LESSONS LEARNED...SLOWLY!

Did I ever mention I fly F-16's?

 As a fighter pilot, we take a certain amount of pride in making sure that we get the most out of every mission we fly.  For every hour that we are in the air, there are at least three on the ground that go into briefing and debriefing the mission.  At the end of each mission, we then find the “lessons learned” from that mission.  The idea is simple…don’t make the same mistakes the next time.

It would benefit me to apply that idea in my personal life!

When Jenny and I were first married, we lived with her parents while I tried to hurry and finish my degree.  Jen was about to celebrate her big 21^st birthday and I had the grand idea of throwing her a surprise party.  I invited all of her friends, bought a delicious ice cream cake and even had a piñata filled with lots of quality (cheap) candy.  The stage was set for an unforgettable birthday party.  Well…it WAS unforgettable.  Sadly it was for all the wrong reasons.  For those of you that know my wife well, you know that she is up for just about anything…as long as she is not at the center of attention.  She does not like that one bit.  In fairness, I’m pretty sure she had told me that she didn’t want a surprise party.  As one that does not mind being at the center of attention (I know that comes as a shock to many of you), I could only assume she was kidding.  Without diving into all the details, I’ll just summarize with two lessons learned.  First, don’t put Jen at the center of attention.  Second, listen to your wife when she says she really doesn’t want a surprise party!

I am a slow learner!

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Several years later, we were living in Arizona and it was time for one of Mike’s famous Christmas letters.  I’m really not that good at recapping the events that happened throughout the year, but I am good at using my imagination.  In reality, who really wants to know how many hours I flew that year?  But tell them I invented the Snuggie blanket and BAM…people are very interested in reading (as a note…I really did invent the Sunggie blanket.  I just wanted to remind those that didn’t receive that letter).  In an effort to make Jen’s life sound totally unusual, I may have gotten carried away and said that she had made a ton of money as a freelance stripper.  Trust me…it was HILLARIOUS when I was writing it down.  After I sent it out to the millions of loyal friends (14), I learned that Jen really didn’t find it nearly as funny as I did.  I learned a few more important lessons.  First, let Jen proofread any material that has her name in it (yep…she read this one before I hit send).  Second, just because I find something funny, it doesn’t mean Jen will.

Best Pole Dancer EVER!

Seriously…I am not a quick learner!

Just recently I came up with a VERY clever idea for April Fools’ Day.  Keep in mind that I have never attempted to pull off a clever prank on Jen of this nature.  About a month earlier we had received the news that the guy that was set to replace me here in Morocco had been disqualified.  A second person had just recently been identified.  Jen’s biggest fear was that he too would somehow be disqualified and that the Air Force would make me stay longer.  I had told Jen that while this was feasible, it was not probable.  With that in mind, I decided to draft a letter to my boss and have him e-mail it back to me.  Jen and I share an e-mail account, so I knew that she would read any news from my boss.  Here is the letter that I sent…

Frosty-

Don't shoot the messenger.  I found out last night that your would be replacement will not be coming to replace you.  He has some impending disciplinary actions after a huge ordeal that I'm not at liberty to delve into (and honestly don't have all the details).  The bottom line is that we are now scrambling to try and find yet another person to replace you in August.  I have not yet talked to AFPC, but I know that they struggled to fill the position when the first person fell out.  I realize that you signed up for a one year assignment, and under normal circumstances there is nothing the Air Force could do to make you stay longer.  While we hope that won't be the case, I'm writing to let you know that it is a very strong possibility.  I don't need to tell you about how "the needs of the Air Force" come before our personal desires.

The bottom line is that you should not make plans for your return back to the States until you hear more from us.  I feel your pain.  I was supposed to leave in May and clearly that is not going to happen.  I apologize for the inconvenience this might cause and the stress it will place on you and your family.  I'll try and get a definitive answer as soon as I can.

Let me know if you have any questions,

Bolt

Now my plan was to have her read this…stress for 6.9 minutes, and then break the news to her very gently.  As it turned out, 6.9 minutes was WAY too long to leave her in the dark.  Almost as soon as she read the e-mail I received an instant message via Google Chat.  It went like this:

Jen:  What do you think of the email?

Mike: I can't stress over something I can't control.  What did you think?

Jen: It just made me sad, I guess.  I worried that it would happen anyway.

Mike: Then I should tell you to please check the date that it was sent.

Jen: Why?

Mike: And also that it may sound like something a jerk of a husband might write and have Kevin send as a funny April Fool's prank.  (5 minutes pass)  Your silence would lead me to believe that I am in hot water!

Jen: That was cruel.

Mike: But clever!

Jen: Seriously not nice.

There might be some of you out there that are laughing a bit.  For a few minutes I did too.  In fact, for a few minutes I thought I was the funniest guy that walked this planet…for a few minutes.  It didn’t take too long to realize that I had made a HUGE mistake!  So what all important lessons did I take from this experience?  First…there are some things that you DO NOT joke about!  I knew this was Jen’s biggest fear.  I guess that is what made it so effective!  Second…if you are going to pull an April Fool’s Day prank…do it when you will be separated for no less than a year.  It might take that long to gain forgiveness!

Grooviest Girl I know...and Hillarious husband.

As I look back on some of the dumb things I’ve done over the course of 18 ½ years with the coolest gal I know, I realize that I really am blessed to have my best friend as my Eternal Sweetheart!  She loves me unconditionally (and I obviously have given plenty of good reasons to do otherwise).  I am not complete when I am not with her!  I feel blessed to call her my wife and best friend!

Now…If you are reading this, I am planning to throw her a surprise birthday party in March.  Try and keep it on the down low, I don’t want her to find out!

FISH EYE SOUP

I consider myself a lucky man. When it comes to food, I have very little to complain about. Growing up I had a wonderful mother who was an excellent cook. My friends would always want to come over because my mom regularly cooked chocolate chip cookies that were out of this world good! When I left my mother’s cooking, I scored a wife that is not only smokin’ hot, but also a wonderful cook (and added mint chips to a cookie that I thought could not be beat…sorry mom). Even when I served a mission in Chile, I was lucky enough to have someone cook my meals for me. While they were never up to the standards of my mom’s cooking, I never went hungry and I never had to live on Top Ramen.

