Tonia and I didn’t have much in common. She hadn’t heard of Prague, lobotomies, or The Da Vinci Code, which, I thought, pretty much covered all of Western culture. But we had to talk, because we were two unemployed Army wives, living together in a one-bedroom apartment in Germany with our infantrymen as we waited for my husband’s housing paperwork. After a couple days of awkwardness, Tonia and I finally found a topic we could bond over: German sluts. German sluts would try to steal your man. German sluts would go after any soldier, they didn’t even care if he was married. German sluts wore a lot of ugly spandex. We discussed German sluts and watched Seinfeld and drank pickle juice together. I had never done that before. It was like drinking a cup of bottom shelf vodka. It was like drinking a cup of death.

This is what Army wives’ lives are really like. They bear little resemblance to the treacly drama Army Wives, Lifetime’s most popular show. Army Wives would have been better off to have stolen the mantra of Seinfeld: no hugging, no learning. Second Lady Jill Biden, who recently guest-starred on the show, offered the same tired platitudes real Army wives hear every week from their husbands’ bosses and the various groups created to keep the wives feeling good about sacrificing so much for a war so few believe in. “Just know that you are not alone,” the softly-lit Biden said. “We are so grateful for what you do.” The thing is, these banalities are not comforting, they’re irritating.

After almost a decade of war, American soldiers are revered by most of the country. It’s not that soldiers appreciate it, but all this reverence has an unfortunate side effect: pop culture doesn’t dare to criticize Army culture. Or make fun of it, which is a shame. It is a better setting for comedy than for drama.

Maybe that’s why nearly every Iraq or Afghanistan war movie—critically acclaimed or not—has been a box office flop, even as videos of soldiers dancing to Lady Gaga go viral. One of the most successful Iraq films, The Hurt Locker, won an Oscar but pulled in just $16.4 million domestically. That’s about half as much as The Men Who Stare at Goats, a comedy about a 70s-era military program to teach psychic powers. Perhaps its modest success can be attributed to its exploration of the absurdities of military life, even if the events happened 40 years ago. Because it’s not that civilians aren’t interested in soldiers. But treating them as sacred, and ignoring the absurdities of military life, makes them boring.

The Army is this massive engine trying to keep a couple million young people together while discouraging as many as possible from doing stupid things. Military families are bombarded with the same vapid phrases Biden used—especially overseas, because then their TV content is donated by entertainment companies. That means no commercials, only PSAs. Hilarious PSAs. Don’t drive drunk. Don’t boat drunk. Be nice to special needs children. Don’t give anyone general power of attorney. Don’t shake your baby. America loves you.

These, along with countless motivational-but-kinda-condescending posters, banners, and speeches make the contrast between reality and the portrayals of military families especially amusing. To TV writers, they’re wise, wooden warriors and strong women who cry silent tears. To the Army, they’re kids. Because they are. Unlike the 30-something men and women on Army Wives, a good chunk of the guys going over to Afghanistan now were in grade school on 9/11.

In the third season of Army Wives, Denise is watching the news when she sees that the unit led by her husband, Frank, came under fire on a mission. They’re trapped in hostile territory! She rushes to find the family readiness group leader to find out what happened, but the woman won’t tell Denise much because Denise cheated on Frank so maybe they’re not really married. Then Denise goes to her friend, the wife of a high-ranking general. She doesn’t have any info either. Denise spends some time looking pained, but later, her friend’s husband calls to say Frank is ok and will be back on base in an hour. The friend calls Denise. Denise collapses the floor and cries with relief.

Denise would have never recognized her husband’s unit from watching CNN. Reports of car bombs and firefights are plentiful, but real details are scarce. For me, it felt like two wars, the one on TV and the one Scott and his friends described. When Scott called at 5 a.m. on Valentine’s Day, the day after he said he was going on a five-day mission, I knew something was wrong. “I have good news and bad news,” he said. “I don’t have to go out on the long mission. That’s the good news.” He’d been hit by a double-stacked landmine. I held my breath and wondered whether he’d lost his arm or his leg. “I have a concussion. It’s ok, I just have to stay awake for a while.” I breathed. So far, he had stayed up by watching Last Tango in Paris.

“When they pulled us out, they asked Moon what day it was. He said ‘Frankenstein’s Day.’”

“I like that. Let’s call it that.”

“They asked me who the president was, and I said Barack Hussein Obama, because it’s…” and then the phone connection got all fuzzy, as it often did. “‘fff….‘ah…. chaaan…”

“Barack Obama, because it’s off da chain????”

“No.”

“Omg go back to the hospital, you are worse than we thought.”

“That isn’t what I said, but it is what I meant.”

“The bad connection is a translator.”

“It messes up my words but clarifies my meaning.”

We spent most of the phone call laughing.

