I'm going to catch hell from someone for this...

As a parent-to-be, I know it’s dangerous to say “I will NEVER (insert parental action here) to my kids!” Like “I will NEVER call the Wiggles a God-awful band of narcissistic merchandising whores in front of my kids!” Wait… that’s probably a poor example. I can’t even pretend I have any intention of honoring that one.
We’ve all heard parents proclaim their high ideals for handling the wee lil’ buggers- only to find later that the wicked realities of parenthood are undoing their good intentions. Live and learn and then give them the damn binkie.
But I am willing to put this declaration of parental policy on record with the Internet because we all know that’s about as good as telling God herself.
I.WILL. NEVER. PIERCE. MY. BABY’S. EARS.
Got that? Never. Ever. Not in a million bazillion years. What the hell kind of parent does that to a baby? Most of the mothers and fathers I know leave those first pediatrician’s visits in tears themselves after their little one cries and cries with every immunization. It’s agonizing to see their baby in pain, but you do what you have to do to prevent them from… oh, DYING. And yet some of those same parents will hop up on a chair in a boutique at the mall to inflict an even thicker needle in an even more sensitive part of the body on their kiddo FOR VANITY. And not even the kid’s own chosen expression of vanity- their own screwed up superficial bullshit need to make their already perfect child “cute”. Why this form of abuse (yes, I said it, abuse) is even legal, I do not know. I’m sorry, but punching holes in your child’s body with no anesthesia for no damn good reason is an awful thing to do. You have to squelch the urge to clobber that kid at playgroup who pinches them, but you’ll do this to them on purpose? For shits and giggles?
Pierce your own ears but leave that poor baby alone. She'll want to do it on her own soon enough anyway- then you can say "I told you so" when she cries. I know it's delayed gratification, but that should be enough to satisfy the Barbie-sadist parents, right?
Yeesh.

This wasn't in my Webster's.....

My new favorite word:

“clitzpah”- meaning strength or bravery or daringness directly related to being female

Some folks in the feminist blogging world came up with this one. They got tired of people using “ballsy” for being nervy- and thereby implying that it was a male trait. Sure, women could be ballsy, but by tying the language to testicles, you create sexist language and give men theoretical ownership on the characteristic.

So another feminist blogger suggested “clitty” to replace ballsy. It’s fine, I suppose, but it doesn’t really roll off the tongue. (Insert crude jokes and imagery here.) And then a Jewish feminist suggested “clitzpah” as a feminista’s take on chutzpah.

I.love.it.

Wait for it....

I am at that point where I am pregnant enough that none of my regular clothes fit, but I don't necessarily need maternity clothes. But I am too cheap to buy an entirely new set of "in-between" clothes in a larger size. So I busted out the maternity jeans this week. True, wearing a belly panel this early in the game is a little depressing at moments, but I'm comfortable, dammit. And trust me when I say you need me in the best mood possible these days.

But the maternity jeans, they don't make a gal feel particularly sexy... but leave it to Husband... my "glass-half-full" guy....

*Sliding his hands down the back of the jeans*

Husband: Mmmm... maternity jeans.... easy access! All right!

Me: Leave it to you to find the sexy upside to MATERNITY JEANS.

*Pause*

Husband: This is going to wind up on your blog isn't it?

Me: Oh, totally. Yeah.

Husband *still groping in the jeans*: I figured.

Me: We're not having sex now.

Husband: I figured.

Hello? Social Services?

We are truly nice people.
Just not very BRIGHT people.
There are some days when I am truly afeared for our poor child.
Case in point:

*As Husband and I are settling into bed…*

Me: Hey, I think that bag of jelly beans is on the counter. It’s rolled up and at the back of the counter… but do you think we should go down and move it? What if Bleu wants a snack?

Husband: Hmm….nah, I don’t think they’ll mess with it.

Me: *half asleep already* Yeah… and worst case, they’ll just poo in technicolor for a day or two.

Husband: Exactly.

*Next morning- Husband has gone downstairs*

Husband: *calling upstairs* Hey Honey….. remember how I told you they wouldn’t mess with those jelly beans?

Me: Were you wrong?

Husband: No…I was right… they didn’t mess with the jelly beans…

Me: Crap. What DID they mess with?

Husband: Nothing… just that ENTIRE BAG OF DOG TREATS we left out too…

See? Told you. Not that bright. But oh-so attractive. And humble.

We're auditioning for foster parents. For the dogs AND the kid. If you think you can keep them reasonably clean and not let the kid have an entire bag of sugar donuts at 11 p.m.- please call. You're already ahead of us.

Hey, anybody know how to construct a safe crib from a Dell computer box?

Of Dogs, Donuts, & Parental Paranoia

As documented in my masthead, one of my great guilty pleasures in this world is a bag of those little sweet sixteen powdered sugar donuts. (They can’t really be called doughnuts- they’re donuts.) I love them. I do not share them. Husband made a special early Sunday morning trip to Publix for them just to cease my progesterone-induced bitching.
As documented at the end of this post, we have also learned that our newest doggie can and will help himself to things on the kitchen counter.
Do you see where this might be going?
I came downstairs around 11:00 last night (long story- got tired of listening to Husband’s stomach growl). In the half-light, I caught a glimpse of some kind of debris on the kitchen floor. Pushing past my ogres- er… dogs, I turned on the light.
Scattered far and wide across the linoleum were… PIECES OF THE SWEET SIXTEEN DONUT BAG! *GASP*
And nary a donut to be had. Not one scrap. My 80-some-odd-pound monsters had consumed every last bit. There wasn’t even any powdered sugar on the floor. (Daisy did have a touch on her snoot- tres cute!) There they sat, all waggy tails and happy faces. (I mean, of course they were happy. I’d be happy too if I’d happened upon HALF A BAG OF SWEET SIXTEEN DONUTS at 11:00! )
Let us please note that the beasts could have partaken of a number of other human foodstuffs on the counter including club crackers, raw potatoes, spinach wraps, and chai green tea. Those items were untouched, pristine in their wrappers without so much as a slobber spot.
The damn dogs have good taste.
Dorks.
I called Husband downstairs- we had a little laugh and a shake of our heads while we cleaned up the carnage. We wondered if the pups would eat breakfast in the morning. And we went to bed.
Fast forward to five-thirty this morning. I sat bolt upright in the bed and said to Husband
“I just had a thought.”
Husband (drooling & half-asleep): Whaa….?
Me: OMG, I hope they didn’t eat the little flexy-metal thing that holds the bag closed!
Husband: Who…? Ate wha…? The 18 year… on the rocks, please…
Me (getting out of bed): That thing! On the donut bag! It’s METAL! It could perf their intestines! I didn’t see it last night- did you see it? I have to go check! Is that magnet with the emergency vet number still on the fridge? Maybe it was under their beds- I didn’t check there. You don’t think they’d eat it, right? Can well call your Mom this early?
Husband (following me): *mutter* might as well get my ass up…. *grumble* alarm goes off in 15 minutes…. *mutter mutter* damn dogs … *grumble grumble*… f____ing tired…
And there, in the trash, still attached to the top of the bag, was the metal flexy thing that holds the bag shut.
Damn dogs. Good thing they're so cute.
We are SO ready to be parents.

Tinky Winky say "Buh-Bye!"

Oh, Jerry, Jerry, Jerry….
I will never rejoice in someone else’s death. It’s unkind and mean-spirited, things I endeavor not to be. Besides, no matter how awful of a hypocritical hate-mongering self-righteous piece of shit you were, you were somebody’s Uncle/Daddy/Grandpa hypocritical hate-mongering self-righteous piece of shit. Those folks are hurting because you’re gone. I don’t like to see anyone hurt… even right wing freaks. (Well, maybe a little...)
And while I won’t rejoice in Falwell’s death, there is a little part of me that’s wondering how the trip to the other side went for ol’ Jer. I imagine it went something like this:

St. Peter: Welcome to the afterlife! What was your name in creation?

Falwell: Why, you should know me! I’m Reverend Jerry Falwell! And I am here to live eternally in the grace and glory of the Lord! I have done his work on Earth- I fought the gays and the feminists and the Teletub-

St. Peter: Right. Right. Falwell, you said?

Falwell: Yes, REVEREND Falwell. Will I be fitted for wings right away? ‘Cause I brought a nice gilded set that Pat Robertson gave me…

St. Peter: Uh… not exactly. Reverend, would you do me a favor? Just stand by these elevators right here- the ones with all “down” buttons.

Falwell: Down buttons? You’re sending me back? Is this a near-death experience? That’s perfect! Think of the testimony!

St. Peter: You might want to leave that suit here- wool is probably not your best choice of fabrics.

Falwell: Well, fine. I’m normally opposed to nudity of any kind, but I understand. I shall re-enter the world as I first came into it… stripped bare, a perfect and innocent creation, washed clean by faith!

St. Peter: Is that tie flame-retardant?

Falwell: What?

St. Peter: How 'bout the toupee? Will that melt?

Falwell: Melt? Wha- I don't... surely....

St. Peter: Any sulfur allergies?

Falwell: Shit.

St. Peter: Yeah…

Mothers' Day

A woman I know, a very kind, wonderful woman, recently married late in life and was eager to start a family. This lady was very thoughtful in how she approached me after Cecilia’s birth. She was heartbroken for me, for Husband.
Last week, the docs told this good woman she is going through menopause. Her children will not be born of her body. Her age (and her husband’s age) mean she faces a long road to adopting.
I have been through loss, but not the kind of loss she is facing. I know what it is to have nature break your heart, but I do not know what it is to have your hope taken from you. Even at the bottom of our grief, we had “the next time” to look forward to. We knew another child would never replace Cecilia, but at least we could expect there would be another child.
When you start to seek support for pregnancy loss, you inevitably find yourself among people for whom loss and infertility are, unfortunately, a way of life. I took their stories and their frustrations to heart, hoping to learn something and become a better friend, a better person. I wish I could thank all of them today, because I think I may have done right by this nice lady.

