a pickle is a terrible thing to waste.....

I was standing in line at the PX today. The computers were down, again, and the line was long. The air conditioner wasn't working, and it was 110 inside. The trucks must have come in. Sometimes we can go two weeks without anything being restocked. And when you are serving twenty thousand people, supplies don't last long. And the good supplies like tampons, crackers, shampoo, and chocolate, disappear almost immediately.

Today it looks like we are well stocked. We have twenty boxes of Cheez-Its, soda and graham crackers, Triscuits, even Club crackers (!). And, much to my surprise, we have giant pickles. Yes, world, we have GIANT pickles. Joy! Christmas has come early to Iraq this year! The GIANT pickles are here!

Hmmm. They are just to my right as I wait in the line that hasn't moved in ten minutes, but there is a soldier in front of me, and one behind me. No privacy to peruse the GIANT pickle selection, and they are so GIANT that I feel I need privacy. I nonchalantly look to the shelf, The GIANT pickles are right next to a selection of ten types of chew in colorful cans. My plan to divert attention is thwarted with the unfortunate placement of chew next to the desired pickle object. I casually look up, and see not only one type of GIANT pickle, but five, all vertically posed, an allusion to the sudden burgeoning free-market of Iraqi pickle-porn. My heart be still.

Now, I am not going to question the actual alimentary need for GIANT pickles in Iraq. But, I tell you, with certain battery-operated devices banned by the Muslims, certain movies and magazines grounds for a very long jail term, and certain websites restricted on our very, very, very filtered computers, the mere sight of this row of GIANT pickles makes me throb. I have been alone for what seems like forever. And given that I am living in Testosterone City, being in a personal drought for extended periods is a very difficult thing to deal with.

I will, for the moment, ignore the fact that they are green. Sometimes you have to put that aside. But they are large. And nubby. And did I mention they are large? My cheeks flush. I am suddenly embarrassed to be thinking such things about innocent pickles. But, frankly, this is just unfair. The soldiers stand around and thumb through "fitness" mags that are more explicit than most Really Hot Biker Slut magazines, while the "women's section" has two three-month old copies of Oprah, one torn copy of People, and twenty three copies of African Hair Monthly.

But to make things even more suspicious, in addition to the GIANT pickles that have suddenly appeared, the digital photo processing corner has been replaced with some self-serve hot dog machines. And, the hot dogs are not your normal 6" All American Take-Me-to-the-Ballgame Beefy Dogs. These mothers are 12" with sufficient girth to make Long John Silver tremble in fear. I haven't worked up the nerve to approach the hot dogs yet. I haven't seen any women approach these hot dogs. Ever.

Suddenly, this seems like a plot. A plot to weaken women, bring them to their knees, flash all kinds of suggestive food items in front of them, cruelly taunting them, distracting them, making us completely unable to do our jobs. I close my eyes to block it out, but can only see the refrigerator scene in 9 1/2 Weeks.

But the pickles, well, the pickles are a different matter. I cannot hide from the pickle onslaught. I am standing right next to them. Right in their GIANT pickle shadow. And I am suddenly finding it hard to breathe, surrounded with so many nubby, girthy, standing-at-attention GIANT pickles. I look around the store. Have they sold many pickles, I wonder? I look up at the pickles again. They are huge. I strain my neck trying to glimpse the price on the GIANT pickles without obviously showing interest in said pickles. My mind is spinning now. I can hear it: "Price check for this lady on sixteen GIANT pickles, regular seasoning." I blink, as if I can shake free of my spasmodic pickle fantasies. Would my GIANT pickle need pickle protection? I am momentarily relieved that I have luckily chosen today for my runaway pickle fantasy, when the PX is well stocked with five types of protection, neatly lined up near the checkstand. God forbid that the pickle protection is sold out, yet the pickles remain!

Lord, help me be strong.

Life With GW

"Did you lock the door?" I asked my sister.
"Yes." She is tending to something on the floor.

We were in the basement. I looked at the door, perplexed. The deadbolt had been removed, and there was an open hole in the door where the lock had been. I looked at the other door, over by the heater. It had a deadbolt.

