Hey, what you did is pretty cool. Thanks.

I had a lovely dinner last night with an old friend who had just returned from Afghanistan. Upon returning from war, after kissing his wife and baby at the airport, my buddy Armando bought an ultra-fancy cell phone and filled it with Star Wars ring tones.

So here I am sharing sweet potato fries with him and listening to sound bytes of Hans Solo, and just days before he was surrounded by God knows what. I can only imagine. I can only imagine because we don't talk about Afghan weather, the sights, or marvel over souvenirs. There was no excited anticipation over all his stories of the things he had witnessed. I mean, it wasn't a holiday in St. Tropez. He does mention the food, saying it was pretty good after you got over the initial digestive problems that inevitably wreaked havoc on your stomach.

The conversation turns to my sister-in-law and her husband, who just finished hiking the Appalachian trail. They hiked from Georgia to Maine, I believe the technical term is a bazillion miles. They were hard on their bodies, worked happily to achieve this dream, and encountered way too many insects than I would care to think about. They have a blog filled with beautiful scenery, many followers that hang on every update, and inspiring stories to share to many willing ears.

As we are sitting in the restaurant last night, it occurred to me how different the reactions are to these two stories. One man, a new father, in a war zone for a year. Another, a married couple hiking for six months. Both elected these paths, both now home after some time away from loved ones. But Armando's has no fanfare, no happy photos, no blog followers. He just quietly rejoined life, content to compare cell phone apps and watch the Cowboys in a pre-season game.

I feel a twinge of injustice, feeling he should get as much hoopla. Maybe even... a bit guilty at how much fervor I myself have chatted about the hikers and how many people have asked me about their journey. Don't get me wrong, I am so proud of those nature-loving nuts. I think my point is, I didn't want a less beautiful and exotic journey to go without recognition. What do the kids say these days? I want to give Armando a"shout out", if you will. And tell him he makes Hans Solo look like a sissy.

At the restaurant his wife happily chats next to me, his parents coo over the baby, the men stare at the Dallas game on the flat screen. War is a long way away, I suppose, and I stare at my salad suddenly overwhelmed with gratefulness. I have a grandfather, dad, brother-in-law, husband, cousin and many more who have served this country and I am infinitely grateful. Every day they are a hero to me. I thank God for their safe return. And I guess I just wanted to take a minute to remind everyone to put your focus into perspective. Just to take a moment to thank them, to be a bit excited they serve our country. It's kind of a big deal.

You Must Be This Tall to Be This Crazy

Today the top news on my home page was some 3 year-old who could recite a poem. Even with the distraction of toys. Uh...ok... I mean, sure, he's cute, but yesterday I managed to find the shut-off valve for the hot water under the sink and no one put my face on the web. And guess what else I can do? Use a toilet. Take that, 3-year old poem reader.

Is it wrong to compare skills with a toddler? Hey, if it's wrong to be proud of years of independent accomplishments and put them side-by-side with a small child to make myself appear infinitely superior, then I don't wanna be right.

Oddly, I have several comparisons to the contrary. After over 30 years of life, I have yet to master not falling down. It seems like I should have gained better bipedal skills...No matter. And I sometimes cry when I need a nap. But at least I don't have a sippy cup. My Chardonnay is served to me in a shatter-proof plastic stem glass. (I may have dropped one or two glass ones in the past, and this seems to bypass the messy cleanup.)

Just this morning when Bryan and I were cleaning the garage and I cut my finger, I didn't cry for my mommy. I hyperventilated and made a sound similar to an injured Ostrich until my husband put a bandage on it. I'm a grown up. I have a garage. What do you have? Elmo? He's a puppet.

So, little toddler, next time you recite a poem, or-alert the Pulitzer Committee-the alphabet, remember this: I don't have a lisp. And my pants don't have snaps in the crotch. I may already know less than you about using anything invented by Steve Jobs, but I can go on a roller coaster. I won't, because they scare me, but I could if I wanted to.

Little poem-reading boy, you have the heart of America right now. I encourage you to live in this moment. Reading a whole poem is an impressive accomplishment for a baby. Bet you wish you could read Twilight. I can. Twice. Okay, more than that. Maybe not the best use of my time. Whatever, the point is Elmo is a moron and Edward Cullen is awesome. And I am an adult...right?

