Father's Day.

My own father passed away over 10 years ago. And for many years after his death, I hated Father's Day. It seemed like each June, the advertisements started coming a little earlier, the AT&T commercials became more maudlin, and the decorations and reminders became more and more garish. The world was trying to remind me of what I had lost and I didn't like it one bit.

So I abstained. I pretended that the holiday didn't exist and just ignored anyone who tried to tell me different.

But now that we have Munchkin, I've found some joy again in Father's Day. Sure, my kid is still too little to really understand what Father's Day is but my husband does go all out for Mother's Day, makes it a big deal for Munchkin and a big deal for me. And when he does, I'm reminded that we're in this whole messing-kid-up-enough-for-therapy thing together and I'm blessed in my choice of a partner. How can I not want to reciprocate?

So Happy Father's Day, CPT Dick. You'll be waking up to some blueberry pancakes and a whole day of no (or at least somewhat muted) nagging. Enjoy it while it lasts!

I guess I just don't understand the fuss.

So I had read about these Chicago billboards but hadn't seen one with my own eyes. I'm so glad that someone put them up on the Internet. Now I know that there is truly no length that advertisers will not go to.

And, of course, now that they've been taken down in Chicago, they can still live forever in bits and bytes.

Frankly, I'm not quite sure what the fuss was about. I mean, they are mostly funny. First, because once you get divorced you can't afford bodies like that. Or rather, if you can, you were already partaking while you were still married.

But second, anyone who thinks that someone will see that billboard and question the sanctity of marriage or the pain of divorce is just plain stupid. Fetman, Garland & Associates, Ltd., may not be classy but they did find a way to distinguish themselves from the hundreds of other firms specializing in divorce in the area.

And even better, everyone who fussed at them for this just made sure the rest of the world heard their name so often that if they are considering a divorce, the name Fetman will automatically pop into their heads. Well done!

The devil you know.

As I've said, this whole FRG thing is not second nature to me. It's work. And like most work, it took some time to get up to enough speed where I was actually somewhat decent at the job.

Really, what it came down to, is that I had to learn the rules of the game. Like how if you want to alert the Commander's wife to an issue, it's always better to hint at the problem before coming right out with it. Like how it's imperative to find someone after the weekly Women of the Chapel meeting to hear what was discussed since so many key battalion leaders' wives are members. How you need to know that Mrs. X is totally great at organizing events but not so great a running them. At functions, you must always make sure that Wife A, who believes that Wife B shamelessly flirts with her husband, is never left alone in a room with that sordid hussy. And, of course, how it is completely necessary to send Idiotina straight to voicemail when I see her number on the Caller ID.

But now, as I'm headed into a new FRG leader position, I realize that I have none of the experience (or ammunition) to get things done. It's a new unit, a new place and I know no one. I don't have the benefit of my husband waiting for his command there and getting to know the regulars, the means and the methods. Instead, I am the consummate new girl -- which may lend an air of mystery to me for a while but will require some serious hard work once that mystery wears off.

And I find, that even more than hoping that I can fit into this new world from an FRG perspective, that I can find some friends. Will there be any women there that can tolerate a slightly misanthropic, non-religious, admitted Democrat voter with tattoos and an attitude? Will there be anyone there that can make me laugh (in a good way) and have kids that will embrace my kooky little son? Will I be able to make fun of political leaders without getting the stink eye?

I hope so.

Otherwise, it's going to be a real long deployment.

Attack of the killer mosquitoes.

Poor Munchkin. Kid got into a fight with a mosquito the other night and lost big time. His ear has swelled to three times its normal size. Luckily, it makes it less likely to notice his eyelid, which is almost swelled shut, and his poor ravaged arms and legs.

Luckily, the bites don't seem to bother him -- they just look ugly. But man, I'm going on a serious mosquito-killing rampage today. 'Cause when you attack my kid in such a manner? You know, I take it a little personally.

Bring in the Scapegoat!