Unlike these wars, previous wars were fought by more than 1 percent of the population, and the movies at TV about them are irreverent and funny, like M.A.S.H., Stripes, Catch-22, Sgt Bilko, and countless other classics, because the military wasn’t this alien culture set off from the rest of America. Earlier generations are familiar with the military, warts and all. My parents loved No Time for Sergeants, a World War II movie all about corruption and stupidity. Because it was a good story. Now, a tiny group of people signs up to fight, and then they deploy again and again. The movies about them feature a dull soldier with a Southern accent and heart of gold doing battle against various Bush-era policies. Pundits scold Americans for being disinterested in our wars when these movies bomb, but it’s not because people don’t care about soldiers. It’s because they don’t want to be bored.

How many takes would the average person need to wordlessly walk across a set without looking at the camera?  An amateur would be nervous, sure, and would be forgiven for a few make mistakes. Three takes? Ten? Carla Bruni-Sarkozy, the glamorous French First Lady, needed 35 takes to accomplish that task for Woody Allen last week. But it’s understandable. How could she not look at the camera? Surely some part of her was checking to make sure it was still there.

Carla rose to fame as the girlfriend of the rich and famous. She’s dated many older men—and broken up a handful of their marriages—but most of them later felt the twinge of regret. Her romance with Eric Clapton was doomed the day she asked him to take her to a Rolling Stones concert. After the show, Clapton took Carla backstage to meet his old friends. He begged Jagger, “Please Mick, don’t take this one. I think I’m in love.” They started their affair days later. Clapton was angry with Jagger for a while, but slowly mellowed. “Later on, of course, I quietly felt both gratitude and compassion toward him, first for delivering me from certain doom, and second for apparently suffering such prolonged agony in her service.” Could Sarkozy be the latest afflicted with buyer’s remorse?

To this day Carla waves off her actions as sexual adventurism, and those who find offense as prudes. But it’s not the sex that’s offensive. Feeling bored by monogamy hasn’t come at a very high social price for a long time. It’s the creepy climbing. Every boyfriend has been a step up the ladder of cultural significance. Fawning profiles of her breathlessly list her many famous lovers, and next to mentions of Clapton and Jagger is another famous name: Donald Trump. It seems odd to be proud of, or impressed by, sleeping with Donald Trump. In no universe is it imaginable that Trump is a good lay.

Having successfully conquered the bomber rock world, Carla, by Trump’s account, had her eyes set on the business world. In a 1992 profile of Carla in Vanity Fair, she denied dating the ridiculously-coiffed real estate mogul. Trump responded with a letter to the editor offering plenty of details. She called “incessantly from Atlanta, where she was holed up in Mr. Jagger’s hotel room,” Trump wrote. “Carla wanted me to break up with Marla Maples, whereupon she would leave Mick, a man she was desperately stuck on. I thought this was ridiculous… She was trying to get me to leave Marla, something I had in mind anyway, and she was using every psychological trick in the book. In the end, Carla became a woman who is very difficult to even like.”

What next but to boost her intellectual bona fides? Bruni moved on to the philosopher Raphaël Enthoven, after dating his dad. Enthoven, however, was married, and his wife Justine Lévy had to be dispensed of. Lévy did not let go so easily, penning a best-selling roman à clef in which the Carla Bruni character is a fembot dubbed the Terminator. “If I see her, I kill her,” Lévy said in 2005. “But, um… she’s afraid of me, I think.”

Of course, this spring the Sarkozys had to beat back reports that they were both having affairs. “He would never have affairs,” Carla said. “Have you ever seen a picture of him having an affair?” An affair on her part would be uncharacteristic at this point. There’s no one higher on the food chain, save Barack Obama and Vladimir Putin.

(She will, however, be making an appearance on a two-hour episode of CSI.)

When Carla married Sarkozy, she defiantly told the press that she would not keep quiet and transform into a prim political wife. That’s a noble sentiment, if you have something interesting to say. The French First Lady’s most lasting statements so far have been about her recent romance and sex. “I’m monogamous occasionally, but I prefer polygamy and polyandry,” she said a few months before she began dating Sarkozy. “Love lasts a long time, but burning desire, two to three weeks.” This was a provocative statement—40 years ago. After their marriage, Carla discussed her new husband’s masculinity. “A man can have feminine values, he can be super-sensitive, without being feminine.” And: “My husband, poor thing, doesn’t have an easy job–he’s got a whole country on his shoulders and what’s more, he has to put up with me.” And: “Feelings are the most important thing in his life.” Profound.

Carla, on the other hand, perhaps should have taken a page from fellow supermodel Kate Moss. Moss has been able to retain her aura of mystery for almost two decades, thanks to one shrewd decision: never give interviews. If you don’t talk, no one will know how stupid you are.

Sarkozy may have already had second thoughts. A French website reported that eight days before his wedding to Bruni, Sarkozy sent his ex-wife a text message: “If you come back, I will cancel everything.” (Sarkozy filed suit, then dropped it after extracting an apology to Carla. But the reporter didn’t retract his story.) On the other hand, perhaps their union will last, as the Sarkozys appear to have so much in common. The pair was vacationing in the South of France this week when some fans approached Carla and asked to have their picture taken with her. The French president desperately craned his neck to get in the shot, but first lady held him at arm’s length. Surely, like few other husbands and wives, these two understand each other. The camera’s flash gives both of them more pleasure than any tryst could provide.