There are only two meals that I can remember being so bad that they will forever remain on my palate and mind. Ironically, one of those meals was made by the hands of my dear, sweet wife (editor’s note: Dear Sweet Wife…don’t forget that I just said what an amazing cook you are and that you make better cookies than my mother). We had been married for less than a year and were living in our first apartment. We had survived on Chicken Helper and other fancy meals that come out of a box. One day Jen decided she would go outside the box (yes that is a pun…you see I just mentioned we had been eating meals out of a box…get it?). She decided to make us some homemade Chinese food. Well, long story short, it called for corn starch…she added baking soda. Now I will be honest, I’m not sure if I could have told you the difference between the two powders. If we had of been up to speed with the internet back then (thank you Al Gore), we could have easily found answers like this on Answers.com… “Can you use corn starch instead of baking soda or powder?” “No! They are not even close to the same thing (are you trying to poison your husband?!). Baking Soda and Baking Powder are chemical leavening agents. Corn Starch is starch and is used as a thickener.” Sadly, we were not up to speed with the internet, and we had a fairly bad meal that night. As a newlywed, I ate as much as I could with a smile on my face. Jen finally caved and admitted it was not good (bless you my love). I’m not sure what we ended up eating that night, but I know it was not Chinese food (editor’s note: Jen is the best cook EVER. She has not made a bad meal since…all while maintaining super model looks and a wonderful sense of humor).

The second bad meal was served to me on my mission. It was my first Thanksgiving away from home. I remember walking the streets of Chile talking to my American companion about the wonderful things our families were eating that day. We managed to make each other fairly homesick and finally headed back to our home for lunch. We lived with a member of our Stake Presidency and his wife cooked us all of our meals (I did mention I never had to eat Top Ramen as a way of life). Well, you can only imagine the feeling of sweet joy that radiated throughout my entire being as I entered a house permeated with the smell of fish-eye soup. Yep…that is not a type-o, I had fish-eye soup for my first Thanksgiving meal away from home. As a side note, when we returned to live in Chile years later, my amazing, forgiving wife made sure to invite the missionaries over to our house each Thanksgiving to make sure that they had a perfectly cooked meal. In spite of my pleading to serve them fish-eye soup, she always made them turkey with all of the fixin’s.

As you can see, two bad meals over the course of 28 years (I am so not looking forward to next year where I will finally be “29 and holding”) is a fairly good record. When I returned from my mission, I got married as soon as possible in order to have someone who could continue providing me healthy, nutritious meals. Jen and I were married just 8 months after I got home, and aside from the one rare incident mentioned above, she has kept me well fed for over 18 years. On the many occasions that the Air Force has taken me away from home, I’ve still enjoyed some pretty good vittles (thank you, tax payers for making sure that I had crab legs at least once a week). Well…for all of the luck that I have had, it all came to a crashing halt when I was sent to Morocco for an entire year…with no cook!!

When I first got to Morocco and finally settled in to my lavish apartment (that should be read with a touch of sarcasm), I kept waiting for someone to bring me my dinner. After eating at McDonalds for 3 days straight, I realized that I was actually going to be required to make my own meals (I wish that had been explained to me prior to accepting the assignment). I immediately called McDonalds to see if they delivered. When I found out they didn’t, I then made my way to the local grocery store.

It has been well documented that French and Arabic are not my strongest skills (for those wondering, hunting Wolverines with my freakin’ 12-gauge is one of my stronger skills). As a result, shopping was not an easy task for me. It’s bad enough that they use the darn metric system (like every other country except the United States does) and I have to figure out how much 200 grams equates to in our superior system, but then I had to ask for it in a different language. I found myself sticking to the very basics when I first started out shopping. One of the easiest things I could get was a simple carton of eggs. I’ve always liked eggs…they are easy to make and relatively good for you too. I also stocked up on tuna fish, another easy meal with some muscle building protein to boot. I subjected myself to the ridicule in the deli department and got some cheese and turkey too (for some reason I could not find ham). Anyway…that was about the extent of my shopping. Along with some butter and bread, I basically had everything I need for a week’s worth of meals. It turned out I was going to make it after all.

I overestimated my love of eggs. I thought I could eat eggs for 365 days straight…I was wrong. I can eat them for at least 30 days straight. For the first month here, I ate eggs every night. I tried to put some variety in the way I prepared them. One night I would scramble them with the cheese and turkey. One night I would make an “egg in the hole” sandwich (thank you, mother for teaching me that). I had fried eggs, omelets, turkey and egg sandwiches…you name it, I tried it. I forgot about the tuna fish…that stuff would keep, I needed eggs! It made my shopping experience so easy. My only decision was if I would buy 12, 18 or 24 eggs for the week. I’m not ashamed to say that I was addicted to eggs…until I wasn’t. Yep, there came a point where I went to prepare my dinner and thought that if I had to eat another egg I might literally go crazy…I was grateful to have a can of tuna waiting for my breakdown moment.

Since my breakdown, I’m happy to report that I have become a lot more open to cooking new things. Jen was instrumental in my recovery. She has stood by me every step of the way. She has sent me turkey peperoni (ironic…yes) so that I have been able to make homemade pizza. She sent me a crockpot and gravy mix so I could make amazing things like roast beef and Hawaiian/Shorty’s Chicken. I even managed to make a pot of Moroccan Chili. I still revert to the occasional egg every once in a while, but only because I want to…not because I have to! I feel lucky to have overcome such a low time in my life. Now if I could just get that recipe for some delicious fish-eye soup!

Happy eating everyone.

AUSFAHRT

I will be 100% honest. I did not plan on writing another entry again so soon. After my last entry received a grand total of 2 comments, I got the message that there are even fewer people following this Blog than I had originally suspected. Nevertheless, I had a fairly cool experience that was worthy of posting to the both of you. The fact that this entry deals with the same topic as my last entry might simply be a coincidence. It is more likely that it is because this adventure was in such stark contrast to the other that it had that much more of an impact on me. Either way…here it is.

