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.

A great article on McCain in the Sunday Times magazine.

And the money quote:

"As I said a year ago,” he told me, “I would rather lose a campaign than a war.”

Read the rest.

After all that fuss, the check didn't even show up.

I filed our taxes on time. I designated that we'd like our stimulus check direct deposited. But it did not show up.

Not that it wouldn't have gone directly into my investment account, but still, I can't spend what I don't have, Uncle Sam! And funny, none of the related Web sites tell me what I should do if I do not receive my check.

Advice for the ages.

"I can't believe you thanked _____ in your speech. I mean, it was ______'s fault that we got here in the first place."

"Yeah, but he also stood back and let us fix the problem. He was willing to work with us. And because of that, ultimately, we got what we want."

"But still..."

"Look, I was raised that when someone helps you get what you want, you give them a reach-around whether they really deserve it or not. It's just good, old-fashioned manners."

Overheard at the BX today.

"I wish they made chewing gum for vaginas."

(My mind is still swirling this one. Did she have that not-so-fresh feeling? Was she looking for assistance with her kegels? Was she looking for some kind of fixer to keep intruders out? Or something infinitely more sinister? Honestly, it was all I could do not to go up and ask her what the hell she meant by that).

Is it wrong...

...that when I read that the Duggars are going to have another frickin' baby, #18 at that, all I can think of is that early scene in Monty Python's The Meaning of Life? You know, the whole Miracle of Birth segment?

[Inside the house. A pregnant woman is at the sink. With a cry, a new-born baby, complete with umbilical cord, drops from between her legs onto the floor.]

Mother: Get that would you, Deirdre...

Girl: All right, Mum.

[The girl takes the baby. Mum carries on.]