There's a possibility my father might go to Iraq.
First, let me explain something about my family. My father's father spent fifty years in uniform. He was in the Battle of the Bulge, he did a tour in Korea, and he went to Vietnam. Somewhere in all that, my grandfather found time to have seven kids. Of those children, six went into the military, including my father. The youngest of those children, my aunt, recently became the last of that generation to retire from military service, and the family consensus is that if she'd stayed in, she would have probably made General one day.
On just my father's side of the family, I have enough cousins to populate a small, Mid-Western town. I am the second oldest of my generation. The oldest, my cousin George, is already a veteran of both Iraq and Afghanastan. His younger sister is the newest member of the Army marching band.
I tell you this so that you will understand: When my Aunt D came to visit this weekend, and suggested to my father that it was his duty as a veteran and a civil servant to do a shift of duty in Iraq, to support the troops, this was not a suggestion that was made lightly, and my father took it to heart. He looked into it. As it turns out, the government agency that my father works for is in desperate need of volunteers to go to Iraq, and there are significant incentives for those that choose to go. To make a long story short, if Dad went to Iraq, he would come home with more bonus pay than I make in a year, before taxes.
My mother, unsurprisingly, is wholly against it, no matter how large the bonus. Aunt D is lucky my mother loves her as a sister, because it's going to be the only thing keeping Mom from throttling her over the Thanksgiving turkey for putting Dad up to this.
I can't really blame my mother for being upset. We never voted for the dumbass in the White House, and up until recently, I never really thought of Iraq as a war that belonged to me. Now, for the first time I'm forced to confront an aspect of military life I never had to face while Dad was actually in the military. My father might go to war.
Granted, the possibility he'll go is remote. And if he does go, he'll never leave Camp Victory, where the chances of dying are less than driving on the Beltway during rush hour. I wouldn't even say that I'm worried about him. But--
When Aunt D was in Iraq a couple of years ago, she had to leave the Green Zone one morning to get to the airport. She and the person she was with were going to take a helicopter to the site, but at the last minute, my aunt insisted on taking a humvee convoy instead. That helicopter was later shot down by an anti-aircraft missle, no survivors. That was how close my family came to having our first military fatality since my Great Uncle Norman died in World War II.
My aunt is right. My father should volunteer to go. But I don't want him to.
Reason #65 Lee must be killed: For the past week, Lee has been trying to noisly hack up his left lung in five minute intervals. The resulting sound is not unlike a chainsaw ripping through sixty pounds of wet hamburger. I swear, I can FEEL the germs crawling up the cubical wall, across my desk, and into my precious, vulnerable bodily fluids. I fear that if I don't act soon, I'm going to catch whatever horrible wasting disease he has. If I'm lucky, it'll kill him before he comes into work tomorrow.
Life never ceases to amaze me with how much it’s not like TV. For instance, according to Hollywood, my coworkers and I should be having dangerous and sexy adventures, but no one in the office appears to be having a sordid affair with the copy repair man, nor does anyone appear to be an uncover spy, and most disappointing of all, my boss isn’t evil. She doesn’t even have the decency to be petty or unreasonable. Her complete and utter lack of any semblance of a maniacal streak denies me my god-given right to struggle against the Man.
