Ice, White & Blue

Redhead Amok in Antarctica

In A Room of My Own

There's been a bit of a delay this year in the onset of my excitement levels about returning to the Ice. 

I'm not sure whence it originates, because, really, for me, the Ice is the Be All and End All of all things fabulous in my life. But there has been an element of dread in my return this year.

Yeah, I know, dread about the Ice? You wouldn't think it from all the gibberish blubbering In Lurve posts I've written about the place. Indeed, there is no other place on earth where I have experienced greater joy and awe. But the joy and awe is the PLACE, and the dread, when I explore it, is the people.

I'm simply not much of a people person. I'm very private inside, and people exhaust me. The intensity of contact with people in McMurdo, is such that there is no place one can retreat to for solo recharging of the batteries time. You eat with 3-400 people at every meal, you shit with someone in the stall next to you, you sleep with somebody one bed over, you cry behind sunglasses from both joy and sorrow and it is only private until the tears slip below the frames.

It has taken me these last four seasons to really understand that I am an introvert, and to what extent it has informed my life choices. I know I always skewed shy in the magazine surveys, but I'm pretty good with people and have significant social skills, so I assumed I had to be an extrovert, really. I get jobs where I deal with people, and I do it well. People often seem to like me. I'm not shy. I don't mind speaking in public, being on the radio, dealing with the unhappy customer.

Then one day, several years ago, I had the basic introvert/extrovert difference explained to me as such: An introvert needs to retreat from people to recharge her batteries. An extrovert needs to be with people to recharge. People contact drains the introvert and charges up the extrovert.

Which was a major "duh!" moment for me, in explaining why, in the days and hours leading up to any social event, major or minor, I get filled with anxiety and dread and fear.  More often then not I'll cancel at the last moment and retreat into my own space, hiding from contact, and feeling somehow victorious in the escape.

I don't dislike people, not really. It's not like I can point to individuals who I wish to avoid because my emotional response is one of hatred and discomfort. It's not like that. I'll cancel on my best friend. She remains one of the only people who simply rolls with it, knowing that I do need her and love her, and it's not about her. It's never a judgment on the other person, it's about me.

I am even incapable of maintaining a relationship, moving in dual harness with anyone, for anything more than about 6 months. I lose oxygen, I starve for time, I become jealous of the time my partner "steals" from me, that I desperately need to recover my equilibrium so I can survive. So I leave, I quit. I end it.  I burst out of the other end of that coupledom with my lungs screaming for air, determined never to do that again. I don't want to be in a serious relationship, knowing that about myself.

So, going back to the McMurdo is going back into the most intense social situation one can be in outside of a spaceship hurtling through space. On some level, that is going into hell for me. There is no privacy. It kills me every day in tiny ways. I can feel the sharp flames licking at me from here.

It tears me up inside to think yearningly of my return, looking forward to the bubbles of awe that float up inside me with every step outside, to have my mind shattered into tiny fragments of wonderment at the simplest things, and to have that lust laced with social  dread. I do love so many people down there, I look forward to seeing them with an intensity bordering on illegal sometimes. My first weeks are spent in utter comfort in their company, because I know them and they know me and we share this special odd place with its special language and acronyms and habits. There is a comfort to be found in my friends, a home where so little has to be explained because in the rest of the world we are aliens with dichotomized brains, a large part of which we have to muffle whilst off-Ice. I do love these people, really. I am happy to see them. There are so many amazing people with big hearts and great lives to see again.

But the faceless crowds, the intense interactions, the inability to withdraw even while peeing in the dorm loo at 3am, the constantly peopled world down on the most isolated continent on the planet, stuns me into near panic. And I am tired of everyone, valued friends included, within a month.

So I dread my return.

I retreat to my hotel room after Fuels Training. I revel, I wallow, I luxuriate, I blog with a happiness that feels stolen, like I should be socializing with my fellow Fuelies or they won't like me. Like I'm doing something wrong, even if it feels so right, and completely necessary to my sanity. This private time is precious right now, and I will have every moment of it to myself, because I'm about to lose it for 5 months.

Yet, I am really going home, going back to the place where I am most content. I can taste it, it's that close. I am tilted southward, I have a permanent polar list. I need the Ice greater than I dread the people.

I must do, or I wouldn't go back again, would I?

posted by: coldwish at 11:20 | link | comments (4) |
between 2007

Observed on Bus & Plane

"Traffic is slow today, but we're going to try and get you there in a fastidious fashion."

