Okay, this is a little disturbing.

Glamour.com has put up a celebri-morph, showing just how skinny Nicole Ritchie, Kate Bosworth and Christina Ricci have gotten in the past few years. The Kate Bosworth one is particularly disturbing, considering she was pretty bony to start.

Is this really the physical ideal that we want to push? Unhealthy and emaciated? I really don't think so.

But even if it is, sorry folks, I'm keeping my overly large post-baby ass. I earned it with every piece of chocolate that I eat to maintain it.

Preparing for company.

"Did you remember to get rice cakes for my Dad?"

"Yes. And his all natural peanut butter and everything else on the list they gave me."

"What about wine?"

"Of course I got the wine. No one survives a family visit without wine. I'm not crazy."

"How many bottles did you buy?"

"Ten. Do you think that's enough?"

"How long are they staying again?"

"Ummm, four days."

"Maybe you should pick up two or three extra bottles just in case."

That's it, I'm moving to France.

Who needs to know what's happening in Iraq, or that more troops have been diverted to Afghanistan, or really, anything else in the world when Anna Nicole Smith left everything to her dead son and Britney may or may not have gone into rehab?

I know I've spouted off about the silliness of headlines in a 24/7 news world but this is ridiculous. Why, with everything else happening in the world, are either of these stories considered the world's top headlines? I watched CNN for forty five minutes and couldn't get away from salacious gossip and cleavage. What the hell is wrong with the world?

Still waiting for an answer on that poop question.

I mean, 6-7 poops in a day,every day, can't be normal, right? If so, I'm sending Munchkin out to be potty-trained.

Dude, you pay big bucks for a publicist.

Tim Hardaway should know better. His interview on a Miami radio show yielded this gem of a soundbyte:

"You know, I hate gay people, so I let it be known. I don't like gay people and I don't like to be around gay people," he said. "I'm homophobic. I don't like it. It shouldn't be in the world or in the United States."

Umm, yeah. Can't you see that I'm so glad that this dude is considered a role model?

The True Tale of my Valentine's Flowers.

I guess if I'm advertising this as truthful I should admit upfront that no one sent me any Valentine's flowers. It didn't occur to CPT Dick. And normally, I wouldn't think that it would occur to him and wouldn't expect to receive any.

But then yesterday, the doorbell rang and there was a woman standing there struggling with a HUGE bouquet of roses. She handed them to me with an emphatic "Happy Valentine's Day! Somebody really loves you!" I was floored. I thought my husband had either lost his mind or I had a secret admirer with lots of money and good taste.

But as I take the flowers and put them down, the delivery woman starts flipping through her clipboard looking for the spot where I am to sign for the flowers. She is about to hand me the clipboard when she looks down at the clipboard, then at the number on my house, then back at the clipboard, then back at the house.

I'm guessing you are smart enough to figure out what happened next.

As she turned beet red, the delivery woman said, "I'm so sorry, I just brought these to the wrong house." Guess someone doesn't love me very much after all.

Of course, the neighbor, proud recipient of these gorgeous flowers, is not at home. So then I'm asked if I'll keep them for her since it's raining. I take pity on the poor woman, despite her just breaking my itty-bitty Grinch heart on Valentine's Day. I mean, it can't be easy to be out delivering flowers on V-day. I'm guessing it's pretty much akin to the second circle of hell.

So I close the door, put the flowers where the Munchkin can't destroy them, and make my way back to the excitement that is cleaning the kitchen. You know, real Valentine's Day entertainment.

And then the doorbell rings again.

I open the door and there is the same delivery woman holding a bouquet even bigger than the last. And I think someone does love me after all -- she must have just mixed up what bouquet went where! They are even bigger than that other bouquet! I rule! And I raise my arms up to receive this beautiful arrangement of roses, feeling my husband's love for me right down to the tips of my little toes, when she says, "Sorry to bother you again but your other neighbor isn't home either."

Now this is some crazy shit.

Jennifer Mee can't stop hiccuping. Doctors can't figure out why or make it stop. So she keeps hiccuping. Poor thing.

And the seriously crazy part, the longest case of persistent hiccups known lasted for 69 years. I think I would shoot myself. Just listening to Jennifer's hiccups makes me want to pop a valium of my own.

Interesting research.

Some researchers at University of California at Santa Barbara found what they believe to be innate brain guards against incest with a sibling, based on whether or not you saw that sibling cared for by your mother, basically discounting Freud's whole Oedipal complex theories. It's in this week's issue of Nature.

