[Insert disgruntled noises here]

Wednesday, Dec. 13, 2006, 11:00 p.m.

Guess who is writing a diary entry instead of folding laundry, cleaning the house, washing dishes, applying zit cream or doing anything else even remotely related to productivity? Why, yes, it's me! Gosh, you're smart.

I'm not sure why, but it seems like lately it's been taking me until at least Tuesday to recover from my weekend. I'm not talking about "recover" in the "sleep it off" sense, though; it's more of the "stop being angry that I can't just call in sick for the 234th Monday in a row" sense. Especially considering that every day I spend at Fort Stewpid, another drop of my life force is noticeably drained. At this point, I'm only barely managing to retain the portion that allows me to see the humor in life's annoyances -- it's nearly been overtaken by the portion that causes me to ask our office's graphic designer to create giant posters depicting me dancing merrily around while waving around my lieutenant colonel's head on a stick. (You can blame the extended version of Natural Born Killers for that little detail if you want.)

Here's just one small example of the profound retardity that's been making the rounds in our office lately ...

My current sergeant makes up roughly half of our military newspaper staff. The other half is me. We have a couple civilians who help out regularly, but as far as soldier-journalists go, we are it. We both have made it clear in many subtle and less-than-subtle (read: inexcusably rude) ways that we disapprove of our fearless leader's attempts to kiss the general's ass while simultaneously sucking at life, but alas, he is impervious to our hinting. Either that or he is just a brand new breed of moron -- we're not ruling anything out.

Anyway, he decided yesterday that since my sergeant doesn't want to work for him, he would find a new job for him.

Aside from the fact that this is a more ludicrous idea than, say, making Michael Jackson an Eagle Scout, the boss also went about it in such a nonsensical way that even a newborn child would be able to come up with a better plan -- probably in mid-poop. Instead of moving my sergeant to one of the unfilled positions already in existence in our division, he chose to create a BRAND NEW JOB.

Now my sergeant is the commanding general's Official Photographer. This means that every time the general decides he needs one of his actions documented (i.e., inspecting buildings, talking to local important persons, picking his nose), his Official Photographer will have to be on hand to do it. Because apparently the fact that we take pictures of his every move already just isn't enough, and in fact requires a title.

And our team of two is now down to one, as Logic once again proves that it has no place in the Army.

In related news, Husband found out yesterday that since we had to disenroll from the Married Army Couples Program (the program that keeps dual-military couples from being stationed in separate places) in order for me to get the Virginia assignment, he is now being moved to a post in North Carolina, even though he has less than a year left in his contract. He has to be moved by the middle of January. Which totally does not fuck ANY of our plans. Still, due to my imminent move north and his post-Army school possibilities, we were already in the mindset that we wouldn't be living together for quite some time, so this new development is rocking our worlds a bit less violently than one might expect. The only new ingredient being added to our tasty Army Pot Pie is the very real possibility that once he arrives at his new duty station, he could get stop-lossed and deployed to Afghanistan or somewhere equally desirable.

Of course, it has crossed my mind that a deployment could do Husband some good (and he agrees with me on this point), but by now, he's just as sick of the military as I am. He used to be all gung-ho about the Army, but once he realized that all it wanted from him was his time and his lily-white ass, he came around. (I might have had some small influence on that revelation. Maybe.)

My point is, we used to have some semblance of control over our own futures, and now, little by little, it is being taken from us. I feel like I'm Patrick Swayze in "Ghost" -- fully aware that THERE IS SOME SHIT GOING WRONG HERE, but completely powerless to stop it. And since all this bullshit isn't a movie (yet! Hey, big-time movie producers, my life is biopic GOLD! ), I'm highly doubtful that Psychic Whoopi Goldberg is going to show up and help me out in return for me not singing "Henry VIII" at her all night.

Although I guess I shouldn't give up hope.

This morning my company had a group timed four-mile run, which was all the flowers and sunshine you'd imagine it to be. We ran in formation, which I hate. I hate it because running in a large group of people at their pace causes me several large tablespoons of pain. There is also the Cadence Factor.

Most people who have ever seen any movie that focuses on the military have heard cadence being called before. For those who are less knowledgeable on this topic (and therefore a terrorist, using White House Logic), I shall break it down.

1. There is a big group of soldiers running in a reasonably symmetrical rectangle-shaped formation.

2. There is some loud motherfucker running next to that formation.

3. The loud motherfucker yells out rhythmic cadences (kind of like an Army cheerleader) and the group repeats those cadences, often with additional expletives thrown in to show motivation.

4. The cadences are obnoxious.

5. So it is only natural that they would be repeated several hundred times.

I hate repeating cadences less for their annoying, sing-songy qualities than for their quality of reminding me that I am still running, and that it hurts. You see, I like to kind of zone out while I'm running -- I go to my happy place, where cheesecake grows on trees and "Dick Cheney" is merely the name of an amusing S&M sex toy.

Cadences jerk me back from my happy place with lyrics such as this:

Roooollin', rollin' rollin'
Ooooooh, my knees are swollen.
Roooollin', rollin' rollin'
Ooooooh, my feet are swollen.

or

One mile
No sweat
Two miles
Better yet
Three miles
I can take it
Four miles
I can make it.

I'm sorry, but that just does not motivate me. I might as well be listening to a recording that says, "So, feel like falling down and dying yet?" over and over and over, for all the good that those inspiring words do me.

They (meaning "The Man") also say that calling cadence during a run helps regulate breathing, but I suppose that's assuming that you are actually still able to breathe while running in the first place. But, you know, whatever. By the time I finished the four miles (without falling back even once, yay me!), I felt as though my body was just about ready to spontaneously combust. The only thing holding it back, I believe, was the anticipation of another exciting day at work.

My cousin came down from ParisHilton Head to visit me over the weekend, and we rocked some karaoke. I'm not sure if "Jingle Bell Rock" is generally considered a "drinking song," but just to make sure, we added a "Merry fucking Christmas!" to the end of it as we stumbled off the stage. I followed that up with "I Wanna Be Sedated" -- you know, your standard Yuletime medley. "La Bamba" would have been next, but some douchebag just had to break up my holiday groove with "Livin' On A Prayer," which is obviously more of an Easter song, so what the hell, you know?

It is now apparent that I have been awake too long today, so off to bed I go, with visions of sugarplums adding fat grams to my ass as I sleep.