Before sharing my great experience, I thought it was worthwhile to share one more story of driving in Morocco that happened on Friday. I am thankful to say that I was traveling separately than the guys that defied death. We had some visitors from the US here all last week teaching academics on some of the systems in the F-16 (LINK 16 reps for my Viper savvy friends…if you are my Mother, that last sentence might as well have been written in Greek). Anyway, they followed me to work the first day so I could show them how to get to the base (I also taught them the secret to not waiting for over an hour). We met up at the Shell station on the way out of town and started our trek to Ben Gureir Air Base. I took it easy on them and did my best to supress my Mario Andretti instincts. At one point I got behind a guy that felt 50 kph was way better than the limit of 100 kph. It did not take much effort (even in my crappy clown car) to pass this guy. I checked my rearview mirror to see if my entourage had followed and found that they had not. I immediately knew the problem…they were new to Morocco. There was a solid white line and the foolishly thought that meant that they couldn’t pass (silly Americans). After they had gone about 5 minutes, on a straight road with no dashed line in sight, they finally passed with amazing success. By the time Friday came around, they felt they had mastered the driving in Morocco (silly Americans). They once again found themselves behind a slow mover. They checked for oncoming traffic and did not find anyone there…except for a single car a ¼ mile ahead that was parked on the side of the road (this is foreshadowing). Well to no one’s surprise (except the 4 Yankees in the car), just as they began to pass, the car on the side of the road thought it would be a good time to play chicken. The Moroccan won. My colleagues slammed on the brakes and pulled aggressively back behind the car they were trying to pass. Sadly they still had too much overtake. With the brakes firmly applied, they began to turn sideways…still gaining on the car in front of them. With no other options available, they swerved to the right and started to pass the car on the right side. I’m happy to say that they made it work…they passed the car on the right…while their car was literally turned sideways…narrowly avoiding the ditch on the right. I could not have been more proud than if that was my own son driving…they were the first graduates of Frosty’s Moroccan driving school. Anyway…it was a cool enough story to share here, and applicable to my driving this week.

I am currently in Germany. I had to come to Ramstein Air Base to accomplish my flight physical. I also have always really liked the German outfits and wanted to get my hands on some of those cool threads! I flew into Frankfurt on Sunday and rented a car (that could be a post all by itself, but I’m sure I would lose one of the two people that reads this). I saw on my orders that I was once again going to be stuck with an “economy car” (you can be happy to know your tax dollars are not renting me luxury cars). What I didn’t know is that “economy car” in German still means BMW!! I have wanted a BMW for years, so this was my big opportunity to see if it lived up to all of the hype. I won’t ramble as much as I normally do. I will simply say that it most certainly does! The fact that I was free to see what this car could do in the country of its birth (and no speed restrictions) was quite a blessing. It is worth saying that I had no real knowledge of where the heck I was going. It is also worth saying that I didn’t care because where ever I was going…I was getting there fast! I decided to take things “slow” at first. By slow, I realized that I was soon going 150 kph. That is nearly the top speed in my POS Peugeot. That’s right, I was almost running at 100 mph and I still had 2 gears to go. Anxious to see what the BMW could do, I continued to accelerate. Two things happened…first, I topped out at 210 kph (130 mph). It’s important to note that I topped out…the car still had much more to give. Why did I top out before the car you might ask? That was due to the second thing that happened. I’m not sure if it is an actual BMW feature, but at exactly 210 kph, a vision of my wife appears in the passenger’s seat and begins to yell at me to slow down. In spite of her majestic appearance that forced me to slow down, I still felt like I had given that car a good run…until I realized that I was still getting passed as if I was standing still. Seriously!! These Germans would never survive in Morocco.

As I slowed things down, I was able to take in a little more of the amazing scenery on my way to the base. The drive was great, but I struggled to keep my bearing as I tried to read the names of the towns that I was passing thru…Kaiserslautern, Saarbruecken and Einsiedlerhof. Needless to say that I began to tune out the names of the towns and chose to focus on the drive. That all changed when I passed a sign that I assumed was the name of another town. AUSFAHRT. I about died. It took me a second or two to register what I had just read. I got a good kick out of my childlike sense of humor and continued on. I soon realized that either every city in Germany was named AUSFAHRT, or that it meant something else. It didn’t take me too much longer to realize that AUSFAHRT means EXIT. That inspired another round of laughing as I couldn’t help but agree that if life has taught me one thing…AUSFAHRT is indeed an EXIT! I can only imagine that my friends that nearly killed themselves passing a slow moving Moroccan on the right…sideways…near a ditch, had a few AUSFAHRTS in their own car!

Happy driving everyone!

MOPEDS AND DONKEYS AND SHEEP... OH MY

I’ll be the first to admit that it has been far too long since I have written in this blog. One of the 4 faithful followers told me that I had started to become very predictable in my writing style. They observed that I would always start with a story of my childhood and then somehow try and relate that to my adventures here. Well…after an amazing trip back to the United States of America, I decided to recommit myself to writing more often, and to try and be less predictable. Instead of opening with my normal childhood story, I decided to share a story of my dad when he was younger.

It was nearly 25 years ago. My dad was teaching early morning seminary. Class started at 6:00, so he would have to leave the house around 5:30 in order to get there in time to set things up (earlier if he was buying donuts for all of his students). One can only imagine that the streets of Albuquerque were not extremely busy at that time of day, and so he decided to teach his favorite son, who was nearing his 15th birthday, how to drive. I’m certain he will never forget what an amazing driver his son was. He was a natural with not only a great personality and handsome good looks, but also a keen awareness of everything around him. He was destined to become a great driver and potentially save the world as he knew it. However…his near-perfect son did have one small chink in his armor…he had a hard time sticking to just one lane. The truck my dad was teaching him to drive was HUGE and so he couldn’t quite get a handle on visualizing how to stick to the center of his lane. As a result, he often drove right down the middle of the two. I’m sure my dad has fond memories of helping him to correct that small problem. If only my dad was available to give some lessons to the people here in Morocco. (I have to admit that it was nice to tell a story about my dad instead of about me…it felt refreshing).

