Overheard at the CMR.

WIFE: Oh my gosh, I have not seen you in forever! I was just asking my husband about you. How are you? Where have you been?

SOLDIER: Oh, been keeping my head down. I'm getting out of here soon and just trying to get all my outprocessing and shit done.

WIFE: I didn't know you were PCS'ing. Where are you going?

SOLDIER: I got a slot at Ranger School. [I could type in the rest of this but he went on forever -- the basic gist is that she nods and says "uh-huh" a lot while he goes on about how this will be his second shot at Ranger School, how he messed up the first time at the Mountain Stage for something stupid, how hard it is to get a Ranger slot with the unit deploying so soon, how he knows he's going to make it this time despite it being colder weather but he feels like he's got to lay low so no one decides that he can't go back to the states, yadda yadda yadda].

WIFE: Oh, wow! That's great. We'll all have to get together soon to celebrate. When do you head out, December?

SOLDIER: No, I'm out in two weeks.

WIFE: But I thought you don't start until next year?

SOLDIER: Yeah, but I'm taking some leave.

WIFE: Oh, that's cool. Doing anything special?

SOLDIER: Yeah, Amanda and I are getting married next month and I figured it would be nice to take a honeymoon.

WIFE: YOU AND AMANDA ARE FINALLY GETTING MARRIED?! AND IT TOOK YOU ALL THIS TIME TO TELL ME?! WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?!!

Kidzbop.

"They were playing Kidzbop when I dropped Munchkin at pre-school today."

"What is Kidzbop? Dare I ask?"

"It's basically Top 40 music but sung by a group of little kids."

"Wow. Something potentially more annoying that Muzak!"

"Yes, but that's not the point."

"What is the point?"

"The Kidzbop they were playing this morning was Nelly's 'Ride Wit Me.'"

"Which one is that?"

"If you wanna go and take a ride wit me, we three-wheelin in the fo' with the gold D's, oh why do I live this way...hey, must be the money!"

"You serious?"

"Yes, but they gloss over the drug references. 'Smoke an L in the back of the Benz-y' becomes just ride in the back of the Benz-y."

"So abject materialism over drugs."

"Something like that."

"Well, it could always be worse, I suppose."

"You think?"

"We could have a bunch of kids singing Nelly's 'Hot in Herre' instead."

My obsessive-compulsive tendencies coming through.

My house is a mess. A complete and total mess. There are bread crumbs on the floor, shoes strewn all over the foyer and a bunch of laundry that needs to be folded and put away. And I am starting to twitch a bit because I so want to clean it up.

So why don't I stop typing and get to cleaning, you may ask? Against my better judgment, I've tidied up the kitchen and started to sweep but I dare not do more.

Why? Because CPT Dick returns from the field later tonight.

There's no reason to clean the house before he tracks mud and other miscellaneous nastiness all over my floors.

The day after.

I've been reading a lot of 9/11 tribute posts since yesterday and I considered doing one of my own. I still mourn, 6 years later, like most of the country.

But I have difficulty knowing the appropriate thing to write.

I have a friend who lost her husband at the World Trade Center. Since her husband's death, all of her mourning, all of her sadness has had to be shared with the rest of the country. Two years ago, when she decided to try dating again, she found that when she told prospective boyfriends about how her husband died, what was her tragedy became theirs, too. She now tells people that P. died in a car wreck. It's easier, she says, for everyone that way.

It's not like she doesn't understand that 9/11 greatly affected the rest of the country -- she does. And she respects that. But she wishes there were some kind of line where she and people who lost loved ones on that morning could mourn if not privately then differently. But she can't. It is a day that will always be shared and that is not always a comfort.

So today, on the day after 9/11, I remember that morning. I remember spilling my tea in bed as I watched the second plane hit. I remember that thousands of people lost friends and family members in New York, Washington DC and Pennsylvania. I remember P. and those God-awful plaid golfer's pants that he wore even when we made fun of him for doing so. I remember my friend's face on her wedding day, slightly drunk but so happy, and her face again the first time I saw her after P. died. I remember the thousands of soldiers who have died and the hundreds of thousands that are away from home right now to ensure that 9/11 can never happen again. I remember that there is a time and a place for everything and that as we move forward we must find a way to balance personal loss with collective loss.

I remember. Yes, I remember.

Mean, mean, mean.

Okay, so I get the comments about her looking lazy, disinterested, even a little stoned. But fat? Sporting a beer belly? Out of shape? I don't even wish this woman well and I think those sort of comments were below the belt. She's had two kids recently, people! Give her a break.

I mean, there was so much more wrong with her performance. Why are people so fixated on the fact that she no longer has the same body she had at 17?

Overheard at the gym.

"What is up with Oprah's outfits lately? She get an invitation to join the new incarnation of Sly and the Family Stone that we don't know about?"

"You right. It takes a lot of pizazz to wear a big ol' sequined Peter Pan collar and Oprah doesn't have enough inner drag queen to make it work."

A classic.

Gotta love it.

Thanks to prophet for sending this my way -- my beloved "Dick in a Box" has been nominated for an Emmy! I can't believe I missed it.

See, now I know why the multitudes can just break into this song randomly. It's an award winner!

But to change the name? What's wrong with "Dick in a Box?" And what would they suggest instead?

Cock in a box?
Schlong in a box?
Schmeckle in a box?

Hrm. They just don't have quite the same ring.

What is your favorite substition for DiaB?

I'm trying to think of something interesting to say...

...but I find that I am totally, completely without original thought. The exciting happenings in my world are:

(1) I've overbooked myself work-wise again. And while that is good on one hand (extra money, cha-ching!), I find that it does make me a lot crankier.

(2) One of my pieces will be in the Post tomorrow. It's my second one for them. Now, if only I could crack the NY Times. I'm hoping that an essay they are currently considering will be the one. Keep your fingers crossed for me.

(3) My son has a cold. And as such, my sleeve has grown stiff with Munchkin snot. Because, yes, I am the type of Mom who never has tissues on her. So I have to resort to the sleeve.

And now back to potential targeted treatments for schizophrenia. By the end of this month, I may just need to know about them personally.

Don't Knopf it 'til you tried it.

David Oshinsky has a fascinating op-ed in the NY Times about just who, over the years, publishing giant Alfred A. Knopf, Inc. rejected.

It's an impressive list. Makes me feel a little better about the 20 or so agent rejections I've gotten for my first manuscript.

Taking some "me" time.

Somehow, someway, I managed to get this evening all to myself. CPT Dick is on Munchkin duty while I meet my girlfriend, J. for dinner at a Thai restaurant.

It's funny how once you have a kid, something as silly as just heading out to a restaurant kid-free for a couple of hours can feel so damn decadent. I plan to take full advantage.

I'm getting an appetizer AND dessert.