"This is So Gitmo."
"We've been Gitmoed."
Once you've been here a while, you hear these phrases referring to the place we all call home.
It's finding out that the cooler on the weekly food barge broke and there is a shortage of dairy and deli products. Or it's the dairy container full of yogurt and eggs that are all out of date. It's Pizza Hut not having pizza for a week because they ran out of cheese. (Last year, they ran out of dough). People swear this story is true: a few years back, McDonald's ran out of meat and buns, so they sold PB& J sandwiches. It's the Subway Sandwich Artist saying, "Sorry, but we are out of bread. And lettuce. And tomatoes. What would you like on your sandwich?" It's no candy corn for Halloween. What kind of place doesn't sell the National Candy of Halloween?!?!?
It's the movie being cancelled---because it is raining. It is work internet going out every week because of some issue---in Georgia.
It's the stampede of residents going into full-out hoarder mode and buying out the commissary when the barge dumped several containers (only to find out that food wasn't part of the catastrophe). It's paying $18 for a pair of cheater glasses, $45 for a pair of flip flops, or $130 for a pair of running shoes because you have no other shopping option here. It's the fact that, after a year, you don't even look at the prices of things you need---you just throw the items in your cart and brace yourself for a surprise at the checkout.
It's living in base housing, and thus having to take time off work to meet workers when they come to change the lightbulb in your fridge, which also belongs to the base. Seriously. You can't buy them here and you aren't supposed to change them yourself; you have to take off work to have someone CHANGE A LIGHTBULB.
Apocryphal, outrageous, and darkly humorous, stories of being Gitmoed have a life of their own around here, and with reason.
I went to a birthday party a few weeks ago and played on the theme of being Gitmoed. The decorations were from Valentine's Day, St. Patrick's Day, leftover odds and ends from kids' parties (Scooby Doo, anyone?). The balloons included retirement balloons. It was very Gitmo. If you go to the party section of the NEX, it's about two feet wide, two shelves high. You get two choices of invitations. You get two choices of plates. You get what you get, and you don't throw a fit. If you try to get all fancy and order decorations and invitations online that, heaven forbid, fit together in a thematic fashion, you better hope your mail doesn't get Gitmoed.
My mail has been Gitmoed again, and my Map of Lost Mail has yet another pin:
Abu Nakhlah, Qatar, has been added to places in Oman, Italy, Spain, and Egypt.
Something being So Gitmo isn't necessarily a bad thing, either.
On the day you turn exactly 15 1/2, you qualify for a Gitmo driver's permit. After passing a written test, your permit allows you to drive with an adult in the car, and once you turn 16, you can take the driving test and get a Gitmo driver's license.
Guess who spent 4 hours yesterday riding from one end of this base to another (and again) in Pearl with her 15 1/2 year old Gitmo permit holder son driving??
Nevermind that it's not recognized in the US; your Gitmo permit or license will allow you to have the Gitmoed driving experience.
Driving that is So Gitmo means 25 mph speed limits on the main road (Sherman Ave.), 35 on a small stretch to Cable Beach, and frequent stops for stubborn iguanas, stupid hutias, suicidal guineas, colorful chickens, Gitmo feral kitties or dogs, occasional deer, crazed land crabs, or the elusive and huge Cuban boa. Sometimes you see most or all in one day.
I was exhausted and cranky, making my way home in my super intense 5 minute commute last Friday, when not one but TWO families of guinea fowl, complete with little baby guineas, jumped out in the road. Luckily I saw them ahead of time and they didn't end up as road kill (or dinner). My commute that is So Gitmo has lots of pleasant surprises, and watching little guineas frenetically following their mama made me literally LOL.
It's the gang of feral neighbor kids who don't even knock anymore---they just walk in the front or back door, and use our yard as the cut-through. They open our fridge and help themselves.
They also snap at attention the second the Star Spangled Banner plays every morning (or before every movie) and when Colors are played at sundown. It doesn't matter if kids are mid soccer game, bike race, or climbing the big tree in the park behind our house---they automatically stand stone-still, chests puffed out, arms straight, and facing the nearest flag the second they hear the speakers.
The kids have been Gitmoed. It's charming and a little disconcerting, all at the same time. And so is this place that, for now, we call home.
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