The guy from the energy company was outside. They were cutting down the tree at the back of the house, the big one that loomed over the roof. I went back and forth, talking with him. I knew that my evil neighbor had prompted this sacrilege somehow, some sort of complaint about the tree. I went back to the basement. The hole was still in the door. When I turned, the energy guy was behind me. "That tree was a hundred years old," I say, disturbed.

I looked at the tree trunk, now piled against the back of the house in two foot chunks. I counted the outer rings: look, knowing the ten outer ones grew while I lived my life next to it, this beautiful tree. There were so many rings I couldn't count.

I am confused as to why there is no lock in the other door in the basement. Why would she move one lock to the other door, still leaving the basement unlocked? She is still in the basement, tending to something.

Standing next to the remains of the tree, I look up to the house next door. I know she is in there, watching. Her house doesn't look like the one she lives in. She lives in a small, white cottage with beige trim and a picket fence. This house is pale orange, with iron Mediterranean grills outside the upper windows. But I know she lives there. And I know this is her doing.

There are two chairs in the small living room. The walls are beige, with a greenish hue from the lack of light. There are no windows. There are no other rooms that I am aware of. I am not aware of any TV. There is a lamp over the shoulder of the chair to my left, an old fashioned one with a fabric shade and brocade trim. George Bush is sitting in the chair, reading. I say something to him, wanting him to go downstairs to the basement and read. I don't want him in the chair. He is making noise. I want quiet.

George Bush has a grey t-shirt on, and no pants. He holds the newspaper ahead of him, and continues reading. I am increasingly annoyed, I want to be alone, but we are not fighting. I look at George's crotch, and am confused. This is David, with George's face. George leans over to me, across a small table, still with the newspaper folded open, as though he wants to kiss me.

I am gasping for air. I can't breathe. I am suffocating. Finally, air. As I open my eyes, the hooch is still dark. I am still in Iraq. I am still here. I am still alive. I am still breathing. It is almost time to get up.

This is going to be a long day.

DXB-BGW Non-Stop, Meal Service, No Air Miles, No In-Flight Movie, Kiss Your Ass Goodbye

It is 1:30 AM. I roll over. She's up. There are no lights on, but I can see her shadow in front of the window. She is bent over, folding plastic sacks, rearranging things in her suitcase. Zipping and re-zipping her suitcase closed.

Zziiiiiip. Ziiiiiiiiipp. Zzzzziiiiiiiip.

She pulls out a sweatshirt, holds it up in front of the window, then refolds it and places it back into the suitcase. She stands, looks around the room, sees me awake.

"Yes, I'm up." I mumble.
"Sorry. Was I loud?"
"No, but your zipper was."

I roll over and turn on the light. I've been through this before. It is pointless to sleep. We have an hour and a half before we have to leave, but she isn't going back to bed. We are apparently up for the day.

"I'll be out of here in a minute," she says, sheepishly, her Bosnian accent hard to understand.
"No problem," I say, but really there is. I am tired. I tried to go to bed early, had a couple glasses of wine and curried triangles in the company bar, tried to get some rest. Travel day is always bad. Last time, I had retired early only to be awakened by some crabby bitch from Tallil that came in, tried to light up, then whined at me when I said she couldn't smoke in the room. She proceeded to complain about how long she had been "trapped" at BTC, a litany interrupted every ten seconds by severe emphysemic hacking punctuated by involuntary phlegm ejection. At one point, she started crying. I was unmoved. Please. Just let me sleep. Biiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiitch.



Finally, the Bosnian drags her suitcase by my bed. "See you downstairs," she smiles.
"Yeah." I look at the clock, trying to figure if it is worth it to reinsert the ear plugs and try to sleep an hour. I turn out the light. The light from the tree lights outside of the bar cast a dim glow across the room. I get up, looking out the window onto the table that David and I sat at in June, back when things were falling apart, back when I so loved him. Looking down now, everything seemed like mist: the memory not quite fresh, but the ghost of that night still with me, still aching. I closed the drapes and crawled back into bed. I give up trying to sleep.