It would seem that some of fine Senators don't understand the role of the Chairman of the Joint Chief of Staffs. He commands no troops. He makes no tactical decisions. He provides advice and insight to the President. Sure, he helps make military policy. But he don't do wars.

So saying publicly that Pace failed on the Iraq War assessment is a little asinine.

Frankly, I'm a little tired of the blame game at this point (unless people want to go back to talking about Rumsfeld -- that's always fun). Let's stop pointing fingers and use the time more constructively to figure out our next steps.

Overheard at Burger King

"Have you seen that show, Weeds?"

"No. Heard about it though...Soccer Mom drug dealer or something, right?"

"Yes. My husband downloaded it on iTunes and we've been watching it."

"Any good?"

"Well, it's interesting but a little disturbing."

"The drugs?"

"No, the sex. This woman has two kids and the older teenage boy is having some of the raunchiest sex I've ever seen. Not only is it bothersome but I think it's unrealistic."

"Why's that?"

"I'm sorry, but teenagers do not romp like porn stars. You'd have to see it."

"Well, I can imagine it and frankly, teenagers are the only ones who have the excess energy for that kind of shit. It'll end once they get married and have kids."

A sign of things to come.

I feel like a bad Mommy this week. Hell, I feel like an all-around bad person.

CPT Dick has already taken off for our next duty station and I'm left here holding the bag. And it's just been one of those weeks at work, with appointments changing left and right, where I feel like the only thing I've done for my kid is make sure the Muppet Show DVD is on repeat since I'm just running that hard to catch up. It sucks.

I've eaten too much (and crap at that), not exercised enough and forgot to buy a gift for a lovely little girl's birthday party. The house is a mess. I need to finish two more big pieces before the weekend and have to make some time with the Army bureaucracy in order to make sure our move is a go. But I haven't yet. I just can't seem to get it all together.

And this is only the first few days of absence for a short time away. What is it going to be like when CPT Dick takes off for 15-18 months?

Eh. Here's hoping next week can bring some balance with it.

The definition of Irony.

"So, wait a minute. Why is PV2 Scruffy in trouble again?"

"Because he didn't wear safety goggles when he was mowing the lawn on post last week."

"Huh?"

"It was his second time not doing so and you got to wear the goggles."

"Is it one of those big, scary HAL-type lawnmowers?"

"No, just a regular Lawnboy."

"But he has to wear goggles."

"Yes."

"So, let me get this straight. You teach this boy to shoot guns, run until his shin bones crack, beat an opponent in hand-to-hand combat and blow shit up, but he needs to wear big plastic glasses when he mows the lawn?"

"Yes. That's about the size of it."

"And that don't seem a bit silly to you?"

"Safety first, baby. Safety first."

Preparing for a PCS move.

1. Print out signs in multiple languages to remind the movers to not touch any pre-packed boxes, to double-wrap the crystal and to not let the cats out of the bathroom, lest they end up in a box, too.
2. Ignore anyone who tells you to go through all your stuff and cull the unnecessary before you move. Every time I do, I end up with a perfect spot for that lamp I just gave away or find that the bathroom is the exact shade of green of those towels I threw in the trash.
3. Make sure to put aside adequate sippy cups, toy cars and a ball for Munchkin shenanigans.
4. Pack up any porn and other items you'd prefer unseen in a box and tape it up tight. This is especially important for the still-packaged, big, purple dildo you bought on clearance all those years ago and still haven't managed to give away. (An occasion will come up where it is the perfect gift, I just know it! Maybe Grandparent's Day?)
5. Remind your husband that as awkward as they may look, the three guys boxing up the big screen are better equipped than he is doing it all by his lonesome.
6. Take valium to get over the horror of seeing so many strangers touching your stuff.

It's dawning on me that we are really out of here at the end of the month. Well, supposedly. It's time to start getting ready for the packers.

Why do we care?

I don't know. But we do. Why? Who knows? I can't even figure out what the hell Paris is famous for with the exception of a sex tape where she looks really bored and a really craptacular single that flopped.