I DID NOT do any of the following:
I didn’t say “oh, it’s ok- you can just adopt!”
I didn’t tell her the miracle story of some friend-of-a-roomate’s-relative who conceived against all odds.
I didn’t tell her it was “God’s will” and she should just trust in that.
I didn’t tell her I knew how she felt.

I DID do these things:
I gave her a huge hug.
I told her I was sorry.
I acknowledged her loss, and that she’d need to grieve.
I offered my office as a refuge if she needed to escape the cube farm for a good cry.
I gave her another huge hug.

And then I went home that night and hugged Husband. And we took a moment to realize that even after all that happened with our first pregnancy, we are truly fortunate. Our memories of Cecilia will always be bittersweet and she will always be in our hearts. But she will not be the end of our family- she will not be our only child. Hope and Cecilia’s sibling are growing inside of me.

Happy Mothers Day to all the women who are mothers in their hearts even when nature has other ideas for their bodies. May the world treat you with the same respect and kindness we afford all mothers on this day- and perhaps with a little more for your journey.

A Funny Thing Happened When I Peed on a Stick

Some of the people who read my blog love me dearly and care about the most intimate details of my life. Some of them do not- they’re here for the witty commentary (shut up- this is my world!) and random rants.

The first lesson of corporate training is KNOW YOUR AUDIENCE! (The second is check your fly.) So this blog shall remain my usual fragmented diatribes.

But you should know that I am pregnant. Let’s pause for some answers to the obvious questions:
Yes, me. Pregnant.
Yes, the state plans to let me keep the child.
No, I will not name it after you or your company.
Yes, it’s Husband’s baby.
No, I will not post video of the conception.

Ahem. As I was saying, I’m going to try to keep most of the pregnancy updates off this page, except for the occasional rant about how the world inconveniences pregnant women. Those are fair game for their general subject matter. But the details, the cutesy crap, will go on here:
http://babybonk.blogspot.com/
Family and friends, this is your spot for regular updates, ultrasound pictures, and other baby-related information.

But let me know offer my deepest and most humble apologies for not updating LL&VT more often. See, I’m pregnant and I’m sick and my Mom reads this from time to time which renders most of the language I would use to describe the world right now off limits.

But I will say this.
To the f***stick asswipe guy who took my parking space at jury duty yesterday:
I hope you get a rotten case of the crabs from a hooker who turns out to have a d*** and you go to a doctor who accidentally gives you laxatives instead of the antibiotic and you get stuck in horrendous traffic no where near an exit driving a RENTAL CAR and then you have to explain the bill for the cleanup to your demure and pure Christian wife who sends you to a dry rehab facility for sex addicts where you run into your MOTHER!

Asshole.

See? Fragmented diatribes. Business as usual.

Weirdo Wednesday

Weirdo Wednesday Moment #1:

Sitting next to me in the dermatologist’s office waiting room was a well-coiffed, perfectly made up elderly Southern woman. Think grand dame of the Junior League… probably has a house on Pawley’s Island and makes a mean mint julep before services at one of the many first baptist churches.
Anywho… they called this lady’s name and she replied with “Just one minute, darlin’, I’ve got to visit the powder room.” (Yes, powder room.) With that, our heroine stood up slowly and clacked across the waiting room with her walker.
And moseyed her refined old lady behind right into the MEN’S BATHROOM.
My first thought, of course, was gee, I hope nobody’s in there because I’m pretty sure it’s bad form to laugh your ass off at an old lady in public. Well, that and I didn’t want her to have a heart attack. ‘Cause I’m CPR certified and I’d have felt compelled to help and I was wearing a skirt and I didn’t want anyone to see my drawers while I was trying to do chest compressions. (Yes, Mom, I was wearing drawers. Clean ones.)
But apparently no one was in there. So in my continued quest to preserve my modesty (yes, Mom, I DO HAVE SOME), I stood outside the door and diverted two men who sought out the facilities while Grandma was still inside.
Our Lady of the Mint Juleps emerged a little later, and apparently hadn’t noticed her faux pas. She told the nurses “All right, ladies, I’m ready now.” And off she went through the waiting room doors to the dermatology inner sanctum.
At this point, the receptionist said quietly “I guess the urinal on the wall didn’t clue her in…” And I collapsed laughing.
Extra points to my Mom, who upon hearing this story said “You don’t know… maybe she went in there on purpose… you know…. trying to catch a little peek?”
And if she did, I say more power to her.

Weirdo Wednesday Moment #2:

I’m one of those weirdos who looks at someone’s purchases and spends a few moments analyzing/judging the person in front of me. (Shut up. You know you totally do it too.)
Last night there was young black man dressed in a construction company uniform in line in front of me. He bought this:
A whole fresh pineapple
A bottle of mineral oil
A toilet brush

Three words:
DON’T. WANNA. KNOW.

I'm not dead yet! (But the parrot is!)

Before I even start, let me say this.
Virginia Tech Faculty, Staff, Parents, & Students: I am so sorry. I cannot even imagine..
To the parents of Cho Seung-hui: I am so sorry. You’re in your own hell, I’m sure.

Blog? What blog? OH! THIS blog! Contrary to my ex’s wet dreams, I did not slide under a gas truck and taste my own blood. I am alive and well… just have been horrifically busy.
My middle sister done got herself hitched up over the weekend. I’ll regale you with the details later. For now, we will just say that it was like all the other family weddings: loud, happy, hug-laden fun. But since that post will require far more time and brain cells than I have available right now, I give you…
Ranting about random shit! With your brilliant and (might I add) TOTALLY hot host, ME!

From the “we told you so, you crazy right-wingers” file…
http://www.cnn.com/2007/EDUCATION/04/13/abstinence.study.ap/index.html
So, let’s see… you gave the government $175 million to tell kids “Don’t have sex of any kind until you’re married… because it’s morally correct… and we said so… trust us!” And then it required a government-funded study to establish that this methodology didn’t work? I tell you what… you could have spent $3.75 on a venti latte and obtained the same information from any semi-realistic parent of a teenager. Know what figures I’d like to see? The total amount that will be shelled out to deal with the unwanted pregnancies and STIs of these undereducated kids. My favorite part is the leader of the Abstinence Education Group discounting the study because it was done when the programs were “in their infancy”. (Does anyone else find that expression funny here?) Anyone ever won a game with a kid only to hear “but… but…. I wasn’t ready!”

People, when will we let go of our Puritanical discomfort and start TALKING ABOUT SEX with kids? And I mean really talking about it, not just lecturing on an antiquated model like abstinence and then only wanting to think or hear about the “right” answers (the ones we’re comfortable with) from our kids. When I am Empress of the Universe, we will hand out birth control pills and condoms with locker combinations. We will start in 5th and 6th grade teaching that masturbation is a healthy and age-appropriate form of sexual expression. We will gift every 14 year-old girl with a vibrator. (Seriously! How much fun will the fumblings of a 14 y.o. boy seem like if she’s spent time with the Rabbit Pearl?) Better yet, I’ll just hire the folks at Good Vibes to run the whole shebang. (HA! Shebang… LOL) They know more than I do. Then we’ll raise kids who have some degree of knowledge about their bodies and the human reproductive system, which means they will be far less likely to get pregnant or diseased. OH, and then guess what else? They also won’t come up thinking sex is dirty and bad and related to hellfire, so maybe they’ll TALK TO THEIR OWN KIDS ABOUT SEX. We are not just laying the groundwork for these kids lives, but for their children as well. Clearly cramming the moral agenda down their throats isn’t working.

I think the epitome of all this prudish bullshit is the hysteria over Guardasil. Let me see, asshole-right-wing parents, you are willing to risk your daughter’s LIFE because you don’t want to have a short, highly clinical conversation about HPV? How incredibly f***ed up do you have to be to refuse something that may prevent your child from DYING just to avoid entertaining the notion that your child may one day have sex? And people, we’re not even talking about having to acknowledge premarital sex! Your baby girl may preserve herself in sweet holy chastity until her wedding day and STILL wind up with HPV thanks to an undereducated or philandering husband or (God forbid) a sexual assault. I’m sorry, but parents who argue against making this vaccine part of the immunization cycle because it might “encourage” sexual activity are squeamish, selfish, prudish, ignorant assholes. (And they’re TOTALLY asking for their kid to join a live sex show in Amsterdam, might I add…) This is not about what it might “enourage”, but about conversations and concessions these people can’t handle. Their comfort level does not trump their child’s right to health. Your child will one day be a sexual being. And that includes risks. You have an opportunity to eliminate one of those risks for them. What the hell kind of parent objects to that?

All right… new rant. This one containing absolutely no brand-specific vibrator references whatsoever. (Oh thank God, sayeth my father!)

I work in corporate training. I like teaching/training people. I enjoy it, I truly do.

I hate teaching people to teach.

It’s called “train-the-trainer” in our professional circles and frankly, it sucks. There are several reasons I do not like doing this:
1. The trainers you are trying to teach usually believe that training is stupidly easy and anyone of their lofty intelligence can do it instinctively sans preparation. (Hello? And you pay me for what? My great lasagna recipe?) Seriously, most of them think that effective teaching requires no more than subject matter expertise and org-chart-sanctioned authority.
2. They never read the materials you give them. NEVER. I could insert several paragraphs describing my nefarious plan to destroy all the birds of Earth and to build a giant intergalactic gazebo over the planet blocking out the sun and then laugh maniacally as the smug gardening people cannot keep their precious plants alive… muah ha ha ha ha! You won’t be giving me fun little green thumb tips anymore, WILL YOU??? Stupid happy plant peop-… oh my… sorry. But really, I could put it all in there. They’d never notice.
3. Most people who want to provide training don’t have the personality to do it. You think this kind of sparkling effervescence and wit is handed out to everyone? Puh-lease. It’s a professional commodity- like J. Lo’s booty.