I have driven in some crazy places throughout the world. Chilean driving taught me that the best defense is a good offense. I also learned that it is never impossible to squeeze one more lane out of a two lane road. My short time in Brazil taught me more of the same while adding a lesson on drive-by shootings (no joke…saw my first one 10 minutes after checking into my hotel). The driving lessons I learned in Indonesia mainly involved mopeds and the amount of things you can carry on it if you simply use your imagination…how do you get a spare car tire home while driving a moped you ask? That my friends is easy…wear it around your waist (why do you think they have a hole in it anyway). In spite of the global lessons I had gathered, I felt like they were all in preparation for my PHD on driving here in Morocco. I feel as though I could write volumes about my experiences here. For the sake of time, I’ll briefly share just a few of the lessons/frustrations I deal with on a daily basis here.

Those of you living inside the glorious United States of America have been spoiled without really even knowing it. You have lived the secluded life of 4 lane interstate roads that span across the entire country. You have lived with only 3 options on a stop light: red, yellow and green (even though I have on more than one occasion told my kids that the light was “orange”). Perhaps most importantly, you have traveled to and from work without fear of pulverizing countless sheep along the way. Yes, you have been spoiled…as I once was.

But mine eyes have been opened. They see with a new purpose when I am behind the wheel. Driving in Morocco has quite simply changed me in ways from which I may never be able to recover. I am quite certain that I won’t be able to fully capture with words just how greatly these experiences have affected me. I begin with the insane. To fully illustrate this point, I will share a story (sorry…this one is not about my dad). When Jen and I were new parents living in Texas, we owned two cars, a Ford Mustang and a Ford Contour. Neither of those cars has a great capacity for hauling things. One day we decided to do a project around the house that required buying some long 2 x 4’s. I remember going to Home Depot and buying those boards and then being faced with the dilemma of how to bring those home. My idea was to simply hold them to the roof of the car and drive slowly. However, in the end Jen’s reason won out and we waited for some help hauling them with a truck. I digress…the people here do not have a “Jen” to help them reason. Nope…they simply act upon the first idea that pops into their head. Of all of those ideas, the most popular is to simply stack it as high as you possibly can and pray that gravity is taking a nap that day. The very first day I arrived to Marrakech, I had the great opportunity to get stuck behind a guy that was hauling hay. I was so impressed that I had to take a picture (yes, I did it while I was driving…totally eliminating my credibility about unsafe drivers, but so worth it to capture it for the official record). If I had a nickel for every car I have passed that determined to maximize their moving capacity via bungee cords and tarps, I would not need to ask you to pay me for these blogs (seriously…still waiting on the money). Murphy has been fairly good to me so far, and I have not had one of those trucks tip over and crush me…but clearly the odds are stacked against me.

One of the biggest challenges with driving in Morocco is that there are so many different kinds of “things” on the road. From my ever powerful 1.2L Peugeot 206+ (that surprisingly is able to reach 100 MPH), to the mopeds that don’t have working lights and thus sneak up on you just as you are about to hit them, to the greatly popular donkey carts, there are a ton of different rides on the road. Consequently, you can never really be sure what will be lurking around the next turn. All too often I have sped around a blind turn to find the luck of the draw dealt me the donkey cart. I have found that I am much less impressed with how fast a car can go from 0 to 60, but rather how fast it can slow down from 100 to 10! As a guy that flies jets for a living, I generally do not care to drive fast on the ground. However, I have a 45 minute drive to work each day, and the only thing keeping me from getting to the golf course after work are those dreaded 45 minutes. Throw in my type “A” personality and it gives me a good reason to try and make a new record every time I return home each day. In spite of the dangers that exist while driving here, the most frustrating part of driving here has nothing to do with speed.

I like to think that I am a guy that is somewhat decisive. I only dated Jen for 2 months before we were engaged. Once I tricked her into thinking I was going to be a doctor, we were married 6 months later. Once I was certain that she was in for the long haul, I decided to join the Air Force and never looked back. Bottom line…I like to make a decision and then go after it with all my heart. How does that apply to driving in Morocco?! It really doesn’t, I just wanted to pat myself on the back for tricking Jen into marrying me. Actually…it really does apply. In the most simple of forms, one of the easier things associated with driving is deciding which lane to drive in. There are those that will only drive in the fast lane, and those that feel more secure in the slow lane. Which is better? I guess they both have their value, and I am not one to judge. I don’t even mind those that change it up and go back and forth…more power to them! However, there is another category that drives me insane. 97.69% of Moroccan drivers have yet to decide which lane they prefer. As a result, they drive right down the middle of both lanes (my Dad could go to town with giving some lessons down here)! I will not lie; there is a small chance that I have wanted to share some choice English words with the people of Morocco. Instead, I generally settle for saying things like “RETARD!! PLEASE CHOOSE A LANE!” I am not proud of my actions, but the drivers here will literally drive me crazy before this year is over.

Before I close (I am sure I’ve lost most of you by now), I thought I would end on a positive note. Not everything about driving here is bad. What you ask could possibly compensate for the dial-a-death driving that I do each day? The answer my friends is simple…it is called a Diplomatic Passport. In short, the black passport acts like a Monopoly Get Out of Jail Free Card. All I will say is that the 1.2L Peugeot 206+ may only go 100 MPH, but that is still about 30 MPH faster than I should legally go. I’m fairly certain that somewhere there is a Moroccan writing a blog about the retarded American that passes them like a madman as he ditches a sheep, a donkey cart, and a moped. In my defense...I do all of that while staying in one lane!

PS- If you are my wife or mother…none of this is true! I drive 30 MPH to and from work each day with my hands at 10 and 2.

