The most wonderful time of the year.

Or not.

I had to go to the PX to pick up a couple of things today. It's a Saturday and since I know that the PX is a happening spot on the weekends (why, I don't know, but whatever) I get there right at opening.

Well, I forgot about Christmas.

Holy shit. Between the Christmas carols at full volume (note: country musicians should not be allowed to put out Christmas albums EVER. I am going to make sure it ends up on a ballot at some point), the bright holiday decorations, and every single PX employee opening their mouth into a AAFES-approved smile as they wished me a Merry Christmas, I thought I had died and gone to Stepford.

What's worse is that they didn't have what I needed -- vacuum bags -- but when I asked if there might be any in the back, I was informed that they did have a large and lovely toyland set up in back instead. Well, that's nice and all but it ain't going to get the Cheerios off my floor. Guess Munchkin will just have to keep on eating duty for a few days more.

Remind me not to step foot into the PX until well after the new year. I don't think my nerves can take it.

Jonesing for Harry.

I am a Harry Potter fan. There. I said it. I AM A GROWN WOMAN AND I LOVE HARRY POTTER. I'm not ashamed.

I think JK Rowling's tales of the boy wizard are fantastic and I wait impatiently for each book and movie to be released. So impatiently, in fact, that I once made my husband drive me across state lines so I could pick up a copy of "The Order of the Phoenix" one day earlier. Like I said, I'm a fan. Maybe even a slightly kooky one at that.

But this Christmas there is nothing to look forward to. No movie release. No book. Just months and months of anticipation to bear until next summer. I'm not sure how to cope. I've already read and reread each book in the series. I have the movies on DVD and frequently get my Potter fix on. I've gotten on the forums and talked about where I think the story is going and cast my vote on whether Dumbledore is really dead and gone. But these actions are empty. They only remind me of what I won't have in my hand for some time to come. And that's the next book. I am beginning to really worry about what is going to happen to poor Harry. And I have enough to worry about as it is.

It may be time to start sending Ms. Rowling a few emails to remind her to write faster.

Please cover the coochie.

The Gallery of the Absurd has an awesome artistic work of Britney Spears, Lindsay Lohan and Paris Hilton called the "Three Disgraces." Absolutely priceless.

Of course, what I can't understand is why these women are so happy to flash the coochie day in and day out. Don't they know that they could get good money for that shit (not to mention "tasteful" artistic shots) if they just sold out to Playboy? Heck, I think Hustler would make them look more innocent than the paparazzi do.

In any case, ladies, if you are reading this, please cover up. I'm a mother now and completely terrified that you might all catch cold.

Bush is "not happy" about Bolton's resignation.

Oh well. I, for one, am doing a happy dance. And I'm sure that quite a few others will join me.

And if Gonzales resigns in the next few weeks, I'll even do the Macarena. In public. Naked.

Read about it on CNN.

The mantle has been passed.

At a hail and farewell a few months back, I had a little too much to drink. One might say I was drunk. More accurately, I was seriously, out-of-my-frickin-mind obliterated by alcohol. It might have been the fact that I sort of dislike these mandatory fun events, that I was tired and stressed from too many deadlines, or that I hadn't had more than a glass or two of wine since I weaned my son. Alternatively, it could have been the half bottle of whiskey I consumed as a bunch of young soldiers cheered me on. Who can tell?

In any case, I was smashed. And somewhere after my fifth glass of wine and fourth shot of tequila (with a Jameson chaser), I lost track of what I was saying and doing. By all accounts, the drunk me was a hit. I brought sexy back. But CPT Dick was a little embarrassed by my behavior. One of the other CPTs consoled him by saying, "They all do it. At one time or another they all do it and we have to watch. It's just your turn tonight."

Well, last night, it was everyone else's turn. Several of us from the unit had to attend a division formal. And since these things tend to be long and drawn out (and the bar lines exceptionally long), the more industrious members of our group brought their own hooch.

Not only did they bring their own, but several wives walked over to the Class Six (a fair jaunt) during the formal portion of the evening -- in full formal regalia and pointy heeled shoes -- to buy more when the tables ran out. And let me tell you, between the booze there, the booze brought and the traditional "punch" served, the ladies were flying high.

I think it is fairly safe to say that I have passed my mantle as "Most Drunken Wife at a Military Function." I'll just have to try harder and see if I can't up the ante at the next ball.

Total disaster.

Well, I'm not sure how exactly the Developmental Nazis are going to say anything concrete about my son. Sitting there during their evaluation was pretty much like watching my young nephews put on a stage performance of the Power Rangers. It was chaos and anarchy, almost funny, but you have to swallow any laughter because the performers are taking themselves very seriously and you don't want to shatter the illusion.

When they arrived, they put a big case full of toys in front of the Munchkin. And then they OPENED it so he could see them all there waiting for him, his own little toddler toy orgy. And then they wondered why he didn't want to pay attention to the tasks they wanted him to do when there was a whole big box of sunshine to explore.

Needless to say, the visit didn't go incredibly well. And of course, at the end of it, when the Munchkin had collapsed into screams because they had taunted him with new toys and then sadistically took them away, they said they'd come back when my son was in a better mood. What a crock. Who trained these ass hats?

Developmental Nazis: The Return.

After our last visit from the Developmental Nazi, I was told that we were going to adopt a wait-and-see strategy for Munchkin's lack of language. But apparently, once the the coven of DNs got together to discuss this reasonableness, this far too sensible approach, they decided it was better to throw the agreed upon plan over for a more entertaining make-the-kid's-mother-completely-insane proposition.

Today, the DNs will return -- en masse -- to evaluate my son. And once again, I face the visit with impatience and frenzied cleaning. And here's me thinking I wouldn't have to mop again until after the new year.