My latest endeavor involves training a few members of senior management to provide diversity training at the field offices. Oy. Motherf***ing. Vay. Several of them are excellent- they’ll facilitate beautifully and the program will be wonderful. Several of them will suck at it and will come back to complain that the program we selected wasn’t effective AT ALL. Unfortunately, most of the folks receiving the training won’t make the distinction beween crappy trainer/training correctly either. Whut-evah!

As my amazing Grandma likes to say, there’s no use arguing with the once-born.

Oh, and here's two fun facts courtesy of our new friend Bleu.
1. The time it takes for an 80-pound lab to reach and eat the 1/2 a pie you left on your kitchen counter is about 3 seconds less than the time it takes for you to make it down the stairs.
2. An 80-pound lab can consume up to 10 oz. of baking chocolate without serious health consequences, but 2 ounces in a pie is enough to make for a few nasty surprises in the backyard.

Ciao, dollies!

It's a Boy! Mazel Tov!

2 soft-hearted doggy parents
+ 1 large dog-friendly SUV
+ 1 busy road
+ 1 dirty, hungry, but VERY sweet black lab
+ 1 visit to the vet for shots and a bath
=
A new happy family!

Everyone, meet Bleu, our newest addition to the House O’ Crazy!

Bleu, would you like to introduce yourself?

Hi, I’m Bleu! I’m a laid back sweet boy with good manners and a soft heart. I love to eat and to spend a nice warm summer day laying on the dec---- OH MY GOD! IS THAT A BALL??? BALL!!! BALL!!! THROW IT, PUH-LEEEEEEEASE!!!!!
Oh, sorry… it was just your empty hand. Coulda’ sworn it was a ball. Anywho… I’m Bleu and I’m two years old, give or take. I’ll be spending some time loping ‘round the back yard with my sister, Daisy. She’s a great friend… I sure do wish she’d quite trying to hump me, though… On the 19th, I’m going back to see the nice ladies at the vet to get “fixed”. I don’t know what needs to be fixed, but if it feels as good as that bath they gave me- TREAT!! THAT WAS A TREAT!!! PLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASE GIVE ME THE TREAT!!!
Oh, crap… sorry… your hand again.

*Ahem* I think that’s enough from Bleu right now. So we’re a family of five: us, Bleu, Daisy, and Bob. I’d love to have a family picture, but Bob is claiming conscientious objection. I don’t think she really knows what that means, but I’m not calling her bluff because somebody keeps leaving my dictionary of pop culture out…

The Progesterone Prayer

Dear Lord Baby Jesus:

I am trying hard to follow your teachings- to treat all of your children with the same love and compassion you would have shown them and to banish hatred and anger from my heart.

But Lord… verily, I say unto thee… I could use a little help. How about starting up a gal’s period before one of your dumber children meets with a bloody, untimely end?

Your humble, but very bloated, servant,

ME

Announcing the first Pink Velour Cake Award!

Life, Liberty, & Vodka Tonics is proud to introduce a new semi-regular feature:

The Pink Velour Cake Award!

Long-time readers will recall my attempts at making red velvet cake, which resulted in the affectionately nicknamed pink velour cake.

Exhibit A: Crap on a Cake Plate

And so, dear friends, LL&VT will now be awarding the Pink Velour Cake Award for excellence in culinary disaster!

This week’s recipient is my sister’s friend and coworker, Liz, for her amazing expanding meatloaf. Behold…

What’s that you ask? How can something as simple as meatloaf go so horribly wrong?

As I understand it, the meatloaf had a sort of allergic reaction to the topping- swelling up like spray insulation. It seems this particular meatloaf recipe involves Grape Nuts cereal and those little nuggets can expand mighty fast. Do you remember those little capsules we got as kids- you’d drop them into hot water and ten minutes later have a dinosaur shaped sponge? Kind of like that, only apparently quite delicious. (Which I totally believe… because the recipe has THREE POUNDS OF MEAT in it- how can that NOT be scrumptious???)

Anywho- mazel tov, Liz! You are our very first Pink Velour Cake Award winner!

Want to nominate yourself or someone you know for a Pink Velour Cake Award? Just send an email describing the dish, what went wrong, any hilarioius hijinks associated with the creation of the dish, and (preferably) a photo of the disaster in jpeg format. Send submissions to lifelibertyandvodkatonics@yahoo.com. LL&VT reserves the right to reject entries that are boring, sucky, or appear to have been sent by Republicans.

**LL&VT would like to remind you that this award does not come with any cash value, prizes, or any other redeeming qualities. The Pink Velour Cake Award is not suitable for résumés. LL&VT is not liable for any injuries or damages incurred while celebrating this award with alcohol consumption.

NSB 1967-2007

I’ve sort of been at a loss for what to say here lately.
A woman I worked with reasonably closely was laid off Friday before last.
She died of a heart attack the following Wednesday.
She had three children.
She was 39.

Her death has really thrown me for a loop, which I find surprising. She and I didn’t socialize outside of work and we weren’t terribly close. But there was a kind of kinship between us- we were the loud, outspoken, ballsy broads who tangled with V.D. on a regular basis. She was my partner in bitchy crime. Only she was braver than I was and less concerned with being polite. I never saw her intimidated by anyone. Her abject refusal to give a flying f*** what anyone thought about her might have lost her some professional respect on occasion, but she was unapologetically honest and never tolerated someone trying to disrespect her. She called a spade a f***ing spade. Sure, she was extreme and probably needed to tone it down and “play the game” a bit. But she didn’t. And she didn’t care. And it was what I admired about her most. Being around her made me stronger and more sure of myself. She was an enabler for my inner bitch, God bless her. I’m finding it hard to believe that someone who was not only so young, but such a force, such a powerful person, is now gone.

I should mention, too, that she was absolutely irreverently hilarious. And passionately committed to her kids. That was the thing about her- she was tough and blunt and forceful. But she also had a heart of gold and would fight things that weren’t right in a skinny minute. And then she’d come into my office and we’d have a good laugh about it all. I will miss her laugh and her passion. I will miss how brave I was around her.

I think the best way I can honor her is to be that brave ballsy woman more often. And so I will. For her, you know. You can’t disrespect the dead.

So vaya con dios, my strong woman friend. I am a better person for having worked with you. Give ‘em hell up there.

A Death in the Family

This afternoon, a great tragedy has befallen our little household.


the PS2 has gone to the great GameStop in the sky... *SNIFF*

A moment of silence, please.


Husband is distraught, seeing as he resigned from his old job yesterday and they declined his offer to work a notice. So he has a full week to kill before the new job begins. A full WEEK. With NO PS2! And a new Tiger Woods golf game! Oh, the humanity!



In other news, the updates have been slow because I am fighting off the plague. The so-called medical professionals say it's bronchitis, but my money's on the black death. Or in my case, the yellowy-green death, since that's the color of the stuff I've been hacking up. (You're hot for me now, aren't you?) I went to the doc on Monday convinced I just really needed something stronger than Claritin for my allergies, but the kind nurse quickly informed me that allergies don't generally come with a 101.2 degree fever. Huh... go figure. Note to self: next time you hack up your pancreas, take your temperature and get to the doc sooner.

Wild and sort of scary times at work. The W reign of terror has caused money troubles for Medicare and it's contractors. Jobs have been lost and in the end, crooks will take your Medicare trust fund dollars. So way to go, guys! And did you see this business with Gonzales and the US attorneys? Seriously... would someone please just blow W so we can end this already???

God is good! (And pissed at Ann Coulter.)

Dear Lord,
I know it is wrong to rejoice in other people’s troubles. I know I should not feel good when someone I do not like falls upon difficult times. In my heart, I know it is wrong to enjoy the slow demise of someone’s career, even when they bring it upon themselves with their own hatefulness and ignorance. So, Lord, please forgive that little happy dance in my bathrobe this morning when one of the newscasters opened with “conservatives are distancing themselves from Ann Coulter…”. And please know that I am trying hard to be repentant for hollering “take that, beeyatch!” when I saw this.

It is because of her hatefulness and ignorance, Lord, that I cannot help but think that perhaps you, in your infinite wisdom, are smiting Ann Coulter. I realize that it is not my place to judge her, Lord, but is it wrong for me to agree when you do? If thou hast seen fit to punish Ann Coulter by depriving her of the right-wing approval she so craves, then what can I do but rejoice knowing that you are just and fair? Surely, in thine eyes, my faith in your judgment of the wicked outweighs my smug sense of vengeance.

If you are smiting Ann Coulter, Lord, then yea, truly and verily, I say unto you, WAY TO KICK SOME MORTAL ASS! And please don’t smite me for thinking so. I promise, I really am trying to be contrite about it.

Praise be to the kind and gracious God who gave us Jesus, Thin Mints, and Ann Taylor.
AMEN.

Meredith F***ing Viera, AGAIN.

Dear God, I cannot stand that woman.

Meredith had a serious news piece (*snort*) this morning on "hooking up". Seems some young woman has written a book about sex-only relationships and young women, etc. etc. The piece itself was garbage that seemed to be aimed at alarming parents of young girls, as usual.