OUT OF THE MOUTH OF BABES

Up until now I’ve done my best to share some of the more important things that have happened to me since I have been here in Morocco. I’ve breached important topics such as synchronized station wagons, speed walking, free-balling and even going into the wrong sauna. In all honesty, I have plenty of ideas that go along with those type of earth shattering topics…in fact some might be worth repeating (reference Brad Paisley’s lyrics “Some mistakes are too much fun to only make once”…I don’t know if they’ll let me come back to the sauna if I try that one again though). Anyway, the point of me saying this is that in spite of all of my great ideas that I’d like to share, I had to change what I was planning on writing about because of a package I received in the mail last week. One of my childhood friends has a 3rd grade class and decided to teach them the art of writing letters. While this is clearly a worthless skill to have these days, I nonetheless was the benefactor of over 30 letters. I’ve received these types of letters before and while they are very cute, they often remind me of, well, 3rd graders. Let’s be honest…3rd graders don’t always have the most insightful things to say, and there I was with over 30 letters that I felt obligated to read. I figured that if nothing else I could use my red pen and correct all of their mistakes and send them back to them. With that said, my writing is made easier this week due to Mrs. Glad’s 3rd grade class. While I will certainly have some comments along the way, these are unedited, word-for-word letters from her class. Let’s begin…

Dear Air-Force Friend,

Thank you for Friendship. Knock Knock, who’s There? Why did the old man put his car in the oven? He wanted a hotrod. Ha Ha Ha Ha. Do you like “Fresty” as a Friend?

From,

Cameron

As I read that first letter, I was left speechless…I mean seriously?! Cameron’s use of punctuation was atrocious; his attempt at humor made me sick to my stomach, and he butchered my name. Quite frankly I couldn’t get passed the idea that I still had over 30 more of these letters to read. In Cameron’s defense, he did draw a pretty amazing picture on the back of his letter. In fact, every kid included a drawing on the back of their letter. As much as I was disturbed with Cameron’s punctuation and poor selection of jokes, I was even more disturbed by his picture. On the back of his letter was a VERY graphic picture of me killing no less than a dozen different enemies. I was honored that he realized that a dozen men with machine guns were no challenge to my amazing military skills, but disturbed that this 3rd grader seemed to take a certain amount of joy in drawing my attempted assassin’s body parts strung all over the ground (although a fairly accurate depiction). I soon learned that he was not the only one to draw a picture of this nature. While there was an occasional picture of a rainbow or unicorn, the majority of the pictures were similar to Cameron’s. Mrs. Glad (Anna-Lisa) did mention that she too was slightly disturbed. However she wrote, “We usually don't promote violence, but hey, if the bad guy needs to die, so be it.” I couldn’t argue with logic like that, so I just continued on with the daunting task of reading these letters.

Dear Air Force Friend,

Thank you Frosty For Fighting For my country. I hope you don’t die out there. you’r saving my country thanks. That’s cool that you fly an airplane and you get to shoot down other air planes. I hope you win out there. Good Luck. I hope you get back to your family.

Sincerely,

Kanyon

There was little question that while Kanyon had a very long way to go in understanding apostrophes and correct capitalization, he was clearly on to something…at such a tender age, he realized that not only was it cool to shoot down other airplanes (seriously Kanyon…airplane is one word), but he understood that I was personally responsible for saving his country. I suddenly found myself anxious to continue reading these amazing words of wisdom. Letter after letter, they all paid honor to me…a living hero! None of them even mentioned the high-profile terrorists that I had personally brought to justice, and yet I could tell that they somehow sensed something special about me. It wasn’t until I read a few more letters that I really understood the level of their gratitude.

Dear Air-force Friend,

Thank you for savening our world. I’m proud That you are doing this because That meauns that you are a Hero and I hope That you can see your family agen and my favoit color is purple and pink and I hope That you like your job and I like Heros because Heros are nice.

Sincerely,

Natash

I really don’t know how to explain it. Although I clearly could not see past the horrific grammar and spelling (Anna-Lisa…are you requiring your students to even try and spell the words correctly, or are you just praising the effort), I had finally been given credit for saving the world. I’ll be honest…I had not even given myself that much credit. Those of you that know me are well aware that I am always checking to see if there is a military discount just about anywhere I go. My friends give me a hard time about this. I hope that now that they realize I am responsible for saving the world that it doesn’t seem like too much to ask to have 10% off of my meal at Chipotle! While I was fairly certain that Natash had clearly justified my plea for a military discount , I had one more letter that was about to seal the deal.

Dear Air-Force friend,

I’m thankful your in the Air-Force because their wil Be no school. Ther wil Be no houses. Ther will be no TV. I’m very, very, very happy your in the Air-Force.

From,

Isaiah

Isaiah had done it…he had brought this hardened warrior to tears. It had nothing to do with my #1 pet peeve of incorrectly using “your” when clearly he should have used “you’re”. Nope…he had brought me to a clear realization. It’s one thing to save the world. It’s a completely different thing to know that without you there would be no school, houses, and most importantly, television. All of the nights I’ve spent in Morocco watching Snooker and Speed Walking, the countless hours of football games and reality television shows…all of that was due to one person…ME! I sobbed for hours with that realization. Never had I been so moved!

So really, what is the point of this week’s blog? Well, as many of you know, I had a birthday this past week and needed some positive affirmation in my life. Learning that I was responsible for so many cool things made turning 40 seem like a trivial ordeal. So many of you should be grateful that I was simply born in the first place…which brings me to my closing comments (I know…I am long winded).

Along with Anna-Lisa’s letters was a wonderful birthday card that attempted to make fun of my old age. However, I quickly overcame that when I noticed a crisp 5 dollar bill resting inside the card. Anna-Lisa was the first (and only) person to respond to my earlier request to please pay me $5 for these wonderful blogs. Thanks to her I can now say that I now have had 2 paid writing gigs in my lifetime. By the way…it is clearly not too late to send your money…between Jen and I, we have now banked $245 for our writing. You can make the difference!

As a final note, let me say how much I really enjoyed both receiving and reading all of the letters from these kids! Any mail is always a welcome surprise here…even if you’re gramer and speling is’nt the best.

Until next time, enjoy watching television…you wouldn’t have it without me!

UNDEROOS ARE FUN TO WEAR!

When I was five years old, my grandparents invited me to spend a week with them in good old Burley, Idaho. It was to be a fun-filled week of fishing on the Snake River, playing in the park and making frequent visits to the A&W Root beer that was just down the street from their house. I didn't know it at the time, but that is about all there is to actually do in Burley! For some reason that is still a mystery to me, my mom allowed me to pack my own suitcase. I then hopped on a bus to begin my time alone with my grandparents.