"My name is Milton. I am going to help you through this protheth. Pleathe lithen. I tho appreciate your cooperation, and all that you do out there." The man standing next to me with the huge belt buckle rolls his eyes. "Pleathe. Can I have your attention?"

Milton was new in country, eager, long-winded but more caring than most. He wore tight shirts, showing off the muscles on his small frame. He lisped, a sure sign to the Texans that he was funny. Give them an inch, they will tear you apart. Or maybe just drag you from a pickup truck until your head pops off. I am suddenly worried about Milton.

First thing they teach you: know your audience. Poor Milton was in the dark. He had met us on the bus on the way in. He had attempted to direct a tired, unruly busload of firemen, first time out of country, who were uninterested in anything Milton had to say, particularly after they heard him speak. When he was distracted by his cellphone vibrating in his front pocket that he could not rejoin his train of thought, they nearly rioted.

"Milton, pleeeathe can I take a pee?"
"Milton, can you come to my room later?"
"Milton, you have such nithe bitheps."
"Milton, what's your number?"
"Milton, I am thooo lonely..."

Milton finally ended our briefing, fleeing the bus. Good decision, Milton. Know your audience.



The new security man droned on. "You must have on closed toe shoes. You must not have on sleeveless shirts. When you enter the airport, remove your hats, form two lines, two straight lines, wait for your boarding pass....." they drone on and on. The brief is always lengthy, saying what we have all heard before. Don't try to bring in alcohol, we will send you home. Don't try to bring out Dinars, we will send you home. Don't drink in the bars, we will send you home. Don't try to bring in more than 5G of gold, we will send you home. Don't lose your CAC card, we will send you home. Don't fart without permission, we will send you home... Fuck, send me home already.

Milton steps forward again,"I am going to call your name. I would apprethiate it if you would step up in line when I call you." He proceeds to call, starting with the A's. The line slowly moves. Most of us have done this before, but for some reason it always takes forever. After a painful 45 minute wait, there are two left in the room. We are standby, but we will make the flight since a few did not show.

Milton continues to call names of the people that did not show. "Allen? Newell?" Each name is followed by a long pause, as Milton inexplicably searches the empty room for the no-shows.

I look at the only other man, also on stand-by, shaking my head. "Uh, Milton," I say, "wouldn't it be easier at this point to just ask us who we are instead of going down the whole list again?"
"No, thorry. I have to ensure that the no-shows are not here."
"But we are the stand-by's. We are the only ones left," I say, incredulous. The other stand-by guy shoots me a wry smile. "Who are you asking, if they are not here?"
Milton smiles, and continues calling names, "Johnson? Kovak? Miller?"
I decide it is pointless.

There are 120 of us this morning. At least this is the late flight, we have a 3:30AM show time instead of 1. Or is it showtime, as in Broadway? (Flashing briefly to the whole Minnelli-Gest debacle, and figuring that it is best not to think of Broadway so early in the day as Gest's frozen, botoxed face is now stuck in my head). I never know. This whole faux-military lingo crap gets to me, excessive acronyms and secret code. I make a note to check to see if the DSM actually has a new disease, Excessive Use of Acronyms (sometimes referred to as Acronym Abuse, or AA), also known as EUA, pronounced Yooo-ah, not to be confused with the 'Oooo-rah' of USMC use, or 'Oooo-ah' of Army use. God, don't confuse USMC with Army... we will send you home.

Showtime? Like this is a fucking parade? Or show time, like 'show up at this time'? I am momentarily disturbed, I decide that it is indeed showtime, since our workplace is actually referred to as the theatre. As in 'theatre of operations' (TO, not to be confused with TO = Task Order) or something stupid like that. Like we are putting on some sort of show for the world? Like this is a game? I ponder war as entertainment, visualizing someone in DC standing over a table moving little toy soldiers around. Billions upon billions of dollars, and someone thinks this is entertainment. Definitely a guy thing, this war stuff.

Though we are only five minutes from the airport, the process of getting us there and on the plane will take most of the next four hours.

One-by-one, we load onto the bus. Milton enters, tally sheet in hand. "Can everyone thit thtill tho I can't count you all? I mutht have an accurate count, and I will try to get you on your way. Thank you for everything you do! We tho apprethiate it!"