They had some "expert" on with her as well who kept insisting that it was sooo troubling that love and relationships were being left out of this discussion. You know, 'cause healthy grown women have to have those things- they couldn't possibly choose just to have some crazy mad screw for the hell of it . She also told us that hooking up is VERY different and much worse than the free love of her 60s generation because that had "love" in it and it was a "political statement". Uh-huh. Oh, I should mention that the so-called expert was wearing Melissa's boots and haircut, but she was about 70. Note to expert: the young hip subtlety sexy thing works on a 30-something hot mama. Kind of ridiculous on someone with AARP eligibility.

But I digress. My point was that Meredith's parting shot for the segment was to ask this hard-hitting journalistic tour de force:
"What about that old saying ... you know... why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free?"
And then my brain exploded. No, seriously.... did she JUST SAY THAT? Did this supposed pro-woman news anchor just perpetuate a horribly sexist cliche comparing a woman to a FARM ANIMAL and implying a woman's value is diminished by lack of sexual purity???? You heard it from Meredith, gals- don't give it away or you won't land yourself a good man!

OH.MY.GOD.
I never thought I'd say this, but please, for the love of God, bring back Katie!!!!! For that matter, get ANYONE ELSE except this woman! How much longer will this kind of inane misogynistic bullshit be tolerated as actual journalism? Is she supposed to pull in that 20-30-something female demographic? 'Cause I'm betting comparing us to defiled cattle isn't the way to go.

Call me Ishmyelle...

Husband and I have a running collection of stripper names. You know… names that inspire thoughts of mirrored walls and the perpetual smell of French vanilla. Seriously! You know it’s true- some kids have names that just instinctively suggest they will be paying their electric bill with singles. Here are some examples:
Destiny
Jade
Cheyenne
Rainn
Sierra
Shawna
Tristan

Other names that qualify are attempts at unique spellings of relatively normal names. They often start with a K rather than a C or they replace the Y on the end with EE, etc. etc. For instance:
Kamryn
Kristal
Destinee
Ebonee
Jewyl
Rayne

We were watching the “Birthday Board” on the local morning news today and there was a 1-year-old baby girl named… TAMRYN. I’m sure Little Tamryn will have hours of fun with the Fisher-Price “My First Pole”.

And behold! Once again, the great almighty Internet shall provide for all our needs!
A Quiz to Learn Your Secret Stripper Name

My secret stripper name? Gigi, apparently. Only I would spell it JiJi.

Comments are open- share your favorite stripper name, Blogites!

Forget the driver's license... ask to see her purse!

Wild times at our house, Blogites; hence the lack of updates. I wish I could say they were the good bacchanalian kind of wild times with the wine and decadent food and crazy sex and whatnot. But no. Not so much. Think more along the lines of decaf coffee and grilled chicken and abstinence on account of narcotic pain relievers.

But at the end of it all, Husband seems to be feeling much better. He’s taking a drug called Topamax, which he has affectionately renamed Potamax for it’s groovy side effects. The drug seems to be preventing the headaches, so he’s working on adjusting to the foggy-headed feeling and his new affinity for Cheech & Chong movies.

Middle Sister called this weekend in the midst of a heart-wrenching dilemma I know all too well: the switch to the big purse. In our teens on through our mid to late 20s, women are willing to carry these minute little vessels that we pass off as purses, but are actually no larger than your average espresso cup. The limited storage capacity works just fine when all you really need to get by is some lip gloss, your cell phone, and a condom.

But there comes a point in every woman’s life when she finds that the cute little nightclub purses no longer cut it. The moment has been creeping up on you for years. Many women will even walk around with their Lillputian purses unzipped and bulging at the seams. Want to spot the woman over 25 in the group? Look for the itty-bitty purse with the car keys sticking out of the top because her gym and grocery store discount key ring cards won’t fit inside. (And lip gloss doesn’t hide the dark circles under her eyes.) Logic dictates a bigger bag, but vanity wins out for many many years. We are desperate to avoid our awful destiny: the mom purse.

I’ve decided that it’s really a sort of rite passage- the day you find you are less concerned with a teeny purse and more concerned with actually having room for all the shit you need to carry around. If you have ever looked at a little bag and thought “huh… that’s never gonna hold my calendar AND my mini-umbrella!,” well, my friend… your time has come. As I said to middle sister this weekend, come over to the dark side and get yourself a big ol’ tote bag! You will find that the pleasure you once took in looking hip with that little tic-tac-sized change purse has been replaced by the relief you feel at having your Clorox pen handy.

I myself have gone to the aforementioned gigantor tote bag a little early in life in part because I frequently carry snacks for hypoglycemic Husband. (Yeah… for Husband… that’s right… ) I also carry a wide array of over-the-counter remedies for my very persnickety tummy. One of my college girlfriends went to the big purse right out of college because she’s very short and wears heels to appointments… but she can’t drive her stick-shift car in them. And we all discovered that professional-woman hair and makeup requires a few more maintenance tools than just a rubber-band to hold back your locks should you consume too much Purple Jesus. (A note: if your hosts have mixed the PJ in the bathtub, they will be less than enthusiastic about letting you vomit in the toilet next to said tub.)

I’ve also noticed that the size of the purse is directly proportional to the number of people and the needs of the people for whom the woman feels responsible for caring. Some women simply give up a purse all together when their children are small and just toss their own stuff into the diaper bag. (Want to pick her out in the ladies room? Look for the woman brushing Cheerio dust out of her hairbrush.) I remember my Mom and older sister’s purses as veritable treasure chests of neato stuff. No matter what the delay or situation or complication, they were prepared. Mom always had Ziploc bags in her purse because of my propensity for vomiting when I was carsick/scared/upset/nervous/excited/getting blood drawn. (You get the point- I was a regular little Linda Blair.) My sister once produced half a barnyard’s worth of little plastic animals, a sippy cup, and a stuffed toucan from her purse to soothe her irritable toddler in a hospital waiting room right after she changed his diaper, washed his face, and medicated him with materials from the same bag. It was impressive.

I think it all boils down to the same reason you don’t see tons of older folks camping. There comes a point in your life when having access to the little conveniences and comforts contributes mightily to your disposition. In my 30s, my idea of “roughing it” has come to mean a hotel without an adequate spa. Similarly, I am now highly annoyed if I’m caught without Tums and my round boar bristle brush. When you’re no longer distressed if you don’t get carded, why not get a purse that holds more than your driver’s license?

Don’t get me wrong, I get a faint sense of nostalgia when I see a cute little hipster out with her bag the size of a walnut. But when those four-inch stiletto shoes she’s wearing give her a blister, it’s nice to know I can give her a Band-Aid.

These words don't even begin to cover it...

http://www.cnn.com/2007/HEALTH/02/20/tiny.baby.ap/index.html

Wow. Just… wow.

This amazing gal, Amilia, was born at 21 weeks and 6 days gestation. My Cecilia was stillborn at 20 weeks and 5 days. Cecilia outweighed Amilia by four ounces.

The sight of her little newborn body makes me cry- it looks so eerily familiar in some ways. I feel oddly connected to her and my heart is full of joy and hope for her and her family. I know how it feels to hold a tiny, fragile body like hers and I am profoundly grateful that their experience is with a living child, however tiny and fragile.

Amilia is going home today, four months old and four and a half pounds.

Wow.

Lots of love and luck, sweet Amilia!
Cecilia’s Mommy.

The Medicated Husband: Fun for Everyone!

Husband: These migraine prevention drugs are giving me really really bizarre dreams.

Me: Like what?

H: Last night I had one that was a Christmas musical.

M: A Christmas musical???

H: Yeah, you know… like Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer.

M: Like the animated Burl Ives one?

H: Yeah, except the people I know were the characters and we were all singing this song… but I can’t exactly remember the words.

M: That’s probably best. Was I Herbie?

H: No, no… we were all ourselves… just with big giant heads on little tiny clay bodies.

M: Oh, dang. I was sure my Dad would have been Yukon Cornelius. And I was Herbie.

H: Nope. But you still had big boobies…. big lovely claymation boobies.

Marshmallow Blog: This one's full of fluff!

Me: Holy Crap! The Today Show anchors are sampling some hot chocolate that costs TWENTY-NINE DOLLARS A POUND! That’d better be some good damn hot chocolate!

Husband: Where’s it from?

Me: Um… France, apparently.

Husband: Shit… the French should be GIVING us that hot chocolate… you know, since we liberated their asses…. TWICE.

Move over, John Bolton! Can you imagine the bi-partisan support Husband's nomination would get? He negotiates in CHOCOLATE, people!
Husband had a tough week. He’s had 5 major migraine headaches in 9 days. The worst one hit on Thursday and the poor guy wound up being injected with a lot of drugs and getting a CT scan. (Mercifully, the scan was clear.)
On Thursday night, he was climbing the stairs to bed and says in a weak voice with a Demerol-and-Imitirex-cocktail-induced slur:
“I shtill havea Ban-Aid on my ash….”
The offending (and apparently itchy) Band-Aid was removed and he lapsed into a coma.

In other totally fluffy brainless weekend blog fodder, it seems Britney Spears has shaved her head. I’m sure this anti-hairdo is part of some post-divorce self awakening in which she rejects her teeny bopper past and seeks to be taken seriously as an “artist”. (Haven’t you heard? She’s mounting a comeback.) Unfortunately for her, she’s not old enough to remember Sinead’s 15 minutes in the early 90s. This is going to end badly- watch for her to tear up a picture of Billy Graham on SNL.

Celebrity Denouncement Time! On behalf of all thinking women of the world, I hereby strip John Mayer of his hottie status until he ends this relationship with Jessica Simpson. We are disappointed in you John, but we know you are a 20-something boy newly awash in fame, so we will suspend final judgment in hopes that this is simply your requisite dating-a-string-of-unsuitable-bimbos phase. We don’t begrudge you dating a woman of commensurate hotness, but please find one that actually has talent and … oh… say… didn’t star as DAISY F***ING DUKE! To think that you might actually be that shallow- well, it’s a waste we can’t live with.