I almost barked in surprise.

Noticed a woman on the plane wearing such extremely high heels, that the shape of her feet looked like they were Chinese foot bound. I thought they were deformed.

Is that sexy? Who does that and why?

Give me serious boots any day, stick me outdoors at the South Pole at -40F/C in those boots, and I'll know what my feet are meant for. Not deformed for the sake of style.

posted by: coldwish at 17:57 | link | comments (4) |
between 2007

And OFF Comes The Bra!

On Friday night, as work grew later and later with a flight delayed by local fog, I was alone in the building without even the radios for Air Traffic Control chattering in the background.

I realized that this was the LAST time I HAD to wear a bra in 2007.

So I headed into the loo, unhooked the bra in back, slipped the straps out of my sleeves, and whipped it off. I folded it up small and stuck it my back pocket, free at last.

This is the first time in 4 years I've had any kind of a job that required me to wear clothes such that a bra was necessary. Sure, I wear a bra for fun sometimes. I have dresses where the bust darts on them indicate that they expect my boobs to be levitating up around my clavicles.  Mine haven't been anywhere near my clavicles since I was a young teenager, unless I stand on my head. So I force them up there with architecture for special occasions.

I have always been uncomfortable in bras. I prefer undershirts. I even spent much of my senior year in high school and for a while after, wearing an undershirt, not a bra. I could get away with it, with the styles I wore. I wuzza punk, a goth punk, attired in black and layered like a mille feuille. But then, somehow, in a drought of self-esteem, I succumbed once again to the tyranny of the bra.

And a tyranny it is. Torture, every moment. Nearly every shirt I have has a divot or a wrinkle in the center of my boobs, between them, where I constantly reach for the bra and pull it down a bit. I've tried every kind of bra on under the sun, and all, even jog bras, irritate me tremendously. Underwires, cotton, stretch, soft cups, seamless, you name it and I've tried it. Ugh. I HATE bras. I don't want to wear one, ever.

So, for the most part, I don't. I mean, really, why should I? Who got to declare that women's bosoms need to be either one shape or the other, or higher, flatter, smaller, bigger, than others? Who got to decide that breasts should be pointy, rounded, look braless/seamless/natural, but really be restrained and controlled? Who got to decide how much movement was too much? Who gave the ultimatum about the rudeness of female nipples?

Unfortunately I am blessed in the front sufficiently that bralessness under summer fabrics is pretty obvious. I swing, I bobble, I bounce, I sway. Oh hell, I point. I garner stares, male ones of fascination, female ones of disapproval. Sometimes I can disregard all that and go about my way freely. But usually I simply don't want the attention, and would like to blend in a bit more. Fat chance as a redhead, but I do try.

So I batten them down. For years I wore super small men's wife beaters. I snugged my babies as flat against me as I could.  I wore bras, depending on the top, in the summer time. I wore undershirts in the colder months. Or I wore nothing under my warm layers.

Then they invented new things: Stretchy materials that clung and controlled, and I bought my first new fangled "undershirt/camisole".  I fell in love. Comfort and control both. I even wear the black one outside like a sleeveless shirt in the summer time. I was free of the bra tyranny, the dictatorship of the underwire, the oppression of the hook and eye right in the center of my back bone.

Except for when I play dress up, or as I like to think of it, get myself up in drag, for a party, I wear one of these things. And for the last three years, I did drag only a few times at a few parties on Ice. Sometimes to stunning effect. I didn't always wear a bra, preferring a corset or some such uplift, but I got the girls out there on parade. Some people haven't looked me in the eyes since.

Then I picked up this job at Port City Air. Many of my hours this summer were spent, quite formally, in a white shirt and black skirt at the Customer Service Desk. A bra was a must. When I was more casually dressed for other work, I reverted back to the undershirt/camisole again. But I spent way too much time this summer adjusting my bra after it rode up under my boobs, again and again and again. Thumb and forefinger-sized divots appeared between my boobs on all my shirts. I tried not to. I wiggled my shoulders, I stretched my back, I tried alternate methods of adjusting, when an obvious grab was out of the public question. But I never forgot I was wearing a hated bra.

So, late Friday night, on my last day of work before I head for the Ice, I removed it.

I could feel my entire body smile with relief.

Henceforth, I wear a bra only if I WANT to, not because I HAVE to. I'm going to be under multiple layers of long underwear, fleece, quilted-canvas Carhartt overalls, and a windbreaker. Who cares if I have boobs or not?

