad this happened here, in Baghdad, where there are no spouses around.  I can’t imagine how hard it would be trying to explain to your significant other why there is a pair of pants hanging in your closet that don’t belong to you.

(* The name has been made up but the story is real.)