Two tickets to life, please.

"Soul Mate." The very phrase evokes images of Hillary Duff or Zack Efron in some horrible teen film where two star-crossed lovers are juxtaposed in an unfair situation yet still have blindingly white teeth and $650 pumps.

"Love takes work and intention, not fairy dust." My married friend remarked the other day. She was tired of the implication that it's all rose petals and embraces. I have to agree. I mean, the term "Soul Mate" sounds more to me like a coffee creamer for jive people than anything. Jerry Maguire may have uttered the phrase, "you complete me" for all hopeless romantics to cling to, but that begs the question, was I incomplete before?

If you answered yes and believe yourself on a higher plane of romance, then congratulations, you are a codependent with low self-esteem. Stop griping, hopeless romantics, it's just that a healthy relationship actually takes two whole individuals. We have been trained to believe that you are in a greater state of love if you constantly dramatically position yourself as the other's savior. Otherwise, you're just a sub-plot.

Every Hallmark card involving an anniversary gushes about the timeless romance that still is burning. It doesn't say, "Next year could you please not voice your idea to change careers at the same moment I am crying about a large financial obligation? Thanks, your loving wife."

I'm not saying there isn't romance, or even overwhelming love. Of course there is. It should go without saying, but I feel the need to drive this point home- it's not a movie out there, people. I am not going to get a letter saying I am the lost heir to a crown and now have the hilariously awkward task of learning royal etiquette which catches the eye of a prince that looks remarkably similar to an Abercrombie model. Love ensues, credits roll.

Many movies, though some better written, have this basic idea. The chase, the romance, the falling for someone. They rarely show the long, sometimes hard, sometimes boring 40 years or more of marriage. Maybe that's why people so easily give up and the divorce rate is so high. They don't know what to do past the initial excitement.

Love isn't an emotion, it's an action. You choose to love someone past the rolling credits. Yeah, my life movie has those first kiss, awkward first-date tension memories with Bryan, sure. But the best part of the movie isn't the initial attraction, the dating, or even the wedding. The best parts are the ones where you truly get to know all the aspects of someone. Moments that are ugly, hilarious, embarrassing, and so rewarding. Moments that would send Hillary Duff running in the other direction, but you stay. Not because that was how some cosmic fate decided it, but because you choose it.

I could say that Bryan is my "Soul Mate" and some people would sigh and smile. But I want to give him more credit than that. He chose his wife, continues to choose me every day, and damn, he has good taste.

Happy, Sleepy and Grumpy

"The early bird gets the worm!"

"Rise and shine!"

"I'm a morning person!"

These and other obnoxious sayings are meant to belittle and shun the-gasp-people who like to sleep.

When I was a little girl, I never argued about naptime. As a teenager, I slept an alarming amount. Now, as an adult, I relish the velvet luxury that is slumber. Yes, I said it. I like to sleep.

It seems a popular bragging point with Morning People to casually mention how early they arose. Whether they have triplets, like to paint the sunrise, or just prefer to trek to Guatemala to pick their coffee beans for the most sensationally perfect cup of coffee ever, they love to let you know.

Morning people will often start with a comment like, "I just love the way the morning sun relaxes me." You know what relaxes me? Unconsciousness. And then they will respond with something extremely passive aggressive, like, "Hm. I wish I could sleep in, I just have far too much to do! Gosh, it must be so nice." It is nice. Now, I'd love to stay and chat about the afghan you knitted at 5:30, but I need to take a nap.

My father is one of the belittling morning people. He has never shown an interest in music, but during my visits he will often assemble a seven-piece orchestra at six in the morning. When I emerge from my room disguised as a rabid Yeti ready to tear his face off, he looks at me blankly and explains he is merely loading the dishwasher. Then he will shake his head in disgust and prepare the slew of disparaging comments he will present when I emerge at (the nerve!) nine. Such little gems like, "Thanks for joining us, finally." And my personal favorite, "half the day is gone!" Apparently, what Morning People make up for in excess chores, they lack in math.

My sleeping schedule seems to just be nails on a chalkboard to Morning People. My work schedule is compliant, my husband has learned to deal, nothing suffers as I peacefully dream. So, early bird, go catch your worm. I'm the Late Bird. I ate your worm last night with a glass of Chardonnay. And, oh, yeah, it was buttery.