I wish there was more to it than just a series of surveys, though. I'd be curious to see if there is any brain basis for the development of these categories of relationships. Interesting stuff nonetheless.

Zoning out to Kermit.

As I said the other week, I finally broke down and purchased some kid CDs for Munchkin to listen to in the car. And even worse than that, I find myself rocking out to them when the kid isn't even in the car. And let me tell you, the music causes some kind of trippy thoughts. A few examples:

1. Does Bert ever get jealous of how much Ernie sings about Rubber Duckie?
2. Does anyone else think that the "Honk Around the Clock" lyrics sound vaguely kinky?
3. Have any of the human cast of Sesame Street found that their role on the show has hurt their chances of getting other parts? Do they care?
4. I wonder if Miss Piggy singing "I'm Gonna Always Love You" was the start of the female identity crisis?
5. In "Elmo's Song," when Elmo decides to share the song with his friends, who is the "he" they are referring to when they say that "he wrote the music, he wrote the words?"
6. Why do kids like this stuff? And why I am, in my old age, finding it so damn compelling?

I think I may be in need of an intervention.

How many times in single day can one kid poop?

Seriously. Does anyone know the answer? I'm running out of diapers over here.

What is wrong with some people?

My friend, A., is a pre-kindergarten and kindergarten teacher in the Southeast. Her classroom is decorated as you might expect -- lots of photos of kids around the place, the alphabet and numbers prominently displayed on the walls, a calendar to teach months and the days of the week, kids' art projects and a rainbow to demonstrate colors. She also has a photo of the President in the front of the room.

Last week, however, a parent wrote a letter to the school principal, copying the school superintendent and board, complaining about the decor. He stated that by putting up a rainbow, A. was "furthering the gay political agenda," and he refused to allow his son to be a "political pawn in that sick woman's game to put gay marriage back on the ballot."

A. was fairly upset. First, because the parent didn't come and talk to her first. Second, because how dumb can you get? It's a rainbow to discuss the difference between blue and purple for 4 and 5 year olds! But finally, A. is a bit put out because she is actually heterosexual, and in a committed relationship, and is not sure how or why this parent thinks different (Note: she didn't find it funny when I suggested that her boyfriend always did look a little girly).

Of course, all the hullabaloo is requiring a lot of meetings with key administrators and parents where she now finds herself having to quote Seinfeld, "I'm not gay, not that there's anything wrong with that..." And she hates that, too, because there isn't anything wrong with that but just some ignorant dude's fear of it has her having to defend herself, her teaching practices and her moral fitness to be around children.

Is this what we've come to, people? Complaining about a rainbow made out of construction paper in a kindergarten classroom? I've said it once and I'll say it again. Get a hobby, people. One that doesn't involve burning books, painting protest signs, picketing Washington or even reading the newspaper. Obviously, you can't handle it.

Search for the perfect Valentine's Day gift?

You know, that little something to tell the love of your life just how much they mean to you? Well, don't go here: Valentine's Day Bad Gift Ideas.

(Is it wrong that I'm kind of hoping that CPT Dick gets me the Princess Leia wig?)

This really pisses me off.

Time and time again, I hear politicians spouting off that they are going to do what it takes to take care of the Troops. Well, guess what? Veterans' benefits were slashed again on Bush's new proposed budget. Got to make sure that them fat cats get their promised tax breaks!

I know that this is just political posturing but it still pisses me off. Because either we have an administration that is all too happy to screw veterans once they are out of office to curry political favor now or we have an administration that can't freaking balance a budget and has no real interest in trying to do so.

Why did people vote for this guy again?

The stuff of legends.

Can all this Anna Nicole Smith stuff get any crazier? I mean, Zsa Zsa's husband is trying to say he's the father of Dannielynn, adding a whole new level of nutty to all the paternity stuff. Then we have rumors that the baby is actually her late billionaire ex-husband's, J. Howard Marshall, conceived from frozen sperm to try to push the envelope in her inheritance suit.

Add to it an estranged mother, a property dispute, methadone and SlimFast in the fridge, and a kind of skeevy lawyer/companion who keeps getting interviewed by Entertainment Tonight and you've got all you need for the TV movie of the week.

But now politics has entered into it all. Just what was Anna doing in bed with the Bahamian Immigration Minister?

What He Missed

Dear CPT Dick,

Last night, as I looked down at our son, sleeping for what will be one of the last times in his crib, I was shocked at how big he's gotten. I know I've often said that the baby in him is disappearing but I believe that any baby is now completely gone. Wiped out by the blossoming little boy who has captured our hearts. He sleeps diagonally now and still his feet often stick through the bars. It's time for the toddler bed, I know. Funny how I'm the one who's not ready.