I doubt that this visit will be much different than the last one. And yet, I'm still stressed about it. So much so that I found myself telling the Munchkin that I would buy him his own mini Ferrari if he would just recite a soliloquy for our visitors (and maybe that I'd get him a hooker to match if he was willing to do the St. Crispen's speech from Henry V). But he seemed to resent the fact that I wanted him to kowtow to these folks and perform like a trained monkey. Ungrateful little snot.

And now I must finish cleaning before they arrive. I've skipped the lemon juice altogether this time and used storebought mop solution. So if Munchkin starts licking the floor this time, at least he'll get a good buzz. Hell, I might take a lick of it myself. Just to calm the nerves.

Got to Have Faith.

A few months ago, our post, like many, hosted a Vacation Bible Camp (VBC). I should probably state for the record that my family is not overly religious and I didn't intend on signing the Munchkin up for said camp. I should also probably tell you that it's not monsters or bumps in the night that scare the shit out of me, but crazy Baptists.

But in any case, the VBC needed volunteers. And one thing you should know if you are even considering marrying an officer is that you need to love volunteering deep down into your itty bitty toes. Or, at least, tolerate it without wanting to tear other people's heads off. Either one works but if you fall into the latter category you also have to spend hours practicing not looking like you want to tear other people's heads off. Trust me, I've spent some serious quality time with the mirror to cultivate a passive look.

In any case, I had no intentions of volunteering for this one (it had a theme like Viva Las Jesus with a horrifying Jonestown-esque t-shirt with kids in sombreros -- and the kids had totally already drunk the Kool-Aid) but I felt sort of bad because of this whole volun-telling culture with us wives. And so, I made the mistake of looking for absolution.

On a phone call with another wife (I'll call her Rae) about a fundraiser or gift or some other nonsense -- I told you there was a lot of volunteering -- I mentioned that I felt bad about not volunteering for the VBC and then went into self-defensive justification that Munchkin was too young, we weren't religious, yadda-yadda-yadda. To her credit, Rae listened and then said, "You know, you should volunteer. I think it would be fun for Munchkin since there will be lots of other kids there and I've seen the materials and it's really not over the top."

We got to talking more and I explained my issues with organized religion and my atheistic tendencies. We talked a lot about faith and how it doesn't come so easy for some people. And we talked more about the VBC and how it could help introduce the ideas of faith and God to my son.

Needless to say, Miss Rae did an excellent sales pitch and got me thinking maybe I wasn't quite as open-minded as I thought. Maybe the VBC would be something that my son would enjoy and I needed to remove the stick from my ass. It would be fair to say that her comments made me wonder if the religious intolerance didn't stem from those crazy Baptists but from deep down inside me.

Fast forward a week. I'm at some God-forsaken luncheon for somebody and I'm seated at a table with Rae, the Chaplain's wife and the woman who is organizing the VBC. Once again, a wide call for volunteers is raised. And then I make my fatal mistake. I look over at my tablemates and I say, "If you really need volunteers, I can help."

There was a moment of total silence. And then Rae, my supposed ally in a walk towards the Lord, looked over at the Chaplain's wife and said in a snotty voice, "Yeah, right. Like we want the kids around someone who doesn't believe in Jesus. That would be some role model!" And the other two women laughed and went on with their planning for the event as if I wasn't even there.

I was more than a little pissed. First, this woman had been the one trying to talk me into volunteering. And second, she took comments made during our conversation about religion, warped them and used them completely out of context. But the good news was that I learned that someone was not my friend that day. And more importantly, I didn't have to don a sombrero and ruin a classic Elvis song for children by singing lyrics like "Viva Las Jesus." So perhaps it was a win-win situation after all.

But now with the holidays approaching, the call for volunteers is ringing loud throughout the unit. Volunteers to set up for holiday services, Christmas carolling, and Christmas tree lighting. And once again, I find myself thinking about that long phone conversation about faith I had with Rae.

I do want my son to see both sides of this story. I do want him to learn that faith is possible. I just don't think these are the people who should be teaching it to him.

A piece of advice.

Never, ever, upon pain of death, ask a commissary employee for help in finding mascarpone cheese. Mass confusion and chaos will ensue. Don't be fooled if the employee's nametag designates her as a deli expert. Don't mention the word "tiramisu" in hopes that it will help elucidate what exactly you are looking for. Don't explain how it is a sweet Italian cheese often used in desserts. Just don't.

And don't be surprised that after going through all that for 5 minutes straight that said deli "expert" will offer you a nice aged Wisconsin cheddar to use instead. Just say thank you, slowly back away and resist the urge to throw the block of cheese at her head.

Tune in Tokyo.

For the first 6 months of my son's life, I didn't shower without an audience. When I actually remembered to shower, that is. It was quite a treat when he got big enough to entertain himself in the Exersaucer or on the floor of his room so I could shave my legs with some privacy. It was a sweet taste of freedom that, like most, did not last long enough.

Munchkin went totally mobile quite a while ago but it's only very recently that he went completely off-the-fucking-wall daredevil. And so, he's right back in the bathroom with me when I shower
so he can't rappel down the side of the house in the time it takes to shampoo. Neither of us is really happy with this arrangement but we're making do.

Yesterday, after stepping out of the shower, Munchkin walked right up to me with his arms up, like he wanted to be picked up. I told him, "One sec, baby, I'm all wet." But he kept coming so I bent down to see what was up. And it was then that it occurred. I still can't believe it. The boy took hold of my boobs -- one in each hand -- and did a double-squeeze like he was testing the fucking Charmin.

Before I even had time to react, he sort of shrugged with boredom and went back to his toys on the floor. I'm not sure whether to be relieved or hurt that my boobs no longer hold any appeal. Maybe a little of both.

This kid is definitely his father's son.