Initial dispatch: And so it begins.

Monday, Mar. 26, 2007, 12:35 a.m.

If you were to read my mind, this is what you would see on a continuous loop:

"AAAAAAAAAAARGH!"

Not because I'm necessarily angry or frustrated at any given moment, but because it really just blows my mind that I am back here in the first place. It's not altogether bad, but it is very, very surreal.

I'm sorry; I'm getting ahead of myself. I'll start from, oh, twelve hours after I left off.

The flight to Kuwait wasn't terrible, because prescription medication, when applied to a 20-hour flight, results in something akin to an enchanted slumber. The best part is when you stop over in Germany, stumble half-stoned into the airport gift shop, and see this:

No, I am not even kidding. Eventually, I will remember to post the Mr. Old Butt video that I maturely recorded in the store, but until then, you can only imagine.

We re-boarded the plane, and the next thing I remember being aware of was our landing in Kuwait City -- in daylight, no less, which was quite pleasant, seeing as how the Army generally ensures that whenever it sends soldiers to a new place, they arrive there as disoriented as possible. That way, it's easier to herd us onto buses and take us pretty much anywhere.

In this case, "pretty much anywhere" turned out to be reasonably comfortable, especially considering our last period of transience between Kuwait and Iraq. Of course, spending three days getting beaten with sharp sticks would have been better than that last time, but this really was a large improvement. There were plenty of American-ish eateries on the camp (KFC, Pizza Hut, Subway), as well as a coffee shop, a USO lounge (where I spent most of my time, seeing as how they had super-comfy chairs of the sort that you don't want to get up from even if they are showing Texas Chainsaw Massacre: The Beginnings on the big screen in front of you), two Morale, Welfare and Recreation tents (one of which hosted karaoke the first night we were there -- which, if you know me even the slightest bit, you should know that karaoke brings me more happiness than a bucketful of ones in a back-road strip club), and a plethora of interesting people to make friends with. I got mildly acquainted with a few of Australia's finest infantrymen, who taught me that 1) Napkins are called "serviettes," 2) Queensland is full of gays and 3) You shouldn't get tattooed while drunk, because you will end up with your phone number on your bicep. Number 3 was a bit hard for me to believe until I actually saw the bicep for myself, and much mocking ensued.

On the third day in Kuwait, God created insanity. Babymomma and I had woken up early in order to get to the dining facility in time for breakfast, and we were just about to walk out of our tent when Sergeant Insane-o appeared.

"Didn't anyone tell you two that we're flying out of here today?" he asked.

"Um, no," we replied. "We thought you were going to be the one to tell us."

"Oh, well, I thought someone had passed the information along to you guys. You have to have all your gear packed up and outside the tent by 0800 [8 a.m., for you non-24-hour-clock-users], and we'll be having formation to get on the plane at 0900."

It was 7:30. Since we possess the super-quickness, we were ready on time, and what followed was the most expedient military movement I've been a part of -- we were on the ground in Baghdad by 12:30, and on our camp an hour later, moving into our new home for the next year and a half or so:

There are rumors that we'll be moving to trailers sometime this spring or summer, but I'm not holding my breath.

This is my bunk area ...

... and this is my bunk area with me in it. Just for a little perspective, you know. Isn't it so spacious? I love the Army more and more every day.

What threw me for a loop even more than the tiny living area was the fact that, ever since getting off the plane at the Baghdad airport, I knew my way around like I had never left. I remembered how to get ... places. This was not an experience I ever expected to be having, and it worried me just the tiniest bit. But I suppose memories are memories -- it's when they start becoming fond memories that I should perhaps seek professional help.

Anyway, I'll continue the tour.

There are seven of us in our section: Head Boss, Deputy Boss, Head Sergeant, Sergeant Insane-o, Sergeant Jew (for he is one, in every way except religion), Babymomma and me. (Consider the nicknames given, and hopefully I won't forget and change them.) We will be working together for more than a year. God help us.

We do have fun together most of the time, though, as we all share an equally-warped sense of humor and a propensity for mocking each other and everyone else. "Your MOM" is a phrase often heard within our friendly little group, as well as "That's what SHE said." We are a creative bunch.

So, there you have it. The traveling is over, and now the real fun can begin. To those of you who wanted my address, just e-mail me, and I will repeat the rule from last time: in order to make me feel like a non-moocher, you must also send me your address, so that I can respond to your generosity with some token of Iraqi awesomeness, usually in postcard form. To those of you who have already e-mailed me words of lurv, I will get back to you eventually, I promise; please know I appreciate the e-mails and comments and things more than you can ever know. I have a wireless internet connection in my tent, but it is slower than Jessica Simpson's neural transmitters, so I hope you'll understand if I don't get back to you as quickly as I'd like to. I'll still try to post pictures regularly, which you can see here, because I've made them their own special little album.

I leave you for now with this, my War Face:

Try not to show your fear.