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!

PARLEZ-VOUS ANGLAIS?!

I have always considered myself a person of above-average intelligence. I'm no Albert Einstein, but I look pretty smart when I stand around most of my friends (especially Rex ...I am Albert Einstein next to Rex). In spite of my amazingly quick wit, handsome good looks and above average intelligence, I was recently humbled. I speak two languages fluently (Spanish and English). Jenny would argue that I also speak the language of love, but this is not that kind of blog. When I took this assignment, I was quick to ask what type of language training I would receive. The USAF sends most exchange instructors to Monterey, CA to attend its language course...that was not the case with me. I asked about Rosetta Stone...no dice with that either. So...I was told I need not worry..."everyone speaks English in Morocco. In fact, many people speak Spanish because it is so close to Spain". That my friends was a lie! Sadly, I totally fell for it. I met my would-be fellow instructors in Dallas, and they spoke English extremely well. One of them was also fluent in Spanish! I was thrilled with the fact that I would not have to struggle upon arriving in a foreign country. Well...I am struggling!

I should have seen the signs on the wall during my first week in Rabat. I think there was a lot of smoke and mirrors being used though. Most everyone at the hotel spoke English (duh..."everyone speaks English in Morocco"). However, when I went to the small grocery store to get a Coca Light, there was not even a hint of understanding from the girl behind the counter. The same held true at the one restaurant I went to every night I was in Rabat (The Coc Majic...I'm not making this stuff up, and no, I don't have to talk to my Bishop about going there). I kept going there because I could literally just point to the one thing on the menu (chicken), and magically (pun intended) it would show up...all without speaking a word of French! The embassy was a different story, and once again gave me false hope that maybe they did speak English in Morocco. All of the Moroccans working there spoke very well. Needless to say, they were the exception and not the rule.

When I finally got to Marrakech, we ate out at a restaurant where one of the guys from the embassy ordered for us. He speaks fluent French, and dazzled us all. Sadly he left back for Rabat after dinner. The next morning I realized I had nothing to eat. I was faced with two options...starve to death in a small apartment, or venture out and face the music. I decided to suck it up and chose not to die. The decision to head to the grocery store reminded me of my time in Chile. We had been there just a few days and Jen was cooped up in a hotel room with three kids and a mini-fridge. We had to buy groceries everyday. It was my first day at work, and I told her to walk across the street to the supermaket and buy a few things. I won't sell Jen out, but I will say that the trip ended in tears. Bless her heart!! She did come back with groceries though...and some emotional scars. Anyway, I share that story only because I can now relate with her how awful that experience must have been.


I do not speak French!! Not a word!! So going into that store was just slightly intimidating. But with a desire not to die in my apartment, I entered the Marjane (a Moroccan version of Wal Mart, except it has lots of birds and cats roaming around inside). I managed to aimlessly roam around for the better part of 30 minutes and had successfully filled my cart with a loaf of bread, some bottled water, 2 Snickers bars, a few liters of Coca Light, a jar of peanut butter and some chocolate pudding. Clearly I was on a health kick. I realized I had enough dairy and grains, but I lacked some good choices from the Deli. I had avoided this moment. I walked up to the counter and asked for a 1/4 kilo of shaved turkey (for some odd reason, I could not find any ham). I might as well have said it in Pig Latin. She had absolutely no idea what I had said. I therefore did the only logical thing...I repeated myself. I half expected her to jump over the counter and smack me at that point. I resorted to then pointing at the appropriate turkey and making a chopping sign in what I thought was a 1/4. I think because I repeated the signal several times, she thought that the total was cumulitive. I ended up with enough turkey to last me until my replacement gets here. Long story short...I didn't bother with any of the other counters where I would be forced to interact with actual people (Instead I picked up a few more Snickers Bars...just in case).