Warning: Bleeding Heart Propaganda

Thanks to Stephanie over at Creature Bug for this:

FREE HUGS

Made me weepy at work on a Friday morning. Gratuitous displays of basic human kindness set to indie rock will do that to a gal.

"Wherever there is a human being there is an opportunity for kindness" -- Seneca

Meredith Viera: Still Stupid

Oh, that wacky Meredith Viera is at again! Seems our little plan worked, Blogites, and the Today show got walloped with emails about the Momtini piece. A follow up segment appeared yesterday. They were quick to point out they got emails for AND against drinking on playdates. But it’s funny, they only read one con email and it was inarticulate and preachy. They also left out the emails like mine that called Meredith on the carpet for being an asswipe during the original interview- quelle surprise!

This segment was much better, though. Meredith and the “doctor” were much more balanced and they had a terrific smart-ass writer, Stefanie Wilder-Taylor, on. (You have GOT to love a woman whose book is titled Sippy Cups are Not for Chardonnay: And Other Things I Had to Learn as a New Mom!)

This is my favorite part of today’s “news” piece:
(On emails about the absence of comment on DADS drinking in front of kids…)
Meredith: "IS there a gender bias here?"
“Doctor”: "No, absolutely not."
WHA-WHA-WHAAAAAT???? Is anyone else disturbed by the fact that this supposed psychological professional clearly does not live in reality???

I also love the email they read about all the doomsday disastrous things that could happen to kids on playdates. Is the assumption that if mothers don't drink, they will be able to protect kids from all those things? Most of the kids I know have endured a few good solid falls or knocks to the head regardless of the vigilance of their parents. Besides, I can have WAY more than one glass of wine and still dial 9-1-1 with amazing accuracy. (Seriously- it has been tested and proven.)

If this argument goes to response time, what else are Mothers not supposed to do? I mean, really, are these women supposed to be hovering over their children at every second poised to spring into action just in case… CHILDHOOD HAPPENS? Next thing you know, reading Cosmo or typing an email while your kids play out back will be irresponsible mothering because, you know… they could fall or break an arm or join al-qaeda while you were selfishly directly elsewhere.

Folks, we all know kids whose Moms never socialized and devoted EVERY SINGLE SECOND of EVERY DAY to monitoring their children’s every move to the exclusion of their own health and happiness. Those kids do not turn out well. At best, they are inept adults frightened of the world and unable to function as normal adults. (We’ve all dated a guy whose Mom still picked out his clothes. At 35.) At worst, these kids wind up with the bodies of an entire family hidden in the deep freeze in the garage.

Ladies, relax. Have a little faith in yourself. Have a reality check. Have a drink. I promise, you’ll feel better.

Blizzard of '07

Behold. A South Carolina blizzard.

For two glorious hours yesterday morning, big white fluffy flakes fell down upon us. And then came the sleety slushy crud. And then came the cold cold rain. And then I went to work. *SIGH*

All Wednesday night, our local forecasters told us that we would have no more than cold rain. Oh, they hinted that MAYBE PERHAPS if stars collided and Lindsay Lohan took responsibility for something, we might get a little bit of a “wintry mix”. I hate that term- it’s just weatherperson speak for “might be rain, might be a blizzard, but hey, we get paid lots of money to have absolutely no f***ing clue what will actually happen!”

That mere mention of a wintry mix was enough to send half the state swarming into the grocery stores to buy milk and break. Any time there’s the remotest chance of so much as a flurry, South Carolinians go clean the stores out of milk and bread. Honest to God, vegans with wheat allergies will throw elbows at old ladies for the last package of pitas and a carton of buttermilk. Here’s my question:
WHAT THE F*** IS UP WITH MILK AND BREAD, PEOPLE?
What is it about those two food items that make them indispensable in inclement weather? Milk will spoil when a blackout kills the power to your fridge. Bread is not some superfood that will sustain your family for days should you be trapped in your home by the treacherous conditions. (Note: “treacherous conditions”= 1 inch of snow and temps in the mid-20s.)

Husband and I don’t usually make the emergency grocery run. That’s because we know that pizza delivery is a lot like the post office… you know, neither rain nor sleet nor snow nor dark of night shall keep them from their appointed rounds? Unfortunately, it’s about the same level of accuracy, too…

We WILL, however, make a much more important stop: the liquor store. Because the pizza guy won’t bring you red wine or vodka no matter how much you offer to tip. (Trust us.) And they totally should- can you imagine the money those poor minimum wage drivers would make? And how many DUIs could be avoided?

Seriously, sometimes I am so damn civic-minded, it makes me weep.

Redneck Semantics

Apparently, despite seven plus years of higher education in English-language-related fields, I have been left with a horrible deficit in my skills. Did you know that fleeing the scene of an accident is NOT the same as just leaving it?

A city councilman for one of the local municipalities was arrested for DUI this week. The facts of the case are being reported thus:
Councilman pulls out of a driveway.
Councilman smacks into the back of a PARKED TRUCK.
Councilman does not stop, but rather continues on to his son’s home where eventually authorities are called.
Councilman had consumed significant enough amounts of alcohol to still fail sobriety tests by the time police arrive at his son’s home.

Pretty straightforward, right? Enter the aforementioned son. He appeared on the local news looking very professional in his Grizzly-Adams-esque beard, NASCAR t-shirt, and trucker hat. This dutiful son proceeded to explain that his father:
“isn’t known as a ‘drunk’, as ya might say.”
and
“didn’t really flee the accident, he just leaved.” (Yes, “leaved”.)

Now, I don’t know this man, so I cannot attest to his reputation. He may indeed not be known as a drunk. But when you are intoxicated enough to hit a PARKED VEHICLE at 1:00 p.m. on a weekday… well, I’m not sure you really need reputation to precede you.

And I hate to squabble over wording, but those seven years in school did teach me a thing or two about synonyms and context. It would seem to me that unless you leaved after the police arrived and gave you permission to do so, to flee and to leaved are about the same when it involves your departure from the site of a traffic accident.

The other high point was when the son said Councilman was “seventy-somethin’” years old. That part I understand, since I’m not so good with the cipherin’ myself. But if you’re going to be on television, at least get Maw to pull out the family Bible and find a neighbor who can subtract.

There is a small rock-star-wannabe part of me that’s sort of impressed. You’re 70-something and you can still party like that before sundown?

Rock on, Councilman. Rock on.

Just call a cab next time.

The Momtini: Threat to Western Civilization

For some time, I have been reading a blog called Suburban Bliss, written by SAHM (stay-at-home-mom) Melissa Summers. She's got a refreshingly honest and realistic take on both the joys and the challenges of parenting. Melissa has now written a book that I WILL be buying and you should too!
Melissa was recently on the Today Show representing a group of moms who have playdates during which they (*GASP*) HAVE A GLASS OF WINE! Long story short, she took a lot of shit from Meredith Viera and basically was portrayed as a drunk who is endangering her kids. For anyone who knows her and reads her blog, she is very much not that- just a mom who had the novel idea that a group of mommies sitting around in someone's backyard might like ONE glass of chardonnay. It's not a new idea. Mom's groups have been doing it forever.
Please go read her blog. Go here to see the video of the whole debaucle- just click on "launch" in the box on the right. And please read the text of my email to NBC regarding her appearance. If you agree, email them yourselves. The more shit that network takes over this f***ed up sexist ambush disguised as an interview, the better.

As a long time reader of Melissa Summers' blog, Suburban Bliss, I looked forward to her appearance on the Today show. I was shocked and disappointed with the way she was treated.
Shame on NC and shame on Meredith Viera! Melissa was clearly nervous, and Meredith bullied her. Your so-called expert contributed little to the discussion except for trite, overly-simplistic, and ultimately useless advice that about mothers needing to find healthy ways to relax.

Melissa's message was skewed entirely thanks to sensationalistic anecdotes about drunk driver moms. The tone of the entire piece was inherently sexist- Mommies can drink, but only under husbandly supervision. Neither Meredith or your "expert" could seem to make an allowance for the fact that these smart Moms are capable of controlling themselves in the presence of alcohol enough to avoid endangering their children. Apparently they're incapable of using good judgment when it comes to the booze. The message was clear- Moms, you cannot be trusted. Unless, of course, Dad is standing by- and your interviewers weren't interested in discussing the dangers of the beer in his hand!

It was a positively shameful display of sexism and bias that did a huge disservice to women and to at-home mothers everywhere. Melissa has my sympathy and my support even if your network cannot fathom women who are capable of being social human beings without sacrificing good care for their children.

Congratulations. I am officially a Good Morning America viewer.

Unprotected Sex & Fashion

Husband and I have started talking about having another baby. There. I said it. On the INTERNET for God and Oprah and everyone to read. (Question… are Oprah and God the same person? Similar uses of ridiculous power for good, I’ve noticed. And wouldn’t that just trip out the religious right- God is a black woman who lives with a man unmarried and gives money AWAY?)

But I digress. Talking about the baby. This is the part where my Mom would quote my father’s cousin, a Catholic priest named Father Pat. Father Pat was fond of saying “every baby brings its own loaf of bread.” It’s a lovely sentiment and I get the point- people should relax and have their families, God will provide, yada yada yada… I don’t discount the idea, although I think it’s a little overly simplistic. Chances are it was a well-meaning attempt to calm the fears of Catholic women with no birth control options and hence, little control over the number of babies they would have and the circumstances they would be born into.

At the moment, our kid would have to show up with a loaf of bread, some nursery furniture, a vanload of cash, and a nice Guatemalan nanny. And since I’m pretty sure those items wouldn’t be hidden in the box of elephant-sized sanitary pads the L&D ward gives you, we’re waiting.