But what I can tell you is that all this coverage of the Paris Hilton thing has made me nostalgic for those happy, go-lucky Anna Nicole Smith days.

And like everyone else, I've been caught up in all the coverage like moth to flame. I turn on the news and there it is. But I don't think it needs the kind of analysis that people want to give it.

It's just this simple. This whole case, because of who she is and what she's done, is under a microscope. And when things are magnified, people tend to overcompensate. And that's exactly what is happening here. People are trying so hard to do what is perceived as "right" that they may be missing the mark a bit.

Now, do I mind that she went back to jail for that full 45 days? No. I have a friend who did 60 days for a similar probation violation. She needs a good dose of reality and spending a couple weeks at her mansion ain't exactly a punishment. Especially when the Ivy delivers.

It will be interesting to see what happens afterwards. A tell-all book deal? Maybe some shocking new allegations of prison sex? Probably not. More likely is that life for Paris will go on much as it always did -- red carpet nipple slips, party shenanigans and days filled with shopping. We really shouldn't expect too much.

Starting fresh.

My husband loves to tell people how much he helps out around the house. How after slaving away at work, he comes home to serve my bidding -- cooking, cleaning, looking after the boy and dressing up in cute little outfits. HA!

And it isn't that he doesn't help -- he does clean the foyer during weekly cleanings, cooks dinner about once a week, and will help, when asked, with general tidying -- he just doesn't help nearly as much as he thinks he does. And the amount of mess that the man makes often cancels what he willingly does out by the end of the day. I mean, I'm much less likely to notice that his ACU shirt has been hung up when he dribbled soy sauce all over the kitchen and just smeared it across the floor with a dry paper towel. He has trouble understanding why.

This past weekend, he had some single guys in thrall as he told them how much he helps out with the Munchkin.

"To give the wife a break, I decided to wake up with him on Saturday mornings. I've done it since he was born..."

I had to tune out at this point because the waking up thing does not give me a break at all. And he didn't decide to do it. And it didn't start at birth.

First of all, our son was in the hospital for the first month and then some after birth. And I remember all too well when, after we did bring Munchkin home, I suggested that CPT Dick feed him his morning bottle. I figured that since the baby was waking up each morning around 4:45am and my husband's alarm was going off about 20 minutes later, it would be cool for CPT Dick to give the baby his bottle before he left for work. They could bond and I could have an extra half hour of sleep.

The answer? No. No explanation, no whatever. Just no.

But after 3 months or so, after I was so sleep-deprived that I was yelling him all the time and spontaneously crying, we somehow worked out the incredibly fair agreement of CPT Dick waking up with the baby on one weekend day a week. Hell, at that point, I was grateful for whatever I could get.

Only one problem. CPT Dick can't hear the kid. At all. Ever.

So each Saturday morning, my big break consists of the Munchkin waking me up by crying for freedom. I then gently shake my husband, "Honey, Munchkin's awake." He mumbles something about wanting to wait and see if Munchkin will go back to sleep. I shake him again and inform him that it's not likely. He rolls over and ignores me. This goes on for approximately 15 minutes until I am savagely shaking my husband and slapping his thighs so he'll go get the kid already. Totally restful for me. I can't think of anything more conducive to returning to slumber than a quarter hour mini-workout and intense anger at my husband. I could use more breaks like those!

But this morning, as CPT Dick got ready to leave for his next duty station, getting the boy out of bed and changing his diaper before leaving, I almost forgot all of that. I realized that for the next few weeks, until we straighten out this whole orders mess, I am totally on my own. There may be less of a man-made mess, but there will also be no one to watch the kid while I take a shower or run to the store.

And I must admit that knowing this has made me appreciate this awkward dance that we do when he's home a little more. He does try. And he'll be trying his heart in the next few weeks finding a place for us at his next duty station.

So hurry up, CPT Dick, and get us those orders. We're ready to follow.

Even if it means more Saturday morning slap fights and soy sauce dribbles.