Milton proceeded to bounce down the aisle, counting each person. Though we were seated in rows of two, Milton counted each person, not two by two. He counted once, glancing at his tally sheet. Then twice. Then three times, and exited the bus. Fifteen minutes later, the security guy comes on, counting again. He leaves, then returns ten minutes later, counting again.
"Sorry, folks. We are two short."
"Two short?" I say. How is it possible to lose two people in a span of fifty feet? We were in the room, then we took our suitcases, and walked by the pool to the bus. How the fuck can two people disappear?
Milton comes back on. "Thorry. Have to count again."

The process continues. I am tired, and a little annoyed, but am used to the disorganization. After a while, you just give up. Nothing ever goes as planned. Simple things are constantly fucked up. Small tasks turn into crap. Constantly. This is the way it works. It is better to submit. The WABI was actually administered for this reason: to weed out people who were aggressive, excitable. I always wondered about that. Would it not be easier to work on fixing the processes rather than to spend millions weeding out people who might react strongly to frustration? Hmmm. I shake my head. It is really better to not think. You will never get answers here.

Finally, after over an hour on the bus, we pull out. There is a commotion, as we have spent so much time on the bus that the condensation from the A/C is leaking out of the overhead of the left side of the bus. There is cussing and considerable consternation, but we are on our way. When we reach the airport, we have another brief, just in case we had forgotten our instructions of an hour ago.

"Take your suitcases, line up outside in two straight lines," the security guy orders. There is always a little tension when we arrive at the airport. Probably less in Dubai than Baghdad, but it is palpable none-the-less. We are a crowd, and noticeable. We are warned not to look like Americans, but we do. We are targets, and we know it. And there is nowhere to run.

We remain in line, then are shuttled into the airport entry. We are at the charter terminal, a smaller and much simpler terminal across the runways from the beautiful Dubai International terminal. We form two lines inside, and wait.

"If anyone needs a lock for the suitcase, or anything from the store, I suggest you go now," the security guy says. "And if there is anything in your suitcase that should not be there, remove it at once. This is your last warning."

"Oh, no," the guy standing next to me says.
"What?"
"I forgot."
"What?" I repeat.
"God, this hurts..."
"You don't!"
"I do."
"Oh."
"Oh, this will hurt. I can't..."
"Is it worth it to you?"
"Maybe everyone would like a shot now?" he reaches down to his suitcase, unzipping it, cradling the purple felt bag. There is real sadness in his eyes.
"Not me," I smile. Vodka, maybe. Bailey's, definitely. But not Crown Royale at 5AM.
"I'll have to throw it out," he stands, approaching the wastecan slowly, waiting for someone to intervene. We are all smiling. We know the pain. We can feel your pain, brother. He finally throws it.
"Ouch," I say. He is beyond responding.



General Order Number One. Blame it on the military. We fall under GO #1. Says that there is no booze, no sex (unbelievably, not even if two soldiers are married), no drugs, no nothing on our camps. Nope. We are all war, all the time. Well, almost all our camps. The Green Zone is famous for booze...they originally fell under GO #1 until the Embassy revolted. I don't know which Embassy, some say British, but they were simply not going to live in Iraq without a drink after a hard day shuffling papers and negotiating international peace. Or whatever they do. It would be uncivilized. So, diplomacy being diplomacy, miracles being miracles, GO #1 does not apply in the Green Zone, or IZ as it is called now. Not coincidentally, most of the upper management offices chose to locate in the IZ. I visited there once.

