clarification

for those who may think the naming of my fly (madeline) was in some way a less-than-complimentary reflection on the woman who spent 2,481 hours in labor with me (and whose middle name is madeline) i must explain that my choice was quite simple (and nerdy enough to be worthy of Dan and Renee status). 

 Musca Domesticus Linnaeus = housefly.  a small leap to madeline.

 2) Joel, your comment was very close to not being approved for public consumption.  however, at the last minute i realized who my audience was, and that their sensibilities, far from being trampled upon, were no doubt reveling (dare i say even wallowing) in the muck of your word choice.

3) Mom, any further mention of the various, numerous, (and many times distinctly feminine) stuffed animals I used to sleep with will be frowned upon, and may lead to sanctions.  (no, not the UN type – effective ones). 

 

 P.S. anyone offended by my response to a borderline offensive comment has the right to visit me in person and present their concerns.  always the very embodiment of fairness and equity (are those too close to be in the same sentence?) i have an open-door policy.  please just bring something to mop up the water on the floor, and some peanut M&Ms.   

the personal fly

iraq is truly a land of wonders.  as the generally accepted cradle of civilization, the richness of history and awesome power of tradition here never cease to amaze me.  Sumerians, Akkadians, Babylonians, and Turks all were humbled by what they witnessed in the self-proclaimed Fertile Crescent. 

but even in a country which boasts one of the seven wonders of the world, there is a phenomenon that dwarfs all others: that of the personal fly.

  madeline.

 what could i possibly mean by that?  it’s very simple.  i wake up in the morning and swat a fly away from my face.  as i walk to the bus to go to work, i am followed by a fly.  i have a brief respite, usually, on the bus.  upon exiting, the first thing i notice as i step in to the office building is a fly pinging off my forehead. 

lunch is another break, but upon returning to the office, there she is, waiting on my keyboard patiently. 

 as i work through the afternoon, she follows me to meetings, showing commendable singularity of purpose – even with multiple options available she focuses entirely on me. 

and as i prepare to leave for the day, she tracks me to the bus, and is always waiting for me as i walk into my room. 

now, if this happened every few days, i could be led to believe it was coincidence.  however, when you are being repeatedly harassed, on  a daily basis, you have to ask: is that the same #$*@ fly!!??  here i present my evidence that i do, indeed have my own personal fly.  and as proof that i am not crazy, i offer the following testimony from my korean co-worker:

Glen : fry fry velly fast around my head.  never reave me arone.

at first you ask this question sarcastically, because there’s NO WAY the same fly could folow you around all day, right?  the logistical implications and necessary powers of cognizance are at once unbelievable and provocative.  but then you start to notice some disturbing trends…

1) the fly bounces off the same part of your forehead no matter which door you walk in, or what time you come to work. (or how many days it’s been since your last shower…)

2) it feels like the fly is waiting for you when you get home from work – you miss it when it’s not there. 

3) you come to enjoy the little tickle when it lands on your head, and out of respect, you give it a moment of rest before you, almost affectionately, brush it off.

and finally, one day, you name your fly, and, for the 15-60 days it will be alive, you resolve to live and let live.

so i say goodnight to all, madeline and i are going home.

need sleepy

so it would appear that the folks working to make our living accomodations better are nocturnal.  last night, after a long day of sending emails and shredding papers and generally being a whirlwind of office activity, i shuffled home to collapse into my bed. 

 just as i was getting ready to lay my weary head down, the soothing sound of an automatic drill reached my ears.  (although admittedly well-insulated with ear wax (thanks dad)) the noise was still enough to penetrate my consciousness.  after patiently allowing 10 minutes or so for the workers to finish their task, figuring only someone with absolutely no regard for other people would continue drilling for an extended period of time at 10 pm, i had to take action. 

unfortunately, the language being spoken outside on the adjacent trailer platform (that’s right, i live in a double-wide; all of you in condos, eat your hearts out) was not one of the two languages i can partially understand (why doesn’t anybody here speak German, i ask you?) so i had to resort to the universal language of sign, and to writing the longest sentence in the history of this blog. (see previous blather).

after getting their attention, i began to communicate my consternation.  a rough transcript of the exchange follows:

Me: I (pointing to myself) need to sleep (palms together, pressed to side of face, head slightly tilted).  How long (pointing to place where watch was before i took it off BECAUSE I WAS GOING TO SLEEP!) will you be out here (shrugging motion, plus plaintive, puppy-dog look) making this ridiculous racket (no translation).

Them: 10 something (two hands held up with fingers extended). 

i took them at their word, and made the (potentially disastrous) assumption that the ten somethings that remained were more on the order of minutes, and not months.  happily, i was correct, and was soon able to lie awake in peace listening to the helicopters fly 3 feet over my trailer.

 cheers.

three weeks…

So by all rights, this should be the mother of all apologetic posts, given my extreme laxity in not posting for almost two months.  But as I am currently residing in a (nominally, unwillingly) democratic-ish country, I will therefore claim my right to a fair trial for crimes committed.

Prosecution (hereafter referred to as “my mom”, or “MM”): Brendan Bourdage did knowingly leave his blog site to rot while justifying the neglect in his warped mind, telling himself “I’m just too busy” and “sleeping is way more important than keeping in touch with people you care about”.

Defense (hereafter referred to as “the guy who won’t ever hear the end of this, even if he lives to be 150″, or “me”): but i was tired!  and hot! and i had to go to the PX and buy candy and DVDs!

MM: Brendan Bourdage, even after arriving in Baghdad, and being reminded of his humble beginnings by his presence in the birthplace of civilization (as it were), compounded his error by sending only a perfunctory email to the woman who spent 1, 314 hours in labor with him, in effect forcing his uncle to communicate for him.

Me: i was still tired, hot, and sweaty.  plus, i had moved into a room (hereafter referred to as “the closet”) which measured a palatial 8′x11′, that i shared with the man i refer to as “the hippo”.

MM: 1,314 hours!

Me: that’s impossible.

MM: regardless, if the communication does not improve forthwith, i will be forced to arbitrarily increase the number of hours i was in labor with you, and continue to use high-falutin’ terms like “forthwith”.

 Me: duly noted.

 Having somewhat explained my position, and that i am now in a much better position to write lengthy expositions sure to amuse and amaze, i will bring this re-introductory post to a close, with the promise of more frequent, and highly graphical postings in the future.

Cheers, all.  3 weeks down, 49 to go.