That leads me to my final story. Rex...if you made it this far, you will have wanted to have been standing next to me during this moment in my life. I'd still look much smarter than you, but at best it would be a watered down version of Einstein. With that said, Saturday I finally made it over to the gym. I had long eaten my final Snickers Bar, and felt like it was time to get back in shape. I had purchased a membership to the gym at the hotel. They normally charge a mere $36 per day (only $13,140 a year), but I was able to work a deal and only have to pay about $100 per month!! (why did that sound like a good deal at the time?). My first problem was just getting in the gym. I had made my arrangements with the manager, but wasn't given a membership card, or asked to use my fingerprint or retnal scan...NOTHING! So when I showed up, I had no idea how I would get past the two Nazzi women working the counter. To my great surprise, neither of them spoke English...or Spanish...or the language of love (just kidding Jen, I didn't try that one). Feeling like a complete retard, I went back out to the car and got my cell phone and did what I had done when I needed to fill up with gas and couldn't get anyone to understand me ("everyone speaks English in Morocco")...I called my Moroccan friend and colleague and had him explain what was going on. TOUCHDOWN!! I was in! What more could possibly go wrong? I had a great workout. In fact so good that I felt I deserved to sit in the sauna for awhile. I went downstairs and found the locker room. There were some robes, lockers, showers, and there before me were two glorious saunas. Both were clearly marked with something in French that I had no clue what they meant. I stepped into the first sauna, and it wasn't even hot. I assumed the sign meant "80 degree sauna". I tried the next sauna and found heaven!! It was filled with steam and had some eucalyptus burning as well. I turned up my music and enjoyed being alone! That all changed after about 10 minutes. Who entered you might ask? Yep...a woman...in nothing more than a robe (this I do need to talk to the Bishop about). Needless to say we were both slightly shocked. To make a long (very long) story short(er)...I was kindly asked to leave. The sign? "No Hommes". The translation? "No Men"!

MY NEW FAMILY TRUCKSTER

I will never forget my first car! I still have nightmares of having to drive the 1979 Ford LTD (Lethargic Tin Dinosaur) Station Wagon to High School. My best friend Brian Rewalt had a blue station wagon. We would do synchronized station wagon driving in the parking lot (not for pink slips or anything, but still pretty cool). That quality automobile would later find a tragic ending to its life. The battery was stolen out of the "Grocery Getter" while I was at a basketball game. When we got back the next day to put a new battery in it, all of the windows had been bashed out. I guess it was worth more dead than it was to replace the windshield and windows, so it was sold for $100. I still tear up thinking about it. It's not that I really loved the car, but rather the tears run because it was my freedom-mobile. The only thing worse than having a crappy car in high school is to not have a car at all. After my freedom wagon was no more, my mom and dad would drop me off on their way to work. There was nothing better than being a senior and having my mom not just drop me off, but honk the horn while saying "I love you Mikeee...remember who and what you are." The horror!! Freshman would stare at me and under their breath they would say things like, "Pathetic loser" and "Isn't that guy a senior? What an idiot!" While the "Great White Shark" was near and dear to my heart, and was my first car, I wasn't the owner...that would come 6 years later.

The first car that I was able to call my own was a 1988 Toyota Celica. I bought that car when I first got back off of my mission. I loved that car and the freedom it gave me. More importantly, I thought it was actually a cool car. It was head and shoulders above the Family Truckster that I drove in high school. However, it did have its flaws. I picked up Jen on our first date in that glorious car. As we hit the freeway, RUSH played on the radio (which she never has learned to like) as we accelerated on our way to the epic first date...watching my little brother in his high school play. As we passed over a bridge, I saw something out of the rear-view mirror...my hubcap rolling free and falling off a bridge. I didn't dare stop...I had an impression to make, and I was getting the vibe that the RUSH wasn't doing the trick. My "I am the king of the world because I have a very cool, 3 hubcapped car" attitude changed the first time I met my would-be Father-In-Law. Jen's maiden name is Ford, and so that is what kind of car they drive in her home. My first date with Jen took place when her parents were out of town, so I didn't meet them until date 3 or 4. I was at her house watching a movie downstairs when her dad came home and stated, "who parked the rice-burner in my driveway?!" I absolutely love my father-in-law, but that day he may have intimidated me slightly. However, I am a quick learner. The Toyota had a short life-span in my life, and was later replaced with a Ford...the only car I've owned since then.

Why have I mentioned any of this? How does it relate to Morocco? Well...it really doesn't. Truth be told, I've just enjoyed writing down some memories about my cars. Which actually does relate to my time here in Morocco. I have my first set of Moroccan wheels! I am living in a city called Marrakech. I have to drive about an hour to get to the base in Ben Guerir. As such, as part of the gig here I was told that I would have a rental car. They asked my mom if she would come and drive me everyday, but she refused. So...I was anxious to see what kind of Ford I would have available to drive. I am sad to say that what they gave me is not quite the chick magnet that I was hoping for. I'm certain you are all curious to know what sweet ride I was given, so I will end the suspense. I am driving a 2011 Peugeot 206+. When they delivered it I was

certain it was a joke. I half expected a dozen clowns to pile out of the car, but this was no joke. The car is so small that I could not take a passenger with me when I drove to Marrakech...every seat was filled with my luggage. This French-made beauty boasts 6 inches of leg space in the backseat...that's right, 6 inches. Luckily it's small design is overcome by its powerful 1.1 liter engine which boasts 60 horsepower!! Now trust me, I've been driving here for a week. There are literally donkeys pulling carts on the road. I am only 59 dead horses away from where they are in terms of power! I will say that it should get great gas mileage, and that is important here with gas at over $6.00/gallon! Anyway...I thought I'd share with you how lucky I am. I am an optimist, at least my father-in-law isn't here. I can almost hear him now..."Who has the crepe-burner parked in my driveway?!"