I had spent months being told stories of how great it was to work in the IZ. But when I got there, I actually didn't think too much of it. The only benefit I could see: a nice cocktail or two after work. In one of those memories that will stick with me the rest of my life, a group of us had gathered outside of the Big Boss' hooch. There were camp chairs lined up outside the HESCOs, and some benches. The designated bartender asked me what I wanted, and came out with a really stiff Screwdriver, complete with ice and peanuts. I sat in my camp chair next to my colleagues from Baghdad, laughing at the silly things that were coming out of our mouths after months of being dry. It was the first time we had relaxed like this. It was the first time I had seen Carlos and Phil tipsy. It was the only time I had seen the Big Boss tipsy, but being used to life in the IZ, he was far less tipsy than we were. I looked up at the sky: it was dark, stars were twinkling. It was winter, but not really cold. We were all laughing, in a way that only people who work together and share the same experiences can laugh, and I felt really good for the first time in a long time. Two Blackhawks flew directly over us, drowning everything out, so close that we felt the backwash. They shook our chairs, shook the ice cubes in our drinks, shook our teeth, shook our very souls. I looked up, unable to see them against the black sky, squinting to find them. They were completely blacked out. Finally, I saw a shadow move. I smiled. Coooool.

That moment is frozen for me. That is something that I will never experience again: sitting in a camp chair, in the middle of a war zone, with the bosses around me, Blackhawks overhead, and an icy screwdriver in my hand. You don't see that everyday, as David would say, his Midwestern showing (as I would say). It still brings a smile to my face.



After forty minutes, our boarding passes are ready. Names are called again, the endless list, passes are handed out, and we proceed through security, ticketing, immigration, and to the small gate, where we wait for another hour, then are taken to a smaller adjacent gate area. After another hour, we are finally loaded onto busses, and driven down the ramp to the plane.

We pass an entire history of aviation in the process. Tupelovs, Yaks, Ilyushins, Antonovs...exotic planes, too old to fly elsewhere, are now living out their last days in charter service in third world countries. Many look like they are duct taped together, and many are. It is both sad and exhilarating to see them all lined up under the huge orange glow of the Dubai sun.

We reach our plane, an ancient 737-200. It is about 25 years old, but I'll save the plane stories for another post. I hear someone ask where our seat assignments are, and realize that I am flying with a planeful of new-hires. There are no seat assignments on Scare Air. Sorry. And no air miles. And no movie. And no guarantees that this piece of shit plane will even get us there. And no guarantees that we won't get an RPG up our asses on the approach to Baghdad. And no guarantees that our bus back to the base won't be ambushed, and I'll see your silly-assed face pleading for life on Al Jazeera as they behead you. I laugh to myself. You get that way.

I pick a seat, always near the exit. It takes 30 minutes to load everyone. It is a full flight today, so I know that I can't save the middle seat. Nearly all the people boarding the plane have a sticker on their chest. MOS. ALA. ALI. BIAP. Destination stickers for the new hires, should they wander off. I watch them load, one by one, eyes wide. I can remember coming in for the first time...it seems like so long ago, ALA stuck on my left breast. I suddenly feel wistful.

Two men share my row. Mike, from Wenatchee, is going to Liberty. John is going to Mosul. They are nervous, their eyes darting about, their voices subdued.

It is a different world out there. If all you do is watch the US news, you would think that death and destruction is everywhere in Iraq. But the fact of the matter is that it is not. The potential of death is always there, but most of us are here working, just like you would be back home. The conditions are more difficult, and the hours longer, but most of us just think of this place as home now, as a workplace. We get bombed, we get incoming, we hear explosions, but after a while it is just the background noise of the environment. But when you first come into the country, your head is filled with abject terror. You've seen the news every night. You've seen the bombs. You've seen the death. You have been subjected to several weeks of brainwashing and terrorizing during in-processing. You really believe that you will die over here. And you arrive terrified.

John and Mike are scared shitless. But they are guys, and can't say that they are scared shitless. But I know that look. I know what is in their heads.

The airplane that we are on is one of the better ones that we fly on. Even though it has a tendency to smoke, and the left engine runs really hot and flames out, some of the windowpanes are cracking, the forward lav hasn't worked in a year, and the interior panels sometimes fall out onto your lap, this really is one of the better airplanes. I know that now. But when I came in, I looked at the dripping water from the ceiling with the same look of horror that John and Mike now have on their faces.

