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.

Is there anything sweeter?

My son is not a morning person. Hell, he's not even an afternoon person if it is the time immediately after nap time. He's just the kind of kid who needs a little time to handle the change from sleep to waking. And that time usually involves a fair bit of whining and demands for juice. I've gotten used to it.

So I guess it's fair to say that my day starts with some pretty cranky yells.

But this morning, I just heard a quiet, "Mama!" from Munchkin's room. And then, when I dawdled a bit, to see if he was really ready to wake up, it came again louder. "MAMA!"

When I went to his room, expecting him a tirade of cries because I cruelly took a full thirty seconds to get to him, instead I got a boy with arms outstretched, waiting to be picked up. And then, the best part, once I got him into my arms, he gave me a smile and a big "Mmmmm-wah!" kiss on my cheek before finding an empty cup to slam on my arm.

Makes that whole waking up at 6:00am thing totally worthwhile.

Still no orders.

CPT Dick starts on Monday. We will still be here. No word on when the orders will come down so we can actually join him.

It is making me a little crazy.

I'm not even thinking about the fact that (a) my husband deploys this fall, (b) prior to that he'll go off twice for at least a month each time to train up for the mission. No, right now I'm totally wringing my hands over (c) the fact that since he has to report before the Army bureaucracy has caught up with him, he'll spend a few weeks away from home until it all gets sorted. Time that will involve moving. Time that will involve a lot of deadlines. Time that will involve a very cranky Munchkin. Time where I will slowly go more and more insane until I have no choice but to take those around me along for the ride.

But the other thing that annoys the crap out of me about all this is my rental agreement. Until we have orders -- or at least assignment instructions -- I can't break our lease. And our lease states that we have to give 30 days notice once we have those orders. So by my count, if CPT Dick is correct that we will move by the end of this month, we will be paying 10 days of rent, but probably more, out of our own pocket. Just because the Army can't figure out a way to print out a sheet of paper on time.

When I think sometimes about how much money the Army has cost us over the years -- between destroyed furniture from moves that they say isn't worth what we paid for it, the uniform changes, the 90 days of training that they mistakenly took as leave and can't seem to fix, all of those painfully overpriced balls and Hails and Farewells, and now, perhaps, a month of rent -- I get angry. I'm grateful that we can afford to take some of these setbacks but what about others? How will they cope? And why doesn't it matter more?

I just want this move done and over with. Complaining about annoying phone calls is much more satisfying and so much less detrimental to my personal self-esteem.

Watch out, Perry. There's a new man about town.

I've already admitted to my serious crush on Dr. Cox. But I've found that, of late, my affections have strayed to a new man.

To Greg House, MD.

Sure, I hear you. What's so different? Another doctor. Another curmudgeon. And most importantly, another fictional television character. I know I have a problem. But he's just so dreamy, I cannot resist.

So, Perry, I know we had something special. We still do. But you know the old saying -- if you love something, let it fantasize about an older British actor for a while. And if it returns to you, be sure to suggest a hypothetical threesome. Or something like that.

Answering questions.

I've gotten a couple of emails asking my thoughts on the new Army Wives TV show as well as the recent GOP debate. I haven't commented because, very simply, I haven't watched either of them.

I know the idea of me missing a debate may seem like a serious dereliction of duty but, honestly, we're still so far away from the election and I can't take anymore of the bullshit. Seriously. I watch and I just get angry at pretty much every candidate for bending like a reed in the wind in hopes of raking in a few more dollars to keep them in the race. So, for my own sanity, I'm going to ignore these first few rounds of posturing and tune in again once some of the hand raisers have been effectively weeded out. Then maybe serious candidates can get the opportunity to talk beyond a 10-second soundbyte and show me why they deserve my vote.

I'll still read the transcripts, of course. But things always seem less dire when read the morning after with bedhead and some caffeine.

As for Army Wives, well, I'm an FRG leader. I get to deal with wives every day. I don't think I'm missing much. But if I'm wrong, let me know. Now that House is over for the season, there may be room in my life for a new television addiction.

Top International Headlines.

Well, I guess headline inflation is an international phenomenon.

I headed to Der Spiegel newspaper today to read German reports about the G8 summit. And they were there. But along with them, in the top headlines, was this story -- "Bigger Than They Think: Scientists Reassure Men Worried About Penis Size."

The gist? Umm, if you think you have a small penis, it's actually probably average-sized. So you don't have to buy one of those Austin Powers-approved Swedish penis pumps or practice imperial domination in your spare time just to feel up to snuff.

On second thought, perhaps the decision to print this story today didn't have something to do with the guys at the G8 after all.