But you know what I’ve noticed? (DAD STOP READING NOW!) When you’re over the age of 16 and gainfully employed, having unprotected sex when you know you could conceive is kind of a turn-on. Even if you plan to divert the troops, so to speak, it’s kind of hot knowing that you’re fertile and he’s there and y’know… STUFF is gonna happen! It’s kind of like the thrill of having sex in public and the potential for getting caught. Or so I’ve heard… ‘cause I haven’t done that… lately…
Mom, you can let Dad come back to the computer now.

In other news, I had a lovely visit with an old Kick-Ass-Women’s-College friend last night. She was in town for work so we cruised over to Carraba’s for a glass of vino or six. She is one of my favorite women on earth because she’s accomplished and she’s funny and she’s smart and she’s a great friend and basically I think she poos ice cream. But I have to hate her just a little bit because she has more style in her well-manicured pinkie finger than I have in my entire body. She swings out of the hotel last night after several hours on the road looking all kinds of polished sassy in some Capri pants, one of those supercute cardigans that are so “in” right now, and heels. Oh, and of course, the perfect bag. She looked like something in Oprah magazine- you know the “after work” look that’s perfect for cocktails? Casual, but not overly so. Fun, but not too young. And here’s the thing… she’s like that ALL THE F***ING TIME! I swear she made some kind of deal with Satan and got a homing device that detects perfect accessories.

Now let’s compare… Her = Polished Professional Chic. Me? I rolled up in a big comfy men’s sweater and a pair of jeans that I actually made my husband sniff to be sure they were “clean enough” to wear out. My roots have grown out enough that I am dangerously close to finding out what my natural hair color would be. To my credit, I was carrying a very cute black tote… yeah, it went really swell with my BROWN BOOTS. My look was less polished professional chic and more butch homeless foreigner.

I had a really wonderful time- catching up, drinking. She told me about what we are referring to as the Crazy-Ass-Baptist-Wedding. (Apparently I’m not honoring Husband as the “spiritual head of household”… not that I’d know how to.) I regaled her with Girlfriend tales and how we came to the conclusion that vibrators are not items that should be hand-me-downs.

And through all this lovely happy wine-infused time together, she looked hip and fabulous as always. It’s so comforting to find some things never change.

But it’s a good thing she’s my friend. Otherwise, I’d have to beat her down with her perfect bag. Bitch. (Love you! hee hee!)

We know our place.

Just in case you were wondering who's running the show at our house, I offer this:















Yes, that would be the relatively small CAT taking up the entire large DOG bed, while our ferocious guard dog just lies there and takes it. The cat has broken her and she seems just fine with it.

What you don't see in this picture is us, sitting on the couch and knowing better than to try to correct the situation.

The hierarchy has been established. It goes like this:
Bob, the 11 pound cat
Daisy, the 80 pound dog
Mom & Dad, with their supposed higher intellect and opposable thumbs

We are nothing, if not well trained.

Anne Coulter needs a hug and a cupcake.

Oh, Anne Coulter.
You’d like me to hate you. I’m just the kind of woman you want to seethe with rabid hatred for you so that you can point and say “see??? I try to talk sense and these crazy femi-Nazis hate me- they can’t tolerate anyone who doesn’t buy their agenda.” I won’t even start a discussion about your brand of “sense” because as my Grandmother would say, there’s no use arguing with the once-born. I will say this, though:

I don’t hate you, Anne. I wish I could. Then I could write you off and just spit when I heard your name.

Truth is, I feel for you.

Here’s the thing, I don’t buy it. I don’t buy you- the whole act. You’ve tried to sell us on the idea that you’re frustrated and furious with the idiocy of liberals and feminists and other evil-doers. You’ve ranted long and hard about how unhappy you are with us and with our ways. You, a woman by all reports, have publicly asserted that women are “not that smart” and that we just don’t understand the first thing. And that you’re what all women would be, were they smart and practical and came to the sweet conservative light.

Sorry, sweetie. As they say down here, you’re sellin’, but I ain’t buyin’. I mean, you’re obviously angry. And bitter. And cold. From the hardened angle of your face to your vitriolic speech, you’re the human equivalent of a cactus. That part is legit, I’m sure.

But I don’t buy the why.

The first time I saw you on television, all I could think was “Dear Lord… that poor woman is miserable!” You may hate feminist, liberal women, but it’s not for our lack of sense. It’s for our comfort level with our selves. It’s for our happy lives and relationships. It’s for our kinship with one another. It’s for the sense of purpose and rightness we have even though the reigning political regime finds us contemptible.

I think, Ms. Coulter, that sometime early in your life, you quickly realized that you weren’t going to meet the plastic standard for Barbie-doll beauty. And you realized that you didn’t have the heart it takes for deep, happy meaningful relationships. And you realized that while you were smart, you weren’t any genius. And instead of trying to find some positive, productive use for the talents you DO have, you got very very angry.

I think, too, that it was about this time in your life that you realized most of the power in this society lay with a group of white, privileged men spouting simplistic moral platitudes. And I think you realized you wanted a piece of that power- whatever little bit they would grant you for preaching their revised Gospel. And I think in your insecurity, you truly craved the approval you got from them when you did it. And instead of being angry at those men for loving you only conditionally and for using you as a token to advance their own cause, you got angry at the women who were strong enough, confident enough, brave enough to fight those men.


So I don’t buy it, Anne. I don’t think for a minute that deep down in your heart you really believe all those hate-addled things you say about other women. I think those are lies you tell yourself to justify how you’ve spent your life and to comfort yourself about the things you weren’t brave enough to be. And I know that you’re frightened every day that your anti-woman-neo-Nazi-conservatives will abandon you the moment you don’t endorse their party line with enough zesto. And then you will be alone.

Ultimately, you’re an just an insecure needy woman so desperate for approval that you will turn on women everywhere. You’re the girl in high school who would leave her best friend hanging on a moment’s notice if that arrogant football player called. You’re the woman in the board room who will vote down the maternity leave policy to side with the chauvinist CEO. And when that football player never calls back or that CEO fires you, you blame the player’s prior girlfriends or other women executives for “ruining it for you.”

You don’t scare me, Anne. And I don’t hate you. But I know what you need- some good true women friends.

You won’t have to hate anyone for us to love you.

It's National Delurking Week!

What does this mean, you ask? Well, if you are a “lurker,” now is the time to post a comment and “come out” as a reader of my blog!

This is the part where my Dad and some other folks say “what’s a lurker?” A lurker is exactly what the name implies- someone who “lurks” out there reading your blog but never commenting. Lurking is fine, I suppose. I mean, it’s legal in most states. But… *sniff*… it doesn’t show me any love!

So, there you have it. I’m being a needy bitch and calling on my readers (all three of them) to delurk themselves and let me know you’re out there. Show me some love and I’ll post pictures of my naked boobs! Ha! So that’s a lie! (And believe me, you’re better off for it… the boobs, they are sad.)

But just now, when I talked about my boobs on the Internet, my Mom made the I-raised-you-better-than-that noise. It goes something like this: a quick clicking little “tsk”, followed by a short impatient sigh, and then your name with one of the syllables VERY emphasized.

So, for instance, if you were my sister Tallulah*…

“tsk- *sigh*- Ta-LLU-lah!”

To do this correctly, you shouldn’t raise your voice one bit. In fact, it’s most effective when performed at a muttering volume. It’s her way of saying that we haven’t done anything wrong, per se, nothing she could actually be mad about or yell at us for doing. But we have been crass and she can’t actually laugh at us (because she’s the MOM, people, the MOM!), but secretly she thinks it’s funny. That’s the awful quandary my Mother finds herself in a lot of the time… her daughters are HILARIOUS- the kind of hilarious that’s great for an HBO comic, but concerns her a little coming from her offspring. She wants to laugh, but she also wants some reassurance that we know better and would conduct ourselves differently in the presence of others.

And we allow her that little delusion… you know, that we would conduct ourselves differently… we are her life’s work, after all.

Now get to delurking!


*Names, as always, changed to protect the not-so-innocent.

Another pleasant heathen Sunday (Sundaaaay).....

(Lying in b ed this morning at 9:00)

Me: I guess we'd better get up if we're going to make it to church at 11:00.

Husband: Or... we could do like yesterday and go downstairs, have cinnamon rolls in our jammies.

Me: I can't believe you're luring me away from church with cinnamon rolls... you evil seductor!

Husband: Yep, that's what's on my business cards.

So there you have it, friends. Everyone's soul has a price and apparently mine is available for just $3.49 in your local grocer's dairy case.

The Alliance for the Oblivious

Conversation between me and a male coworker/friend:

HIM: Your alma mater has an Alliance for Women. That’s sexist. I’m going to start the Alliance for Men!

ME: We already have one- it’s called the Federal Government.

HIM: Seriously! It's offensive!

ME: Yeah? So's several thousand years of patriarchal rule.

*SIGH* I am weary. Where the hell is that revolution already?

*****
Seems Britney and Paris topped the worst-dressed list. Well, DUH! Bare vulvas are SO last season!

And the GOP thinks homosexuals threaten the institution...

Even at our house, some things are off limits. So I will spare you the preface to this conversation.

"Are we gonna quibble over international organizations or are we gonna have sex?"

"Can't we do both at the same time?"


Good Lord, we are weird people.

Be blessed. Or else.

Living in the South, you come to terms with a couple of things:
1. There is but one kind of tea. It’s iced, it’s sweet, and it should come with a wedge of lemon, nothing else.
2. The city will shut down completely at the first HINT of frozen precipitation of any kind.
3. ANY food can be fried- chicken, okra, oreos... Just try us…
4. Religious reference can and will be worked into every kind of polite conversation. (And the Lord’s name often gets worked into impolite ones.)