I was thrilled to have an entire week with Shirley and Frank! Other than the stupid ceramic cat that had eyes that lit up when you plugged it in (and left permanent scars on my psyche), the trip was going awesome! However, after about my 2nd day of fun, my grandma decided that I was overdue for a bath. That was not an issue with me at all. What was an issue was the fact that, while I had remembered to pack a lot of important things like Star Wars action figures, my Slinky and some always important Silly Putty; I failed to pack any additional underwear. Grandma was not impressed. So...it was inevitable, she needed to wash my Superman Underoos. If that wasn't bad enough, she also insisted that we go buy me some more underwear (I guess she must have expected me to change them again in my remaining time there...grandmas are silly that way). Apparently she was so excited to get me some new underwear that she couldn't wait for my dirty pair to finish washing and drying. Nope...good ole Grandma Jolley made me free-ball it to the local KMART! I was never so embarassed in my life! In all honesty I still wake up on occasion in cold sweats as I recall that dreaded experience. Every detail has been etched on my mind. If I close my eyes I can almost hear the KMART manager..."Welcome KMART shoppers!! We have a blue light special on isle 4, and...SWEET MOSES!! There is a free-baller in the boys underwear department!!" Shortly after that he called for a wet clean up on isles 3, 8 and 10 from all of the kids that had peed their pants laughing at me. Clearly I am well over that episode...or at least I was until I got to Morocco.

You would think that 20 years later (yes that is correct...I am now 25 years old...it's my blog) I would have learned a thing or two about packing my clothes. I am happy to report that I have. This time around I was fairly certain that I had packed enough underwear. In fact, I went overboard. I packed roughly 14 quality pairs of made in the USA underwear...mind you they do not have pictures of Flash Gordon or the Incredible Hulk, but still...you would think that 14 pairs would be enough. Unfortunately, it turns out that I really needed an entire year's worth. Logically you would say, "Why so many Mike? Wouldn't it be smarter to just bring 14 and wash them when they got dirty?" And I would totally agree. Sadly, I have learned that what I think is not always so easy here in Morocco.

Let me start by saying that there are not any do-it-yourself laundromats here in Morocco. If anyone is interested in putting up some capital, I'm sure we could make a killing. There are places that will do your laundry for you. In fact right here where I live I could easily pay the hotel to clean all 14 of my unmentionables (can I use that word after mentioning them so often already?). The hotel charges by the number of items they wash. So, the damage to wash all 14 pairs of underwear you ask? Well...a meager $70!! Let me repeat...$70 to wash 14 undergarments. Mind you I also have a few other articles of clothing that I need to wash on occasion too (I did mention that I am a far better packer than when I was 5). If I were to wash all of my clothes that I wear weekly here at the hotel, I would be rolling out well over $250 each week! I quickly made arrangements to sell my kidney. Now...clearly there are other options. There are a handful of places downtown that will wash your clothes for you. There are only two problems with that option. First, it is still expensive (not "I need to sell my kidney expensive", but still not worth what they charge). The second problem is that the workers don't speak English. For those of you that have forgotten how proficient I am in French and Arabic, please reference my earlier post.

With a strong desire to hold onto my kidneys, I came up with option 3...purchase a washer and do it myself! This novel idea hit me as soon as I saw that options 1 and 2 were not realistic. As such, I immediately hit up the embassy to see if they would include a washer for my apartment. I was initially told "No way, that is a frivolous use of money. We need more large LCD televisions in the gym." After I told them that I was not going to be of much use as a pilot when I had no kidneys (I'm no doctor, but I think you need at least one), they caved in. Mind you it took them over 6 weeks to actually come to that decision. In total fairness to the embassy, the decision was made much faster than what I have led on. But it took the 3 weeks to find the place to buy it from...cost compare from 3 different places, analyze which soap would be the most efficient and have the lest impact on the Earth's atmosphere. When they were finally ready, they had waited too long and had to wait for the next fiscal year's money. I saw where this was going, so I asked if I could simply buy it and be reimbursed. After a long deliberation as they discussed my dilemma over reruns of I Love Lucy on their 60" LCD, they reluctantly gave in.

I'd love nothing more than to tell you that is where the story ends. Mike buys a washer and everyone lives happily ever after. You should know that was not the case! First...my blogs are never that short. Second...my life here in Morocco is never that easy. When I told the embassy that I wanted a new washer, they told me to send them the models of the kind that I wanted. Well...there were two models that both washed and dryed the clothes in the same system. That's right...all in the same system!! I sent both models to the embassy. After spending 1.4 million dollars and deliberating for an additional 4 weeks, they gave me their blessing on one of the two washers. I then went to Electro Planet to make my purchase...where they only had one of the two models left. Fortunately it was the model the embassy had approved. The real good news was that the only one available was the floor model (that might be sarcasm). By the way...the man about died laughing when I asked for a discount based on it being the floor model (always trying to save my tax dollars as well). I asked if it came with a warranty, and was quickly told that it would work as good as any of their washers (this comment is known as foreshadowing).

Needless to say, I was finally able to make my purchase. Mind you it took 2 days of trying several different credit cards in their system to do it, but my card finally took (I guess credit cards come with a monthly "statement" that you are supposed to "pay"...who knew?). Anyway...they scheduled delivery for the next day. At long last I was going to have clean clothes at a reasonable price! I was so anxious for the delivery guys to get there and begin the process of setting up the washer. My apartment is not for long-term use (it's more of a time-share that we have agreed to use for two years), and so it is not set up for a washer. Luckily the manager agreed to hook it up in either the kitchen or the bathroom. If it had been the bathroom, I would have lost the bidet...so that was clearly not an option! I soon learned that also not on my list of options was actually fitting the washer through the kitchen doorway. I didn't discover this fact until the guys came to deliver it and came up about a 1/2 inch short. They tried everything they could think of to get the washer through the door. I finally thanked them and told them I would figure it out. The apartment handyman was coming in just about 45 minutes to work the plumbing in the kitchen, so I didn't have much time. Luckily I have more determination than delivery men. I was determined to get that washer through that door...and I'm happy to report that I did!! What I am unhappy to report is that in doing so, I rubbed the heck out of the sides of the washer, let huge marks on the kitchen door's molding, and broke off the knob that turns the machine on and off and that changes the type of washing cycle. But I did indeed get the washing machine in!!