For the first week after you left, he knew that you were gone and threw quite a fit. He would look for you around the house crying for "Deedee." He would point to you in photographs. And he didn't want to go to sleep until you came in to say goodnight. Finally, after much snuggling, walking around the room, a few extra hours watching Sesame Street, and, yes, the giving of the sippy cup, he would succumb to slumber. But not without a fight. It simultaneously warms and breaks my heart that he feels your absence so acutely. And yes, it scares me, too, as I know that our upcoming PCS will most likely bring a deployment with it. I hope that I am strong enough to ensure that our son knows how much you love him even when you can't be here.

Munchkin is still stubborn with language, giving up few words. But this weekend, as we went off to a playgroup, he was so excited when he saw so many of his friends playing with new and exciting toys, he jumped up and down and yelled an infectious, "Hi!" to everyone. I could barely contain myself. Maybe that fountain of new words isn't so far away and you were right in that my patience was needed more than any intervention. It wouldn't be the first time you were right but it may be the first time I've admitted it out loud.

Hurry home, baby. I want you to come back before Munchkin stops looking for you, for that would break my heart more than watching him spend so much time searching.

Love,
NEE

Good for the Dixie Chicks.

You know, I just could never understand what the fuss was about.

I'm not a huge country fan but I do love me some Dixie Chicks. They had my attention as soon as I saw the video for "Goodbye, Earl." I laughed my ass off and there was just something about their harmony that got me deep down. They are the kind of incredibly gifted musicians that are able to transcend a genre.

And thinking back, I seem to recall there was a bit of controversy over that song and its appropriateness. Which just goes to show that some people really need to find a hobby. (Yes, I'm talking to you, Tipper!)

But that Earl controversy was nothing like what the Chicks experienced when Natalie Maines said, "Just so you know, we're ashamed the President of the United States is from Texas," during a concert in London in the build-up to the war in Iraq.

The comment and the resulting flack, including death threats and plummeting CD and concert ticket sales is documented in "Shut Up and Sing," a fabulous and incredibly eye-opening documentary. It amazed me just how cruel people can be. I mean, this was a time when Eddie Vedder was singing anti-war songs and wearing Bush masks onstage. When other bands were taking a much more hardcore stand in concert -- even in, hell, especially in foreign venues. The only difference seemed to be that the Chicks were, well, chicks and in the country genre. Talk about a double standard.

But last night, the Chicks won 5 Grammys for their newest album, "Taking the Long Way." CNN titled their article about it "A Nice Night for the Dixie Chicks." I know that they were just playing on the winning song's name but it's so much more than nice. It's well-deserved.

You want to support the troops? Pick up a copy of the Chicks' album. One of the reasons my husband is a soldier is to protect the long-standing ideals of this country's constitution, including free speech. I can think of no better tribute to the men and women in uniform than some women who were willing to speak their mind about their misgivings when so many in the rest of the country were afraid to.

Choices, choices.

It's that time again. CPT Dick's time is just about up here with his unit and it's time to figure out where we're going next. We've been here over 3 years and it's time to see what else is out there.

To be honest, the whole process kind of just makes me nervous. Because they ask for preferences but, you know, I can't help but feel that having these "choices" are just a ruse of sorts. I mean, there are thousands of guys in the Army. There's just no way to give everyone their first choice. And with this war, there are many places that are in dire need of certain MOS'. And those needs come first.

So I do understand that they are going to send my husband wherever they need him. And they're going to cut him orders when they get around to it. So while I'm here dreaming of Fort X or Fort Y and starting our move in May, the powers that be may very well be planning our family's move to our least favorite base or, perhaps worse, a trip for my husband straight to the desert. And who knows when they'll actually get around to telling us. I need to prepare for the worst possible scenario.

And I understand that. I totally do. But I'm still thinking about how great it will be if we get our first choice and how nice it would be in the spring. And then I slap myself hard to try to snap out of the reverie. If we get what we want, great. But if we don't, I can make do.

But still, I wish they'd figure it all out and cut his orders already. Then I can just make peace with whatever they've decided and get to packing.

I'm getting old before my time.

I felt like my grandmother as I read this article about how students are using IM-speak in their school essays. If anyone had been in the house while I read it, I'm sure I would have said that I'd just read proof that the world was going to hell in a handbasket.

Those kids today, I tell you. I blame the parents.