"You OK?" I innocently ask.
"Should that be dripping?" Mike asks.
"Oh, that's not bad. You should see it on a really hot day." I smile.
"Have you been here a while?"
"Yup. Been here a long time."
"Is it as bad as they say?"
"Define bad."
"Oh, God," John laughs, bending forward to look at me.
"No, really. Bad in what way? Death? Food? Camps?" I say.
"Any of it."
"In some ways, it is worse than they will ever tell you," I start. "Not in terms of death, really, and even the conditions you will eventually get used to." I pause. I feel the entire time wash over me. Weeks, months, endless hours. "They don't prepare you for the isolation. They don't prepare you for the mental stress of it. Did they tell you that 70% don't make it through the year?"
"That many?"
"Yes. So prepare to not make it. Statistically, you won't."
He leans back, glum. "Why do they leave?"
"I don't know. Alot can happen in a year. You can get sick. There are no docs here. Your family can get sick. Your house can burn down. You can decide that this is too much BS. I don't know. A year is alot longer than you think it is. You are on Iraq time now." I continue, "I thought I would leave a million times. I really didn't think I could stay. I don't know why I made it. I really don't. People alot more determined than I have left."

They are silent now. I sit back in my seat.

I can barely remember flying in now. It seems like so long ago. It seems like a lifetime ago. I feel older, sadder, tougher now. I have seen people crack up. I have seen people get fired left and right. I have personally been threatened, as most of us have, on a daily basis. That is the environment. Nothing makes sense here. There are no rules, no continuity.

I remember the fear. And being stunned when I first saw Iraq. And being floored when I first saw my cot in the tent at Al Asad. I remember the long days, the lack of privacy, the utterly horrible living conditions. I remember the sacrifices made for staying here, and the sacrifices of those back home. I remember the incoming, the terror of knowing someone out there wanted to kill us. I remember the joy of discovering new things, seeing new lands. I remember the awful food, the shortages, the feeling of glee when fresh eggs again arrived. Most of all, I remember David: the sweetness of unexpected love, how much I loved him, how much I still do; how hard it is to kill our dreams, and how easy it is to crush our spirits.

I never really noticed the changes that were happening. They were too small. But looking back, I am different now. Very different. And I can't say all the changes were good. I looked around the plane. We all had our reasons for coming. We all had dreams of something when we landed. But dreams shatter. Lives fall apart. Marriages end. Who you are when you arrive is not who you are when you fly back home that last time. This changes you. This changes you forever. You never know that when you fly in the first time. They don't tell you that.

I look out the window at the endless brown below. I have tears in my eyes. I am sad, tired, worn out, lost.

This changes you forever.

Confessions of a Dish Ho

Sometimes the best way to convince yourself that life is worth living is to go shopping. Shopping is fantasy. Shopping allows the imperfect to reach perfection, to dream, to concoct the perfect life, the perfect kitchen, the perfect bedroom. And, of course, life will be perfect in that perfect kitchen, perfect bedroom. Never mind the notion that marketing controls us, making us robotically purchase things that we have been programmed to buy, never mind that we all spend money we don't have. I know for a fact that I will eventually achieve the total-body-orgasm right there in the Pottery Barn dish sale corner. I just know it. And after that, my life will be perfect. I just know it.

I was a child of divorce back when people whispered mean things about children of divorce. As a matter of fact, and this is hard to believe for anyone under 40, I was the only kid in the whole school that had no father at home. I don't remember it bothering me, honestly, I don't remember thinking that my life was at all different than anyone else's. But it was. There were no family dinners, no reunion vacations, no happy photos marking the years. Family was not really ever mentioned. Family wasn't really thought about.

Single mothers back then had few options. My mother always worked, we basically took care of ourselves best we could. We had little money, and never had a car until I was around 17 and already out of the house. I had my first apartment at 18, and furnished it with the usual hand-me-down crap. Even with tattered furniture not fit for Goodwill (a nine foot long couch made of hideous green, blue, and gold brocade and a fake leather chair that had been clawed by some cat in heat that my mother got during one of her crazy periods) and chipped dishes, I took pride in the little hovel I called home. I slapped some afghans over the rips, found coordinating pillows, covered the chips in the dishes with creative lettuce placement, and marveled in my sudden talent for creating a beautiful home from shit.

