Military millionaires in the making.

You know, I read CNN's Millionaires in the Making blog for the comments. People are damn snarky. Mix that with stupid and you get an instant recipe for laughter.

This week, they covered a married couple who both happen to be active duty Captains in the Army. I was not disappointed. The comments go above and beyond my expectations.

Stage 5 Clinger.

Yep, I have one. My very own FRG groupie.

She calls about 6 times a day. She then proceeds to tell me about every second of her life, even if she already went through the bulk of it when she called two hours earlier. Then she calls again because she forgot something. And worse, it's clear from our conversations that she has some mental health issues.

I'm all about supporting spouses and being open to folks calling when they need something. But is the implicit meaning that I'm going to be someone's new best friend? That I'm the person they should be calling to vent about how long it takes macaroni to boil? I don't think so.

I have no idea how to gracefully extricate myself. Bleh.

Thrown.

I was floored by Owen Powell's Modern Love essay this week, entitled, "May I have this dance?"

It was one of the runner-ups to their college essay contest and after reading the winner, I can safely say that this one should have taken the prize, hands down.

And after reading Powell's work, all I can say is that I hope that CPT Dick has a Natalie Portman. You know, just as long as she's not quite as cute as me.

Well, that'll learn 'em.

"I've been asked to ask you to send some photos from downrange of the guys."

"Photos? Photos of what?"

"You know, the soldiers doing their thing. In good lighting, with smiles on their faces and in relative safety."

"Gotcha. But we don't have the connectivity for that right now."

"So any advice on what I should tell them?"

"Tell them to rent 'The Terminator.' We're pretty much living in those broken-down post-apocalyptic buildings that the humans are hiding in while fighting the robots. If that doesn't warm the cockles of their wee hearts, I don't know what will."

I really should be more upset.

Today, while out at a park with my son, someone patted my belly and said, "So will your husband be able to come home for the birth?"

And yet, after lunch, I still ate that 11th Oreo.

It's funny. The last time CPT Dick deployed, I lost around 30 lbs. I spent an hour each day walking my dog following by 2-3 hours at the gym. It was kind of my thing. Some people cry. Some people lay in bed all day. Some people have affairs. I worked off my deployment angst on the elliptical trainer and on the weight floor. In retrospect, I think it became such a good distractor because of gym people. I mean, you don't really see gym friends outside of the gym. Gym friends really don't know much about who you are. And gym friends are friendly and make you feel like you are connecting without actually asking you anything about your life. And when everyone in your family and at work are constantly asking when you've last heard from your husband, bonding over different hand grips for a hammer curl can be quite seductive.

This time around, I just don't have the time for that kind of thing. I'm running a business. I'm raising a child. I'm doing this whole FRG thing. So though I'm trying to get myself to do something -- anything! -- physical 5 times a week or so, it's definitely not a priority.

I'd like to lose some weight. Honestly, now that Munchkin is three years old, I can't really get away with saying my pooch is baby weight. Responsibility belongs solely to creamy sauces, good pastries, several good local wineries and, of course, me. But it's hard to find a middle road when you know how well the extreme worked last time.

So maybe next time I'll find the willpower next time to say no to those damn cookies. You know, provided I never have to say no to beer.