Reason number 3,792,411 why I LOVE the Ice.

I don't have to wear a bra.

posted by: coldwish at 14:32 | link | comments (8) |
between 2007

Last Gasp of The Soon To Be Imprisoned

I took a risk the other day, one of the last really warm summer days we had. I was running around outside barefoot and hopped in my car to head to the grocery store for the makings of a meal.

Got to the grocery store and realized my error.

I was barefoot. 

On the door of the grocery store, as is the norm in the US, is a sign, indicating the following:

No Shirt, No Shoes, No Service.

It even had handy dandy little icons for the non-readers among us.

I went in shoeless anyway. I figured a quick run in to get bread, avocado & salmon, and I'd shoot out unnoticed via the express lane. Indeed, I didn't get caught by the grocery Powers That Be, but the looks on peoples' faces as they noticed. Talk about stiff with disapproval. Never a comment made to me, but they reacted as if I licked a muffin then put it back. As if I were somehow crazy, dangerous, unapproachable. Beyond their ken.

It felt glorious to barefoot it through the market, to tread through the paved parking lot, to wrap my toes over the top of my clutch pedal. For the next 5 months, I'll be shod in boots, heavy, thick, black boots. My feet will turn a pasty weak-skinned white, sensitive to the tiniest wrinkle in my sock. Even carpet will feel harsh against the soles of my feet. I had to do it.

Ain't it funny what people frown at in different countries? In NZ, I went barefoot constantly. You'da heard my toes screaming for mercy if I'd booted them except on the roughest terrain. I went barefoot into art galleries, bookstores, restaurants, grocery stores, etc. And y'know? I was often not the only one there wiggling her toes freely, and getting hardened calluses on the balls of her feet.

posted by: coldwish at 13:33 | link | comments (5) |
between 2007

GBH: Grievous Bodily Hugging

Not currently being on Ice, I found I had to pull in some resources from other friends who were already there, to perform certain actions for me.

Some people needed hugs. And I wasn't there to give them myself.

So I sent Matt (World's Best Hugger) to hug Rebecca, who's been having a rough Winfly with bad news. He literally swept her off her feet.

Then I had to cobble together the equivalent of my own hug from a Genevieve (The Other Genevieve: the dispatcher currently on Ice) and Rebecca (a redhead) to bestow on Ben Bonnet (of Phil Jacobsen's blog fame) a Winterover who was left solo in the Food Warehouse for Winfly. He needed a hug.

They stalked him and caught him this past weekend in the Coffeehouse.























His response:

posted by: coldwish at 06:30 | link | comments (2) |
between 2007

Mental Shift

Some of you who read me frequently , and have read me for ages, may note that I changed the tags I use on my posts to reflect my mindset.

I no longer refer to my home posts by the tag: Home 2007. I now refer to them as Between 2007.

As in Between Seasons.

The Ice is no longer the exception, Home is.

A common saying on Ice is:

"The first year is for the adventure, the second year is for the money, the third year is because you don't fit anywhere else."

I'm going into my fourth year.

I'm going home.

posted by: coldwish at 06:11 | link | comments (2) |
between 2007

Who I'm Reading

I've been reading the following ACTIVE Ice blogs:

McMurdo Station during Winfly

Andre

Rebecca

Tom

Amanda

Seth

Will

Marisa

Sandwich

There are dozens more. Witness Tom's post re: the current crop of McMurdo Winfly Bloggers.

Then there's the South Pole, still experiencing its Winter. Only 54 people overall, but quite the number of bloggers among 'em.

Laura

Neal

Brien

Heidi

The Stauchys

This is by no means an exhaustive list, but these are the ones I've been keeping up on.

posted by: coldwish at 05:31 | link | comments (2) |
between 2007

Itinerant: The Schedule

This is my itinerary.

September 25th.

Boston to Dallas.

Airline	AMERICAN AIRLINES	Est. Time	4:05
Flight	1693	Distance	1562 Miles
Origin	Boston, MA	Meal Service	FOOD FOR PURCHASE
Destination	Dallas Ft Worth, TX	Plane	MD-80
Departing	11:50 AM
Arriving	2:55 PM
Departure Terminal	TERMINAL B
Seat	9D
Class	ECONOMY - Class

Dallas to Denver.  Wanna bet my bags get lost? I've been lucky these last three seasons. When I flew to Japan my very first time, my bag ended up in Egypt. When it was finally delivered to my door (a week later) in Tokyo, I was missing all my tampons.

