🐜 Charmy’s Army Blog: The Curious Case of Weaver’s “Dreaminess”

The Candy Bar was unusually busy for a Tuesday morning. The espresso machine was chugging along, sending jets of fragrant steam into the air, as Candy moved from table to table refilling cups and delivering pastries. Behind the bar, Frenchy found herself sandwiched between two people she never imagined would team up against her: Candy and this new girl Pam—who, frankly, Frenchy already decided must be a bit unhinged.

Pam was new to the base, a transfer from another unit. She had a warm smile, bright eyes, and apparently, a questionable sense of taste in men. Because who else would openly declare they were jealous of Frenchy for spending time with Weaver?

“So let me get this straight,” Frenchy said, stirring her iced latte, her antennae twitching with disbelief. “You’re actually jealous of me… because I get to spend time with Weaver? Weaver Wood? The guy who once forgot how to tie his own shoelaces and tried stapling them instead?”

Pam’s eyes went all sparkly and soft. “Oh, Frenchy, you don’t see it, do you? He’s just so mysterious. So… deep.”

“Deep?” Frenchy nearly choked on her straw. “The deepest thing about Weaver is the hole he once dug in the yard trying to find out if the earth was filled with chocolate. Spoiler: it’s dirt. Lots and lots of dirt.”

Candy leaned on the counter, grinning. “Now, now Frenchy… Pam might have a point. Weaver’s got that sort of laid-back, dreamy vibe.”

Frenchy blinked. “Dreamy vibe? Candy, the last time Weaver had a dream, he tried to marry a sandwich. A sandwich. And the sandwich turned him down because it said it was seeing someone else!”

Pam giggled. “But isn’t that kind of adorable? He’s so quirky. It makes him unpredictable.”

Frenchy slammed her paw down on the counter. “He’s unpredictable because his brain is like a sock drawer dumped out in a tornado. You have no idea what’s going to come out next—could be a genius idea for a teleportation device, could be a piece of lint he names Gerald.”

Candy twirled her pencil behind the bar, trying to hide her smirk. “Okay, okay, Frenchy, we get it. Weaver might be a little… scattered. But there’s something sweet about him too. Remember when he helped fix the espresso machine last month?”

Frenchy squinted. “You mean when he poured pancake syrup into the water tank because he said it would ‘sweeten the brew’? The machine still smells like maple. I had a raccoon follow me home last week.”

Pam burst out laughing. “That is so charming though! Honestly, Frenchy, guys like that are rare. My last boyfriend was about as fun as a sack of potatoes. He only ever talked about his gluten-free kale smoothies.”

Frenchy groaned. “Trust me, Pam, give it a few more days. Weaver’s idea of romance is showing up to your door with a bouquet of dandelions he found by the dumpster. Last Valentine’s Day, he gave me a poem that rhymed ‘bug’ with ‘hug’—seven times.”

Candy laughed so hard she snorted. “That’s still more effort than I’ve gotten lately. My last date called me ‘Susan’ the entire evening. My name is Candy. How do you mess that up?”

Pam covered her mouth, trying not to spill her latte. “Wow. Well, at least Weaver seems genuine. He doesn’t pretend to be someone he’s not. That’s really attractive.”

Frenchy tilted her head, eyes narrowed in disbelief. “Attractive? The only time Weaver pretended to be someone else was when he put on a monocle and tried to pass himself off as the mayor so he could cut in line at the bakery. And guess what? The mayor was standing right behind him.”

Candy nearly dropped a glass she was drying. “Oh! That was the day the mayor banned him from city hall, right?”

“Exactly,” Frenchy said, shaking her head. “How do you swoon over someone who gets banned from places just by opening his mouth?”

Pam shrugged, still grinning. “I don’t know. There’s just something about his smile. It’s goofy. But in a way that makes you want to hug him.”

Frenchy slapped her forehead. “Sure. If by ‘hug’ you mean ‘wrap him up in a straitjacket for his own safety,’ then yes—he inspires lots of hugging.”

Frenchy threw her hands up. “Look, for the record—because apparently this needs to be shouted from the rooftops—I am not dating Weaver. I have never dated Weaver. I will never date Weaver. I don’t even let him stand too close to me if he’s holding something that makes noise, because last time he brought a kazoo and said it was for ‘romantic ambiance.’”

Pam blinked, surprised. “Wait… you’re not dating him? Are you sure? The way he follows you around—”

“That’s because he has the attention span of a flea and I smell like coffee,” Frenchy snapped. “He thinks I’m a mobile snack cart. Weaver would follow a mailbox if it had a cinnamon bun taped to it.”

Candy stifled a giggle behind her hand. “Aw, come on, Frenchy. Deep down there’s a little bit of you that thinks he’s cute, right?”

Frenchy slapped the bar so hard the sugar jar jumped. “No! For the love of espresso beans, Candy—I find mildew on shower curtains more attractive than Weaver. If I ever called him cute, it’d be because he tripped over his own feet and face-planted into a balloon animal.”

Pam leaned back on her stool, grinning. “Well, that clears it up. More Weaver for us, right, Candy?”

Candy raised her hand like she was about to toast. “Hey, who knows—maybe Weaver will end up with a long line of admirers at that dance next month.”

Frenchy choked on her latte. “If there’s a line, it’ll be for people waiting to ask if he’s lost or needs directions to the nearest clown college. Or maybe a hospital—because who knows what’s going on in that brain of his.”

The three burst into laughter, and for a minute, the Candy Bar was filled with the easy comfort of friends teasing about the world’s silliest bug.

Frenchy wiped her eyes. “Alright. I may not see Weaver the way you two apparently do, but I’ll admit… life would be pretty boring without his chaos. Just so long as he keeps his kazoo out of my face.”

Candy winked. “Deal. Now, how about I whip up a round of lattes—on the house? We can all toast to the fact that no matter how goofy he is, Weaver does make life more interesting.”

Pam clapped. “Perfect! And who knows, maybe next week we’ll catch him writing another love poem that rhymes ‘hug’ with ‘slug.’”

Frenchy groaned, “Oh sweet cinnamon, don’t give him ideas…”

The three clinked their coffee cups together and laughed until tears rolled down their cheeks, celebrating the wonderfully bizarre friendships only possible in their little world—where even the weirdest bug could somehow be the center of attention.

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