So there I was waiting for the guy to come and fix the plumbing, wondering what the heck I had done. In reality it was mostly cosmetic. I figured I could clean the washer and fix the knob. I only needed this machine to work for 12 months...11 really at that point. When Mr. Fixit showed up, I showed him the washer. Keep in mind that he spoke all of about 4 words in English (if I have not mentioned before, my French and Arabic is not so great...I can say man and woman though). I gave him the pointy-talkie in an attempt to get him to not only fix the plumbing, but to see if he could also fix the broken knob. Well...short version. He ended up drilling a hole in the knob and digging out what was left of the front of the washer where the knob once was. In other words, I found out Mr. Fixit was not a "fix anything type of guy". He left that poor washer in pretty sad shape (considering it was brand new, it looked like it had been used for targeting practice at our bombing range). What Mr. Fixit was able to do was install the plumbing and hook up the washer. Using a screwdriver in place of a knob (where you had to dig the screwdriver in to change the settings), we finally turned it on. Remember the comment about foreshadowing...it now becomes a player. That "floor model that would work just as good as any other of their washers" leaked like nobody's business (side note: I learned that the drain in the kitchen floor does not work). My kitchen was flooding, and all I had to show for the day was a beat up, but nonetheless, brand new washer that didn't work. It was time to take it back to the store!

You can only imagine that going to a store to return a washing machine that leaked was beyond my level of communication in a foreign language. So...I called one of the guys from work, and he agreed to meet me at the store. The washer was still in my kitchen, and I had not told him about how beat up the washer was...I would cross that bridge later. Instead, I just told him that the washer leaked. We met up at Electro Planet and he let the guy that sold me the machine know that there had been a problem. Obviously he was really anxious to help (that is sarcasm again). He told us that we were in luck!! The washer was under a warranty and all we had to do was ship the washer to Casablanca and they would fix the leak. At this point I had visions of either dying from selling off my other kidney in order to pay for the hotel to continue washing my clothes, or being sent to a Moroccan prison where I would never see the light of day because I killed an employee at Electro Planet (but on the bright note, probably had free laundry services). I think the employee was able to sense my urge to remove his upper limbs, because he quickly handed us off to his manager. The manager was slightly more helpful. Ultimately, they agreed to come and pick up the washer in the morning, take me back to the store to look it over, and then take me another washer (sadly it wouldn't have the dryer capabilities of this one...but it did have steam). It was at this point that I told my friend that there might be a slight problem with the washer in my kitchen. For one, it was still stuck in my kitchen. For two, it was rubbed all over the sides. Finally, it had no usable knob...and that knob had a huge drill hole in it. I was sure there would be no issues in taking it back. He told me to do the best I could to clean it up.

We're in the home stretch here... When I got home, I first had to get that stupid machine back through that doorway. A little sweat and tears and one more broken knob later (it held the tubes in the back)...I had the washer out of the kitchen. I went and bought the Moroccan version of the Magic Eraser and was able to clean up all of the scuffs. Other than the fact that the knobs were missing and that it required a screwdriver to turn it on...it looked brand new! I went to bed and did some serious praying. I figured I had two options...complete denial or complete honesty. I chose to go with the latter of the two options (I figured lying would negate any of the prayers I had offered). When the crew came to pick me and the machine up, they might have noticed that it was not in the same condition that they had left it in...DUH! They were not optimistic about my chances of returning it (this driver spoke English). Well...we got to the Electro Planet and it was do or die time for me. I explained what had happened (of which I am sure he understood at least 6% of everything I said). I agreed to pay for a new switch if they would still make the change. The guy in charge was not able to make that type of decision on his own. I think it was going to take the approval of the President of Electro Planet. In the meantime, EVERY employee there felt the need to come weigh in with their two cents worth. I had flashbacks of my time in Burley, Idaho. I was 94% certain that they were saying, "Welcome Electro Planet shoppers!! We have a special in the microwave department and...SWEET MOHAMMAD, there is an idiot in the washer department trying to return a broken washer with a hole drilled in the knob that is detached from the washer...and he might be free-balling" (I wasn't).

Dear friends...prayers are answered! The district manager ultimately had compassion on me. She changed out the washer for the steam version and didn't even make me pay to fix the other washer. When they delivered the washer the next day, they still couldn't fit it through the doorway. This time I patiently waited, and Mr. Fixit came the next day, removed the molding, and easily set up the washer. The washer is now hooked up and I have clean clothes! I am happy to have this event behind me. I still have a kidney for future barter...and I have that awesome bidet too!!

CLAIMS TO FAME

There are not a ton of things that I have done in my life that I can truly brag about. I do have a few of them though, and since I didn't force anyone to read this, I don't feel bad that I'm going to share some of them now.

First of all, I am a published author. That is correct. Years ago I wrote an intriguing short-story that was printed in Supersonic Saints 2. I was pretty excited to write the story. Jen contacted John Bytheway when she heard that he was compiling stories for a sequel to his first book (I think it was called Supersonic Saints...I'm just guessing here). Anyway, I was thrilled to think that I was finally going to make enough money to consider retirement. Well...इ found out that for some reason the people that actually write the stories don't make much money. However, the guy that e-mails the authors, puts his name on the cover, and does very little else makes out like a bandit! After I wrote the story, they edited it...messed up a lot of the details, and then sent me a contract and (hold onto your hats) were willing to give me $140.00 (I put the decimals to make it look like more) for my story. But that's not all. They also would give me two (2) free copies of the book when it was printed AND the original artwork of the story I wrote. In return, they also wanted to have the rights to my story. Well...I am a fan of Seinfeld. I saw how Kramer sold his stories and lived to regret it, so I'm happy to say that I kept the rights to the story...and still made $140 (am I an amazing negotiator or what? Or do I need to remind you of the great deal I got on my gym membership?)! Jen later wrote a short paragraph for Family Fun Magazine and got $100 for telling about how our family shows gratitude. I was very proud of her, but come on...she made about 500,000 times more per word than I did! Nevertheless, we collectively have made $240 just for writing. I figure at this pace we only need to write 9,998 short stories or jokes for Readers Digest to retire comfortably.