#4 is my current amusement. Coworker Wally and I have taken to bidding each other farewell with “Have a blessed day/evening/one!” People ‘round these here parts (hee hee!) just love telling people to have a blessed day as they depart. It’s like “see ya later” in other parts of the country or “ciao” in Italy. Most folks will offer this phrase as a congenial sendoff, but some people are a little more adamant. Case in point is our building’s night guard who pretty much orders you to “HAVE A BLESSED ONE!” as you head out the door. It’s kind of scary- almost like you’d damn well better have a blessed one (one of what she never specifies) or she will track you down and taser your ass into beatification.

At any rate, Wally and I like using the idea of telling people to have a blessed something for the sheer entertainment value. Neither of us is particularly outwardly religious and frankly we’re both good candidates for a sound smiting should the Almighty find herself in the area. Suffice to say, we would be the last people picked for the company evangelization team. Come time for a drinking…er, I mean, bowling league, though, we are SO in!

Wally and I recently took our crusade for blessedness to a new level by pulling our Director into the act. We’ll call her Dorothy Director, or DD for brevity’s sake. DD is a tough New Yorker and a good Catholic. She’s a great person and has a pretty good sense of humor, but is so NOT the type to either evangelize publicly or to engage in blatantly irreverent humor in the workplace. Don’t get me wrong, she’s not uptight per se, but she is a very good model of professional decorum. She’s wished Wally a “blessed day” a few times after I egged her on incessantly, but yesterday…

(On a departmental planning call- our first contact since the holidays.)

DD: Hello Wally! Did you have a good Christmas? A good New Years?

Wally: We did, thanks! It was very very nice. How was yours?

DD: It was blessed.

*THUNK* HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!!!!! (Sound of me hitting the floor laughing hysterically.)

Farewell, 2006! (You f***er.)

I am not sad to see this year end. Quite frankly, it hasn’t been our best. It has been a year of losses, great uncertainty, and many sleepless nights. 2006 was marked by a great sadness that made us both feel as if we were perpetually draped in a very heavy, very wet, very cold blanket we couldn’t remove or shake off. The year began well enough, with our dream of a family budding inside of me. We were all smiles and breathlessness with the magic that was our lives- and the magic of new life.

But 2006 had it in for us, that bastard.

It was 12 months of bitter heartache, watching one thing after another crumble in our very hands. Aside from the baby’s death, most of our troubles wouldn’t have been all that maddening… if they had come in 2005. But under the weight of Cecilia’s stillbirth, the world seemed a much more bleak and vicious place. Sadness gave way to frustration, frustration gave way to anger, anger gave way to exhaustion. When you are grieving, it consumes all that you are and all you have to give. And you cannot fathom how anyone would dare to trouble you with the insignificant little details of living when you are so clearly completely eaten up with your loss. There is not room in your heart or head for anything else. Even those of the most patient and forgiving nature can be sickened into irritable, short-fused ogres by the poison of their grief. So it was with us- two of the most positive, kind souls turned angry and bitterly antisocial.

But we humans are amazingly resilient creatures. Slowly but surely, we’ve begun the long journey out of the grief and torment of this nightmarish year. There have been setbacks- the recent loss of a four-legged friend made us wonder if we were really ever going to be ok. And the truth is that we very likely won’t be “ok” ever again- at least not in the way we knew before 2006. But you learn to redefine ok. You learn to accept that losing a child plunges you into abject darkness, and that even when you emerge from the darkness, your baby’s death ultimately casts a shadow you will never entirely escape. But you do come out into the light and warmth of things like your marriage, your family, your friends, your own health, the promise of another child. That first baby (and that shadow) will forever be with you. But you learn to love the shadow for what it is- the cool comfort of the memories of your baby’s short life. The trick is just not to linger in the shadow for too long.

So here are my resolutions.
2007 will not suck the life out of me the way 2006 did.
I will live much more in the light now that I can. I will return to the shadow occasionally, to be with my little girl when I need to, but I will always keep one toe out in the light. I will be grateful for the beautiful soul of a man that is Husband. I will love him and our families and myself more completely and without the hesitance that grief has tried to impose on me. I will not be afraid of loss anymore.

There. It is so resolved.
Because it’s that easy.
Of course not.
But hey, I’ve got all year to try, right?

Jack Daniels Robbins 2003-2006

So long, sweet licky-faced boy. We were so lucky to have you.
Love,
Mama

Tee Box Squid

Right.
I flew back to South Cackalackey on Thursday night. My trips were (for the most part) quite pleasant. Getting home was a relief. Those who know me know that I am a slave to the familiar when it comes to beds and bathrooms. Save for my own home and the homes of our parents, I don’t generally sleep or void with any regularity when I’m on the road. So I am home now and since the only place we’ve been is my in-laws' house, I am much better rested and feeling much less bloated.

The best part of the last trip was a visit with Baby Cousin (BC) and … Baby Cousin’s Baby (BCB)! Oh, and her very nice Tall Husband (TH). He’s good too. I really should quit calling her BC. She’s 27 and a Mama. The BCB is a gorgeous little man. He’s smart and funny and sweet, which are pretty amazing accomplishments for a 7-month-old. BC and I seemed to have this big huge gap in our ages and our lives when we were kids. Now she could easily be one of my Girlfriends. But I’m fortunate that way… BC and her big sister are my cousins and my friends, as are my sisters. To have people who are both obligated to love you because you’re family, but whom you also enjoy and love so much of your own choosing? Well, that’s the good stuff.

And now for some of my completely unsolicited, but incredibly wise commentary on the goings-on in the world:

I am not usually one to advocate for a Bush OR a beauty queen, but…

1. Laura Bush’s recent skin cancer episode is ABSOLUTELY NOT OUR BUSINESS. We don’t have a right to know everything about her and the last thing she needs is the press acting like a small patch of skin cancer on her leg is a breach of national security. And besides, she’s married to W… doesn’t she have enough burdens? You know… like a Husband whose idea of setting the mood is a keg and a few rounds of “pull my finger”?

2. I feel sorry for Miss USA. Really, I do. She’s a 21-year-old kid from a small town who was suddenly living in New York with a lot of fame and freedom. If anyone is surprised that she got a little out of control, then those folks have clearly never lived in a freshman dorm. And I think the Donald did the right thing by giving her a second chance. But rehab? She doesn’t need rehab. She just needs about 5-10 years to get her shit together.

3. When are humans going to learn that marching out into the wilderness in crappy weather conditions isn’t adventurous or brave? It’s just f***ing stupid. For the sake of their families, I sincerely hope they find out those missing hikers alive and well. But people, this is why God gave us hotels. Our pioneer ancestors HAD to venture out into snow and ice and wind and rabid raccoons. That’s where the FOOD was. And people without direct deposit and 401Ks had to find LAND that would support their freakin’ families. They did so risking their lives, but they HAD TO DO IT. You are not that guy. You are a software geek in your LL Bean fleece. Stay home and thank your sweet industrialized nation stars that you don’t have to go out in that shit! Because if you DO go out to get "back to nature" like your ancestors, there’s a good likelihood that nature will get back AT you and you will DIE like your ancestors. The difference here being that you could have stayed in your nice warm centrally-heated home and heated up an organic pizza on bulgar wheat crust. Turn on the Sharper Image nature sounds machine if you must, but stay your wanna-be-hippie ass indoors already.

4. Husband and I are having a debate. The Office or Scrubs as best thing on tv? And if anyone writes me to tell me “u r realy dum if u don’t like Surviver best”… please be on notice that I will hunt you down and club you to death with your Sidekick. That show sucks it for crack. It’s just a soap opera- without the expense of real actors, makeup artists, or I don’t know… clothing? If I want to see semi-anorexic strangers backstabbing and having sex, I will go to a sorority house on a weekend.

5. OH.MY.GOD.I.LOVE.HOLIDAY.FOOD. Enough said.

Oh, and line of the week from Husband:

On the 10th tee box at an upstate no-where-near-water golf course:

Me: What’s that thing in that hole on the tee box?

Husband (barely glances up): A squid.

I love that man!

I been everywhere, man....

2 round-trip plane tickets: $925.70
5 nights in 3 different hotels: $471.95
1 rental car from MD to VA: $283.29
44 hours labor in 2 different offices: $1,243.00

The head cold and mild stomach bug I picked up on the trip and brought home for my only weekend alone with Husband for the entire month of December?
F***ing Priceless.

That being said, here’s the Reader’s Digest summary of the trips:

Plane travel was fine. Relatively on-time flights and only one nearly-missed connection. (And it was only a near miss, so I don’t feel justified in complaining about it one bit.) Oh, and I had the most delicious chicken-and-pesto pannini EVER in the Dallas airport. Yes, in the airport. I was shocked too.

Car travel was harrowing. I drove my rental PT Cruiser from Baltimore to Richmond. I count myself fortunate that I only had to cheat death-by-semi-truck twice. For the record, Coworker Wally says that I have bad car karma and I should burn sage in the car before I drive anywhere. Wally clarified, as only he would, that I should do this BEFORE I drive and not WHILE I drive to avoid being pulled over on suspicion of smoking weed. He’s always thinking, that one.

Training in Texas was interesting. The staff there are pretty cool people, but this is home office of V.D. and it was clear neither he nor his management had made the training a priority. V.D. spoke precisely one word to me the entire three days I was there… a begrudging “hey” when I deliberately sought him out to say good morning. Some people might say that I’m being the bigger person only because it aggravates the hell out of V.D and I’d like to say that is complete b.s.! (Because that’s not the ONLY reason… but I will admit it’s a lovely fringe benefit.)

