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?!"