I will humbly recognize that there are plenty of people that have written something, and ultimately been published (even if it wasn't in hard book with a cool picture that they got to keep). However, it is my next claim to fame that truly sets me apart from other people. What could I have possibly done that few other people would even dare attempt? Well...in a nutshell, I flew all the way from Ogden, Utah to Balad Air Base, Iraq without going to the bathroom once! Many of you have heard this story (because I am that proud of it), but for those that haven't, it is well worth repeating. I was deploying to Iraq for the first time while I was stationed at Hill AFB, UT. I was one of the lucky guys that were going to fly one of our F-16s from Hill to Spain...stay 2 days there, and then fly from Spain to Iraq. Now when you deploy, everyone has tons of advice they want to share with you. People were giving me advice not to actually treat my uniforms with the chemicals (DEET) they tell you to use to avoid bug bites. Others told me about getting in shape while I was there. The physiologist actually gave us a brief on how to prevent needing to go numero dos on the flight over there (hint...eat the cheese first. "It will act as a plug"...solid advice)! However, there was no better advice than what came from our flight doc. He suggested wearing a "Texas Catheter" so that we would be able to pee whenever we needed to, without the hassle that comes with the normal piddle-packs we use. Keep in mind, this was in the dead of winter, and so we were wearing exposure suits...piddle pack operations at night were a near emergency procedure for many gifted aviators. I had never heard of a Texas Catheter, but he explained it to me as a condom that slips over your hoo-haw (I hope no one is offended by that term...I like to use the medical jargon). It then has a tube that flows to a bag that collects your wee-wee. Well...I was talked into wearing this...and I am sure it would have worked great. However, one of the other "suckers" that went with the convenience of the Texas Catheter tested his out early into the flight. We had flown for maybe an hour...the entire time in the clouds, and at night. I secretly laughed at anyone that was going to have to use a piddle pack in those flying conditions. Anyway...my good buddy made a disturbing radio call..."Oh no! (he may not have said no) There is wee-wee all over the place!" I made a decision right then...I would hold it! I couldn't deal with the idea of making a mess and then not being able to do anything about it for 14 hours. So...I held it. I flew all the way to Moron, Spain without peeing once. All that time looking at the ocean, and not so much as a drop escaped my body. When we got to Spain, I did two things...first, I peed like nobody's business! Second, I decided that I would not be using the Texas Catheter on my second flight. To make a long story short, I did NOT wear it on the next sortie. However...I made a rookie mistake. I had emptied my G-suit pocket of my piddle packs when I had decided to use the "spring-a-leaks-r-us" catheter...and sadly, I forgot to put any back in my pocket when we left Spain. Needless to say, I was forced to fly the next 10 hour sortie without a potty break. I was debating drinking my Gatorade and using the empty container...but was afraid I might have to put more into it than it would hold. So there you have it...my big claim to fame!!

You might ask why in the heck I chose to share that story with you? Well, it has all become relevant since I arrived in Morocco. I have lived in South America. I got over the fact that they do not flush their toilet paper. They place it in a garbage can next to the toilet (mind you I said I got use to it...not that I did it. I'm proud to have donated my fair share of TP to their sewer system). Coming to Morocco, I wondered if it could get anymore disgusting, In short, the answer is yes. I was somewhat prepared. I spoke with some of the American contractors that were here prior to my arrival. Along with warning me to "not eat the fish...ever", they gave me two important pieces of information. First, there is no running water at work. WHAT?! I tried to comprehend the implications that would involve. I was happy to find that when I arrived at the base, there was indeed water! Go figure, my joy was complete all because I could flush the toilet! All that changed after my first week here. We have now been without running water for the last 3 weeks. Now generally, as witnessed by my dry journey from Utah to Iraq, I can hold my fluids with the best of them. In fact, whenever we travel on road trips, Jen and the kids nearly have to beg me to pull over to use the restroom (don't they realize I have personal records that I am trying to top in how long I can make it from point A to point B?). As good as I am at holding my fluids; I have not been able to do that here. I am drinking water like it is going out of style here. I don't care who you are...if you drink 3 liters of water in an 8 hour period, you are going to need a potty break. I'll spare the details of how completely grossed out the bathrooms are, but I will simply say that I would much rather put TP in a garbage can than to do el numero uno in a toilet that has not been flushed in 3 weeks. GAG!

I promise I'm almost done grossing everyone out. However, it wouldn't be "Frosty's Moroccan Adventure" if I didn't share my last story. I realized from being without water that I can handle just about anything. I say just about, because recently I came across one thing that I can't get past! Up until now, I've basically focused on the wet side of the digestive tract. I'm not going to get into details, but there is a book out there called "Everyone poops". If you are reading this...you are included in the everyoen, so get over it! Well, when nature calls me for that specific act, I like to take my time! I enjoy reading, playing Electronic Yahtzee, texting...heck, I'm writing this right now from the bathroom (Okay...not really). I also don't like to do my business anywhere other than in my home. My body has adjusted to its own timetable to ensure I can be in the comfort of my own room. I think the Moroccan people must have gotten wise to my game. In an effort to ensure that I would not take too much time in their bathrooms, they left out an important part of their toilets here...the seat. True story! I went to go to the bathroom at a restaurant, entered and found only a hole in the floor. "That's odd", I thought. "They don't have a place to go number 2." Mind you what I was really focusing on at first was that there was only a hole in the ground, and that the people had very poor aim (I will not be bringing my shoes home). There were however, two steps to place your feet on. My thought was that it seemed odd that they were so intent on having me stand on these steps in order to pee. That is when it hit me...they weren't to stand on...they were to squat on...thus helping their aim.

That's it folks. I'm famous for very few things...one is writing, the other is holding my urine. I'm afraid that if I do get brave enough to try the fish here, I will be within running distance to my own private bathroom! I don't need to be famous for a third thing anyway!

PS- I'm submitting this to Reader's Digest...only 9,997 stories to go!