Egyption contraband? What did they think they were? Tiny dildos?

I know it's illegal in Texas to own more than a few dildos, and one can be arrested there On Intent To Distribute if found with too many. So I worry here too.

OK, not cuz my luggage is full of sex toys.  But it's those suggestively shaped tampons that could get me in trouble. If the Egyptions get weird over them, then who knows what to expect from Texans. Witness our Witless Leader.

Airline	AMERICAN AIRLINES	Est. Time	2:00
Flight	2281	Distance	644 Miles
Origin	Dallas Ft Worth, TX	Meal Service	No Meal Service
Destination	Denver, CO	Plane	MD-80
Departing	4:00 PM
Arriving	5:00 PM
Seat	10D
Class	ECONOMY - Class

If my bags go missing in Texas, I'll sic my family on 'em. Honestly. They really don't wanna deal with Diane.

Diane, I'm putting you on Stand By Baggage Finding Duty.

Hotel	HYATT SUMMERFIELD SUITES
Hotel Address	9280 EAST COSTILLA
	ENGLEWOOD CO 80112
Confirmation Number	FUELS-
Check in Date	09/25/2007
Check out Date	10/01/2007
Hotel Rate	99.00 USD per night
	Late Arrival Guarantee - Credit Card
FAX 1-303-706-1770
Phone Number	1-303-706-1945

So, there's the phone number for the hotel where I'm staying in Denver, folks, gimme a call.

And then I'm off to New Zealand on October 1st.

Denver to LA.

Airline	AMERICAN AIRLINES	Est. Time	2:25
Flight	1519	Distance	845 Miles
Origin	Denver, CO	Meal Service	FOOD FOR PURCHASE
Destination	Los Angeles, CA	Plane	MD-80
Departing	5:20 PM
Arriving	6:45 PM
Arrival Terminal	TERMINAL 4
Seat	9B
Class	ECONOMY - Class

LA to Auckland.

Where I missed my connecting plane to Christchurch last season because Kiwi immigration had no evidence in their computers that I had actually LEFT NZ back in June. I got pulled aside as they puzzled through their computer systems. They thought I'd stayed in NZ illegally past my due by date, and I'm sure were wondering how the heck I was RE-ENTERING the counrty again. Ah well. That's what happens when computers do everything and you don't actually get any stamps on your passport as you enter and depart a country. I miss that track record in my passport.

When I lived in Japan it got me in some shit with US Immigration when I came back. They'd look at how long I'd been out of the country and snarl at me "What! Isn't the US good enough for you?"

That one stunned me. But honestly? No. It isn't. That's why I spend so damn much time elsewhere.

Only once in half a dozen trips over 5 years did I get a big smile and a "Welcome Back!"

Airline	AMERICAN AIRLINES	Est. Time	12:40
	OPERATED BY QANTAS
Flight	7337	Distance	6502 Miles
Origin	Los Angeles, CA	Meal Service	REFRESHMENT/MEAL
Destination	Auckland, NEW ZEALAND	Plane	BOEING 747-400
Departing	9:05 PM
Arriving	5:45 AM
Departure Terminal	TOM BRADLEY INTL TERM
Arriving on	10/03/07 05:45 AM
Arrival Terminal	INTERNATIONAL TERMINAL
Seat	28H
Class	ECONOMY - Class

I will have crossed the international date line over the Pacific Ocean on this leg, and October 2nd, 2007 will be forever lost to me, because when I arrive in NZ it is October 3rd.

Lucky me I'm not routed through Australia. Seats get so full on these flights taking all us Ice Folks to NZ, that sometimes people can only get to NZ thorugh Australia. A MUCH longer flight.

But, this could always change. I'll arrive at LAX and I'll hear the good news... Pfeh. More frequent flyer miles.

Airline	AMERICAN AIRLINES	Est. Time	1:20
	OPERATED BY JETCONNECT
Flight	7397	Distance	463 Miles
Origin	Auckland, NEW ZEALAND	Meal Service	SNACK/BRUNCH
Destination	Christchurch, NEW ZEALAND	Plane	BOEING 737
Departing	9:00 AM
Arriving	10:20 AM
Departure Terminal	DOMESTIC TERMINAL
Arrival Terminal	MAIN TERMINAL
Seat	Confirmed
Class	ECONOMY - Class

And there we go, arrival in Chch. I will drop my crap off at the CDC (Clothing Distribution Centre) at the airport, take the bare minimum to whichever backpacker's they've assigned. Return the next day to the CDC to do the whole ECW (Extreme Cold Weather) Gear dance with multitudes of other women in the changing room, rummaging through our large orange gear bags (2 each), trying on all our gear, seeing what fits, exchanging for different styles and sizes.