When I got married, I got my first matching set of dishes. The Earth shook. Mountains moved. The sun melted in the sky. My life was changed forever. From the dishes, not the guy I married, of course. I didn't have anything pretentious, like bone china or formal platinum edged settings with delicate flower patterns. It simply wasn't that kind of marriage. Instead, I had a setting for four, multi-colored thin stripes around the edges, something that someone absently picked up at Fred Meyer on the way to the wedding. But it was beautiful to me. Sometimes I would just hold a dish and gaze at it, knowing I had three more. That was how it began. If you had noticed, you might have been able to spot the signs: the glazed look in my eyes, the shaky hands, the wandering mind, the new cooking magazines (aka 'perfect wife' porn) that suddenly littered the tiny living room, their lurid pictures of asparagus quiche splayed for all to see. The dishes lasted longer than the marriage, a fact surprising no one.

Much of my life was spent in apartments. Houses were just too expensive in the city. But I always dreamed of the day where I would have a house, where I would have a little yard that I would merrily tend to, growing the most glorious tomatoes that people would come from miles away to admire; where I would be the gracious hostess of family dinners where we drowned in laughter and perfect hor d'oeuvres served on perfect matching dishes that would never be chipped.

When I finally got my house, the first thing I did was plant tomatoes. It was only three bushes of Beefsteak, my city yard being significantly smaller than the one in my fantasies and costing quite a bit more. I watered them, tended them, talked to them, coaxing the little red gems out as if they were my children. When the first child ripened, I plucked it, faint with joy, running into the house to make the most perfect BLT ever known to mankind. I had a fresh $5 loaf from Great Harvest, hand cut bacon from the butcher, lettuce fresh off the farm truck, and my own tediously hand-made mayonnaise. Never mind that the tomato was 2" in diameter, and barely covered a quarter of the sandwich when sliced paper-thin. I had mastered growing my own food, albeit slightly undersized. I could produce life from soil and water! My womb shuddered. I was on the path to Real Woman.

I set out to find the perfect dishes for my perfect house. I can't even recall those first dishes. Like so many addictions, it is all a blur now. But the first set was replaced with a second set. Then I needed something for the perfect "formal" dinner, even though I hated formal dishes. So I got white, with a silver trim, followed by coordinating silver chargers and silver wine glasses. And silver and white napkins, with real silver thread, and thirty silver metallic candles that, when simultaneously lit, would worry even the most casual of Fire Chiefs. Then came the Thanksgiving "informal" dishes, the sage green ones with the raised grapes on the edges to evoke an autumnal harvest motif, complete with matching sheaths of wheat to place on the table next to the turkey-shaped cranberry holder, matching cranberry candles (I will skip the harrowing story of the hand painted grape candles that actually caught on fire one year...) and miniature soup pumpkins with coordinating turkey butter plates. And the hand stitched turkey linen napkins. And the matching sage green wine glasses. Forgive my shocking lapse of judgment following a particularly rousing pre-holiday shopping trip, where a friend had to talk me out of the matching pilgrim hats to complete the theme. Thank you, Annie.

Then the everyday dishes, the ones with the art deco Italian posters on them. That was followed by the sunny yellow dishes, to keep us from getting Seasonal Affective Disorder in the winter. And the winter white dishes, when the yellow ones got to be too fucking cheery. Then the white cabbage majolica bowls with matching plates, to better accent brilliant summer vegetables in all their simple glory. Then the Guy Buffett plates with scenes from rustic Italia, along with rare matching paper napkins (kind of the Guy Buffet lifestyle, where if you just close your eyes you can imagine sitting in the outdoor cafe, sharing intimacies over a bottle of Barbera). Of course this is paired with coordinating black chargers. And black wine glasses. In four sizes.

For summer, there was the sea theme: white platters with red lobsters on them. And matching bowls. And coordinating with another lobster pattern, picked up on sale two years later. And little seashell, oyster, clam plates, saucers, and serving pieces to finish it out. Oh, and then the orgasmic Italian soup tureen with matching platter and four delicate shell serving pieces, the one with the beautiful handpainted sea creatures in bas relief. The one I first saw in Santa Fe in 1996, nearly dying when I saw the price. I stalked her, and years later, she was mine.

