Hello from the B of Dad

For those of you that I did not get a chance to wish well for the next few months, my deepest apologies. True to nearly every major change in my life, the most recent happened with swift deftness that lifted me from the doldrums of life in Washington (all except the truest fulfillment of my earthly existence: my marriage to the 9FG) and set me down in the middle of the desert (a co-worker once told be the difference between the miserably hot sandy place and the black-bottom cupcake, "desert" and "dessert", respectively is that the latter is sweet, which is why you want another "s"--it stuck). But alas, I am here, in the heart of a war-torn country. To start, I live in a trailer...i am the Prince of a Single-wide. There is some consolation though, they don’t call them trailers in war zones, they call them hooches. You may now refer to me as Prince Hooch.

Why? I don't know.

Perhaps you're wondering about the green lining on the outside?
Those are sandbags covered in canvas. The rationale is that if a mortar or rocket were to strike a neighboring hooch, there would be less collatoral damage to the rest of the hooches in the area. It's a bit sobering to walk down the sandbag aisles in the greenzone knowing why they are there.

Okay, enough of the pictures, things I’m growing accustomed to in a war zone:

Guns—everyone carries a gun here. I feel out of place because I don’t have a weapon; i bought a water pistol at the PX to feel a bit better. But, it's yellow and the soldiers don't take me too seriously until i spray them.
Doors—here, doors come in twos, you must walk through one door, wait for it to close in order for the next one to be buzzed open. It's worth noting that this process involves several armed marines (see above) and blast proof glass. It's an elevator setting. Complete with people running toward the door saying, "Hold it please!" except the doors are glass so you can see the dissappoinment of their face as it swings shut.
Armored Cars—the doors (i have this thing with doors, okay?) are quite heavy (because they are thick) on an armored car, which simply means they slam with authority.
Heat—you know when you leave your car parked in a treeless mall lot in the middle of summer for a few hours? You open the door and get in, there is that hot, dry, yet oddly satisfying heat? Yeah, Baghdad is like that.
Saddam’s Palace—I work in the former dictator's B-dad lair. It’s huge, ornate and dreadfully tacky in many places. I tell you the truth, he has a mural of three missles soaring to the heavens on one of his walls. nice.
Trailer—I live in a trailer, okay? This has created an inexplicable desire to wear "wife-beaters" and decorate my porch with undrivable cars.
Roommates (that aren’t the 9FG or Tac)—as far as I can tell, mine doesn’t go to work; unless his job is blaring the TV as loud as possible. Although, I’m sure he has picked up on a few of my flaws, like leaving my boxers in the bathroom after a shower.
Food—one thing I’ll give this place, if it can be fried and covered in some indiscernible sauce, it can be called dinner, or lunch, or breakfast in Baghdad.

Of course, you didn't think you could get away without at least one picture of the dog, did you? Please see the mouthy pooch (whom the 9FG indicates has been most trying since my departure).
How many steps is she sitting on?