This year I'm getting a windbreaker that does not have a snap on/snap off hood. Mine snapped off and blew away under the wing of a live Herc at Pole last season. Luckily it didn't cause any damage to myself or the plane. But the risk was there. I ended up sewing the hood on after that.

I'm also going to sell my soul for more polypro glove liners. Last year they didn't have any left in smalls when I got there, so got the bare minimum of two pairs. NOT enough in fuels. We go through these liners like cotton candy. They dissolve under the onslaught of fuel, cold, use and abuse interspersed by washing them. I ended up BUYING some used pairs from the Christchurch Army/Navy Surplus Store. Or rather, I asked Andre to buy me some and bring as many pairs down as he could find. Precious gold they were. Specially at Pole where I commonly wore two pair at a time under my mittens.

Then on October 5th, that's my ice Date. I get up in the dark at some unseemly hour, possibly the last time I will get up or see the dark in 5 months, and transport my butt to the CDC, where we all dress in our basic ECW Gear, and load ourselves into a C17 plane, bound for McMurdo Station, Antarctica.

I'll wear my sunglasses getting off the plane.

So no one sees the tears in my eyes, tears of happiness and homecoming.

posted by: coldwish at 05:05 | link | comments (4) |
between 2007

Baby's Got a Brand New

Post contents coming once they are vetted by another reader.

Doesn't that just make you curious.

*********

Well, not yet a baby It's still a squidge, a smudge, a thumb-sized underwater gymnast, in my sister-in-law's belly. Karen is pregnant. My brother, Andrew, is gonna be a Daddy.

I'm gonna be an Aunt. Hehehe.

Karen's belly's a sight bigger than thumb-sized already, as are her boobs. That was my first comment last time I saw her. "Boobs!"  I even hesitated before hugging her because there was just so much more new frontage. All that room to be made inside, hips shifting, body adjusting. Her walk has changed.

And her hunger has become a dangerous thing.  Scary, really. I worry that my brother may lose an arm in the middle of the night to her ravening.

It's due late February 2008. I'll probably still be on Ice. Which isn't fair at all.

But that's okay, every time I pee I think of her.

This has been a long time coming, and will make me an official Aunt for the first time. I've been looking forward to leaving all my crap to some unfortunate child in the next generation. But as of yet nobody in my family has reproduced or adopted.  This neicew (neice+nephew=indeterminate gender) has SO Many Expectations resting on its tiny shoulders. The request has been made for a redhead, preferably a tall one.

It was never an option for me to produce my own next generation. Ick. So not me. And let me tell you how pissed I am with technology pushing that envelope so that society thinks, at almost 43 years old, it's still a possibility for me. I was looking forward at the age of 35 to people no longer asking me the question about Marriage and Kids. But no, here I am 42 and still. When will I be old enough to have people leave that behind and accept that I Am Not Ever Having Children? When can I reach the age where it can be said of me, with finality, "She Never Had Children." Do I really have to be 60?

Can I just be an Aunt? That's all I need, really. It's all I ever expected.

Thank you, Andrew & Karen.

You have no idea how much I will love this child.

****
With apologies to the Texas contingent if they had not already heard. There's a new Ellison on the way.
****

posted by: coldwish at 08:33 | link | comments (9) |
between 2007

You Know You're Tired When

You drink your vitamins straight from the bottle and shake out the water from the glass into your hand.

I need to be getting more sleep. Lotsa extra hours at work, and trying to fit a vacation of two days in between, requiring beaucoup driving hours and a ferry trip to an island.

I lost most of my first day there because I worked until 0100 (blame Mitt Romney or Rudy Giuliani for their late flights), then worked out until about 3am, got right on the road, dropped in on LLBean in the wee wee hours, and caught a ferry at 8:45am. I had about an hour's sleep in the car in the parking lot. I reached the island with no memory of the ferry ride, tossed a bunch of feather pillows on the front deck a few metres from the water, covered myself in a red wool blanket and slept hard until the sun went down. I watched it with one eye open, horizontal, cat curled up with me, satisfied with the world as it was,

But the aftermath is pills down my cleavage and water all over the kitchen counter. 

posted by: coldwish at 13:03 | link | comments |
between 2007