For Asian food, there is the complete set of blue and white fish theme dishes, with coordinated chopstick holders and matching teapot. And clear fish shaped dishes with matching fish bowls. And an entire ocean of various fish-shaped accessories. For Mexican feasts, there is the chile pepper theme, with matching chile pepper napkins and playful red candles, of course. And about three dozen cazuelas of various sizes, shapes, and functions. For Spanish food, the pale yellow paella plates, with matching giant yellow serving plate and yellow condiment bowls. And matching yellow striped napkins. For casual country dinners (on my .06 acre estate), there are the olive plates, some square, some round, with matching olive platters, sunflower table cloth, olive pitchers, and seagrass chargers. Yes, seagrass. Shut up.

The fact is, I can't stop. I am a dish ho. I would do anything for the perfect table, to create that happy family memory, that one moment where my womb shudders and I reach that elusive pinnacle of womanhood. The one where people weep and fall to their knees the room is so beautiful. The one where all the food looks like the cover of Gourmet. The one where they gasp at the matching accessories, color coordinated and perfect, just like my life is not. I nearly reached it once, a summer dinner with friends in 1998. When they entered the dining room, one of my dear friends exclaimed, "Chargers!!! My God, you have matching chargers!!!" I swooned with delight, feeling a slight womb shudder, which could have been a full-on knee-buckling orgasm if it hadn't been for her idiot husband at the time interrupting our rictal gazes with, "What the fuck is a charger?"

I can only dream of my dishes now, as my life consists of beige food served on plastic plates with plastic utensils. I have pictures of them with me, my precious dishes, and I peruse them when I am feeling particularly low. Their pristine beauty beckons me in shades of white, yellow, green, silver, brown, black. Truthfully, my time in Iraq is really just a thinly veiled excuse to buy more dishes: the huge wheat harvest platter in Toledo, the three (don't ask) Turkish tea sets from Istanbul, the coffee pot from Dubai, the tea pot from Izmir. And Christmas this year will be my very own agnostic hajj, the very pilgrimage to the Mecca of my illness: Italy. Merely purchasing the tickets made my heart flutter, with visions of pottery, glassware, and larger than life ceramic platters dancing in my head (really, if the truth be told, it was more like spinning my head a la 'The Exorcist'). It was fucking k-a-r-m-a that the hotel I booked in Venice came with a free tour of the Murano glass factory (cue angelic humming in the background...).

With each dish is the potential of perfection, of a life that is rapturous in female domestic bliss. Each dish holds the fantasy that my life will be happy, positively shrieking with familial joy. With each dish is the invitation to my friends, to my family...the vision of my domestic ecstasy being consummated as I float into the dining room, smiling, every hair in place, perfect serving platter in hand, looking out to see them needing me. The obvious problem with my vision is that my family has never accepted a holiday invitation to my house, and probably never will. And while I was busy working/schooling/shopping/fighting world injustices/emasculating every man I knew, I somehow forgot to have children. Did I tell you about my tomatoes?

Again, it is no coincidence that, following my rather declivitous spiral into daveland, I spent the next forty-two consecutive hours online purchasing dishes. I found a matching pumpkin soup tureen for the Thanksgiving dinner that I won't even be home for this year. I found a white majolica cabbage serving dish to match the majolica bowls and plates I already have. And I found a positively amazing, really expensive Italian fully automated espresso machine that makes my current one look like a training bra. You know, for after dinner, when I serve the picture-perfect homemade dessert on the stunning dessert platter. And people gather around, smiling and laughing, drunk with witty, intelligent banter, and I serve the perfect latte in little matching Italian espresso cups, complete with a heart design lovingly etched with the perfect latte foam-etching tool from Williams Sonoma by your charming hostess in the just-the-right-amount of foam. And we have endless scintillating conversation, and I relish in my beautiful friends, and I can finally believe that I have the perfect life.

"Good evening everyone. I am akantha. I am a dish ho."
"Good evening, akantha."
"Tonight I want to speak to you about the fourth step: made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves and our dishes..."