Desparate for American Television

Those of you that know me well realize that I travel more than the average Joe. The military has taken me all over the United States, twice to South America and Iraq, and even to Indonesia. While being away from my family is always a challenge, one thing that has remained constant in my travels is television. I love television. I love having over 500 channels to choose from. I love that I can watch football games on several different networks at the same time. I love being able to record one program while watching another. I love infomericals...the idea that I can try something absolutely risk free for 30 days makes my skin tingle. I love reality shows!! I could spend the rest of my life watching Survivor and So You Think You Can Dance and consider myself a lucky man for having done it. In short...I love television.

Like I said...I travel a lot!! Even while I was in Iraq, I was able to watch my favorite programs via the Armed Forces Network. It's true that I had to listen to the military propaganda commercials, but it was worth watching commercials about how I could potentially die if I didn't wear my reflective belt, as long as I knew they would show who won Hell's Kitchen. In fact, those programs were what kept me going at times. I will never forget watching the 2005 Super Bowl with my bros from the 34th Fighter Squadron. We sat together until early in the morning in order to watch the game live. Again...in case there is any doubt, I love television.

Why is it important to show my love for television? Well, I have been in Morocco for exactly one week, and I am desparate for American shows!! I am staying at a relatively nice hotel in the heart of the capital of Morocco. The Tour Hassan boasts a lovely pool, a moderate workout facility (2 treadmills really and a few free weights...so twice as big as my house gym), a decent breakfast, and 3 English speaking channels on the television! Allow me to give a brief description of each.

CNN

My least watched channel has been CNN. Now normally, I would never watch CNN back home. I might watch FOX News at times if there isn't a good infomercial on instead. However, I have already spent countless hours watching live coverage of Hurricane Irene, how the stock market is doing and mulitiple features on the country of Mongolia (did you know that one of their famous Sumo Wrestlers is now a very successul businessman?). Sadly, while I love me some stories on Mongolia, Darth Vader does not periodically say "This is CNN", so I have limited that channel as much as I can.

MOVIE CHANNEL

I am not very picky when it comes to movies. My family will tell you that my taste in movies is not necessarily normal. I loved Austin Powers...I laughed like crazy at Ace Ventura Pet Detective and classics like Tommy Boy, Billy Madison and Happy Gilmore are genius! So, I was thrilled to see that one of my three options was a movie channel. Now keep in mind that these movies have subtitles in Arabic, but I can deal with that (except for when they speak a different language in the movie and my English subtitles have been removed...think Davinci Code). The movies have also been edited for sex and nudity...which is great! However, they didn't find it necessary to edit the swear words. I guess if I heard Arabic swear words, I wouldn't know the difference either. In general, this channel has been really good. I've seen some good movies, but also mindlessly watched some garbage!! Keep in mind that I can make it through almost anything. However...I had to call uncle in a movie that featured Hulk Hogan as Ray Chase, a klutzy overgrown toy seller that is really a secret agent. I lasted about 20 minutes before I had to see what was going on in Mongolia. To the film's credit, I lasted 5 minutes longer than I did for Ishtar. For those wanting to watch it on Net Flicks, it is called The Secret Agent Club. For those that want to rent it after I just told you how bad it is...do so at your own risk, and avoid doing it with any sharp objects around!!

EUROSPORTS

Without question, the best program I have available is the Eurosports network. I love watching sports!! So...I figured that this would be a great way to spend my evenings. I figured I could catch a baseball game or a pre-season football game. What was I thinking?! This is EUROsports. I wasn't exactly sure what the difference between American sports and European sports actually was. I now have it clear in my mind. European sports are any sport in which the spectator must be stoned out of their mind, drunk,or utterly desparate for any person speaking English to enjoy (I'm happy to report that I was the latter). I am sad to say that my addiction to this network began with a thrilling championship of Snooker. Snooker is a form of Billiards that I now know way too much about for my own good. I've watched a few soccer games (apparently they call it futbol over here), some tennis, a lot of cycling and even some water polo. However, nothing prepared me for excitement like some quality speed walking. Last night I literally stayed up until 2 in the morning watching an entire 20K speed walking race that took place in South Korea at the World Track and Field Championships. You might think that they were going back and forth between the hurdles or 400M semi-finals. They were not! I kept hoping they would. But alas...I watched one hour and 26 minutes (a great pace by the way) of women's speed walking. Someone help me!!

I love television!! I am desparate for entertainment!! Please send me a DVD of infomercials soon!