Maryland and Virginia were wonderful experiences! Both the management and staff in these offices are terrific people. Training in that kind of environment reminds me why I love my job. And I truly enjoy both cities. (Just not DRIVING in them… mass transit, anyone?) No, I did not eat any Maryland crab. I’m from Florida and I live in SC. It’s hard to impress me with seafood. But on a fun side note, my totally-great-but-NY-tough Director did tell me to suck it up and quit whining about the cold. She said I should just be grateful it was sunny and not snowing. She was right.

And can I just say that I managed to fly out of both Texas and Virginia about 6 hours ahead of really awful winter weather? My luck with automotive travel may be crappola, but I’ve got the good juju when it comes to the friendly skies.

Now I’ve got to get home and take a nap. Five nights in hotels have left me on a ridiculous sleep deficit. That and Husband is home, so I can nap complete with all my comfortable accessories.

The Denim Shirt Phenomenon

OK... notes on Dallas, Texas...
1. DO NOT DRIVE HERE. EVER. No kidding- whoever planned the interstate system clearly had a severe drug problem. The general rule of thumb seems to be if that if you can SEE the building you're going to, it must take at least 25 minutes, four flyovers, and five street name changes to get there. And the 25 minutes travel time is at 90 mph.
2. The denim shirt is alive and well in Texas! On the plane, there were no less than four women in denim shirts embroidered with various forms of wildlife. (Horses, cats, etc. etc.) Men, too, are apparently no match for the siren song of the denim shirt, as I have seen four passed off as "dress shirts" in this office building.
3. Despite being challenged in the fashion and urban planning departments, Texans are lovely, hospitable people. They love to talk about the weather in Texas. It is a subject of endless discussion. But hey, they're nice, so I can talk climate.

More later... must go investigate the margaritas which are the subject of all other conversation in this state.

SportsCenter, here I come! (And Thanksgiving.)

Watching NFL highlights…

Me: That was horsecollaring! That was that horsecollaring thing!

Husband: It was! Good eye, Honey!

Me: It’s hot when I call football penalties, isn’t it?

Husband: Yes. Yes, it is.

So I take off for Texas in the morning. It will be lovely and warm while I’m there. And then next week I’ll go to Maryland just in time for highs in the upper 30s. Nice.

Had a marvelous Thanksgiving at Elder Sister’s house. It was a small crowd for our family- just seven at us at the table. But it was laid back and fun. The food was fantastic. I think I have lured my brother-in-law into helping with our laminate floor installation… with the promise of his very own pan of cornbread stuffing. Yeah. I’m that good. The only down side was desperately missing my sweet Baby Sister. (Baby Sister, for the record, has been unceremoniously dumped by an heinous little girl who has incurred the sisterly wrath. We wish her pubic lice for Christmas.) But back to Thanksgiving! It was great and a good time was had by all.

Speaking of a good time… my poor Mother will tell you that she is made fun of mercilessly by her children. It’s true. And I’d feel bad about it, except that a) it’s all good natured and b) she really does bring it on herself sometimes. Case in point: the recliner incident. My Mom is short and round. It’s an adorable, grandmotherly look, but it doesn’t make for the most agile of bodies. She went to war with my sister’s recliner this weekend while trying to get out of the @#$@#%# chair (as she called it). It was sort of like watching an overturned beetle trying to right itself. This went on for several minutes and of course, rather than try to HELP her, I sat on the couch and giggled. By the time she got out of the chair, she was furious and I was hysterical. To add insult to injury, the leg rest popped back out and clocked her in the butt as she was walking away. I mean… does it GET any better than that? She’s like a cartoon, but totally unintentionally! Ma, I love ya… and remember that I’m laughing WITH you. OK, so you’re not laughing… but aren’t you just happy that you can bring such joy to your sweet baby girl??? No?

I am off to bed. I need my rest- they tell me Texas is exhausting what with everything being bigger there, blah, blah, blah…

Business Class Gives Me The Business Every Time

I won’t horrify my family with the preceding conversation to this statement, but it’s hilarious on its own:

Me (to Husband): Thank you so much for ruining this tender moment with the use of the word ‘splooged’.*

*(MOM- DO NOT ask my sisters what “splooged” means. You don’t want to know. Trust me. Do you remember the “what’s double penetration?” and “what’s a fluffer?” conversations? I do. So does my therapist.)

In other more family-friendly news, WORK SUCKS IT FOR CRACK ON A STREET CORNER! Oh shit… sorry, not so family friendly. Um… what I meant was…. WORK HAS BEEN QUITE CHALLENGING AND I’M QUITE FRAZZLED!

Riiiighhhht…. ‘cause that felt just as good. NOT. I return to my original assessment.

Yeah, I’m about to embark on a four state tour in which I will attempt to teach professional writing to a group of people that’s about 50% prima donnas who believe themselves capable of writing polished Supreme Court opinions in one draft. (The other 50% are great!) Truth be told, most of the prima donnas wouldn’t have earned better than a B- in my freshman comp class, but they’re very touchy sorts. I am going to get eaten for lunch. And that’s fine. I’ll just drink awfully heavily on the plane back home.

Traveling for business is always interesting for me. It’s a guarantee that a few things will happen:
1. I will get selected for more stringent security screening. There is something about a 5’2” blonde woman in professional attire that screams Al-Qaeda bomber. I should note that on my last trip, I got pulled for the extra special security screening. This was shortly after they banned all gels, liquids, etc. on aircraft. Guess that big ol’ bag of makeup just didn’t count ‘cause that sucker went right onto the plane with me. But hey, I got to go through the residue-detecting machine and they made damn sure that was powder on my face and not the activating agent for biological weapon I had cleverly concealed as my lip gloss.

2. A random traveling business guy about 20-25 years older than me will attempt to strike up a “friendly” conversation. On the plane, waiting at the gate, sitting in the airport bar. I have nothing against friendly conversation, per se, but I have learned that these men are usually looking for more than just a pleasant chat with another human enduring the woes of business travel. It’s best to pretend you’re deaf or a lesbian or that you do not speak a word of English. (Deaf is most effective. And makes them look like an ass when they start shouting. At a supposedly deaf person. Nice.)

3. My flight will board on time and give all appearances of being on schedule. I will stow my approved carry-on in the overhead without incident and settle in with my brainless reading material. Smiling flight attendants will welcome me on board Lying Bastards Flight 666 to NO WHERE BUT THE DAMN TAXIWAY. They will demonstrate the seat-belt and dutifully point their index/middle finger combo at the exits. And then we will sit. We will taxi out a very short distance and SIT in the hellish limbo that is a plane not yet in flight. Without air conditioning or beverage service, we will cling with naive hope to the radio-announcer-smooth voice of Captain Assface assuring us that we should be in the air “very shortly.” (This is about the time that the toddler three rows in front of me will weary of being contained and begin a full scale meltdown.)

The good news about this trip is that I can now legally carry a quart-sized bag with 3 oz. containers of liquid or gel in it. Even better news is that I am completely confident the ace- minded security screeners will not be able to discern clarifying shampoo from vodka.

And now, a musical interlude!

(With apologies to Louis Armstrong)

What a Wonderful World
new lyrics by ME

I see Dems in control
GOP strife
Haggert is gay
Rumsfeld took flight
And I think to myself… what a wonderful world!

I see the Senate in Blue
House that way too
Speaker Pelosi
We love you
And I think to myself… what a wonderful world!

I hear fundies cryin’, I watched them go,
To the polls so sure, but it didn’t show.

I see stem cell studies
Troops comin’ home
Marriage for all
W off his throne
And I think to myself… what a wonderful world!

Election Day Sarcasm

My fabulous South Florida aunt sent this to me today and I got a good giggle from it. Nothing like an entire party philosophy built on hypocrisy, hatred, and a complete lack of logic! Get out and vote- FIGHT THE RIGHT!!!!
Liberal Love,
L.

To be a Republican, you need to believe:
1. Jesus loves you, and shares your hatred of homosexuals and Hillary Clinton.
2. Saddam was a good guy when Reagan armed him, a bad guy when Bush's daddy made war on him, a good guy when Cheney did business with him, and a bad guy when Bush needed a "we can't find Bin Laden" diversion.
3. Trade with Cuba is wrong because the country is Communist, but trade with China and Vietnam is vital to a spirit of international harmony.
4. The United States should get out of the United Nations, and our highest national priority is enforcing U.N. resolutions against Iraq.
5. A woman can't be trusted with decisions about her own body, but multi-national drug corporations can make decisions affecting allmankind without regulation.
6. The best way to improve military morale is to praise the troops inspeeches, while slashing veterans' benefit and combat pay.
7. If prophylactics are kept out of schools, adolescents won't have sex.
8. A good way to fight terrorism is to belittle our long-time allies, then demand their cooperation and money.
9. Providing health care to all Iraqis is sound policy, but providing health care to all Americans is socialism. HMO's and insurance companies have the best interests of the public at heart.
10. Global warming and tobacco's link to cancer are junk science, but creationism should be taught in schools.
11. A president lying about an extramarital affair is a impeachable offense, but a president lying to enlist support for a war in which thousands die is solid defense policy.
12. Government should limit itself to the powers named in the Constitution, which include banning gay marriages and censoring the Internet.
13. The public has a right to know about Hillary's cattle trades, but George Bush's driving record is none of our business.
14. Being a drug addict is a moral failing and a crime, unless you're a conservative radio host. Then it's an illness and you need our prayers for your recovery.
15. Supporting "Executive Privilege" for every Republican ever born, who will be born or who might be born (in perpetuity.)
16. What Bill Clinton did in the 1960's is of vital national interest, but what Bush did in the '80's is irrelevant.
17. We should support hunters who shoot their friends and blame them for wearing orange vests similar to those worn by the quail.