A Tale of Two Cobanzas

Every member of my family has berated MJ for her insistence on forwarding chain-letter emails to us. In pressing send, the burden of insta-death/un-requited love/unintentional assassination of cute puppies/eradication of sunshine safely clears off her conscious and forwards onto us. After several responses in ALL CAPS (the on-line equivalent to shouting), she has learned that we are unappreciative of her middle school surveys and emoticon-laden poems. Thus, MJ has an unsatiated appetite for random facts and data that are learned through the completion and forwarding of such spam. A clever girl, that MJ, she instead created a survey-based game to be played around the Christmas tree. With the possibility of competition and winning, we were all happy to forego our strict NO EMAIL SURVEY policy and engage MJ in her “Crazy Christmas Cobanza”.

Quite a different Crazy Cobanza took place the day after Christmas, a Crazy Cleaning Cobanza. My dad, with the muscles rapidly atrophying in non-weight bearing leg, turned into Hitler’s lost Third Reich Captain. Completely disregarding the fact that we were all on hands and knees washing and scrubbing, he barked commands at us as if we were obstinate Marine Privates that didn’t want to break a nail. Sister Dancing Queen complained that her initial job of cleaning up the Christmas tree left her smelling like decaying organic matter, otherwise referred to as “ass”. When DQ petitioned said militant father for a more posh, less smelly job he responded with a brusque, “KJD2 smells like ass too.” Such sensitivity would make Mussolini proud.

Two hours and too much grumpiness from our temporarily disabled elder later, the house was sparkling, without a sign of the preceding holiday to be found. The two middle sisters smelled of ass while MJ and I smelled of Clorox and my Nazi father returned to his normal, low-key self. And yet, despite the raging backache that resulted from two solid hours of bent-over-manual-labor, I would still take Crazy Clean-ups over chain letters of any kind.

Of Mice and (wo)Men

While I consider myself to be decent at a number of things, I can not claim to be an expert at anything. The closest I come to earning the 'expert' title would be in the realm of falling. I can fall and recover as deftly as a slap stick comedian. I chuckle at those in the street that trip over an unforeseen obstacle, such as a fallen branch, and reflexively glare at the inanimate object as if it had humanized itself and intentionally fell in the tripper's path. Me, I am so accustomed to daily stumbles, I hardly notice when I have to studder step to regain my equilibrium.

Last night I caught up with a former high school classmate. She is an expert in something (slightly) more impressive than falling- specifically, neurobiology. Our subsequent conversation regarding mice and potential remyelination of neurocells is a topic that I-surprisingly, to some- am incredibly interested in and know enough to ask pretty specific questions. She was haltingly excited to discuss her research and the potential outcomes. As I pried for information, it became clear that her hesitation was founded in a general disinterest expressed to her work by others that 'think it's cool but don't really understand.' In short order we were discussing individual mice and potential medicines that are evolving as a result of her, and other's, remyelination efforts.

As I reflected on our conversation, I realized that I, too, don't share my work and the intricacies of why I truly love and care about what I do with others. An unfortunate habit formed during the dark years of my adulthood is creative introvertedness regarding professional endeavors and passions. Like my High School friend, I assume that others are either not interested or can not relate and therefore do not care enough to engage. But that assumption is, frankly, kind of snobby and presumptive of me.

I feel that my quest for a New Years Resolution to which I can actually commit has ended; I'll make a conscious effort to trust others enough to believe that when they ask me about my job (which finally aligns with my passion), they want to hear the answer- and I'll give it to them. And I'll even try to not follow it up with a story about my most recent fall to relieve some of my own anxiety about taking myself seriously. No promises, though.

Winter Weirdland

I love the quiet that snow brings. The blanket of white ensorcels all, and makes us all go to bed. And I think it's pretty clear how I feel about sleep. The sedative effect of snow is one of the few things that I actually enjoy about this weather. The most recent storm, the first of the season, was hailed as the end of days; residents were urged to stay put and batten down the hatches. My work place was completely empty, save my colleagues of budget/policy nerddom. The lovely Christmas performances that have been filling the hallways of work were all canceled- lending an eerie, Armageddon-esque atmosphere to the entire place.

The storm of the year is a fitting exclamation point at the end of a few weeks of utter bizarreness in the political and financial worlds. In short, it's been a rough month for people with funny names. As America continues its accelerating spiral toward Crazy Town, names have evolved from Simpson, Craig and McGreevey to those that require a phonemic explanation: Gettlefinger (get-lil-finger), Madoff (MAD-off) and Blagojevich (blah-GOY-a-vich). Money and power has done crazy things to these men and, I'm sure, their surrogates.

The first sought to increase partisanship in order to rectify the dwindling reputation of unions in the American workforce. Ultimately, Mr. Get-lil-finger solidify a bailout from a President that is terrified to become the next Harry Truman.

The second, lied and manipulated his friends to build a grand illusion of security, financial prowess and infinite success. Mr. MAD-off, thrown under the regulatory bus by his sons, is ankle-braceletted in his midtown apartment until his inevitable conviction.

The third-perhaps the most shameless of the three- thought that he could auction off a Congressional and Senate seat while under intense federal scrutiny for suspected sketchiness. Blah-GOY-a-vich, in his supreme hubris, is operating as if nothing is wrong and that the clear evidence against him are fabrications of political enemies (Dear Gov, No one cares about you enough. Love, Blogger).

These Three Wise Men of this Christmas season serve as an expose of shameless greed among some of America's most prominent individuals. Every day, more and more news reports stream in, they chronicle escalating job loss and apprehensions about the future. Even as a super majority of Americans are hopeful regarding the new administration and its potential fiscal stimulus- we find ourselves driven to distraction by these men and their childlike avarice. It almost makes me long for vacuous reporting on holiday sales. Or maybe, I'll just watch the snow (there sure is a lot of it).

Constituent Services

From time to time, I've used this blog as a form of catharsis; a means to process life events or disclose personal eccentricities so as to normalize them via revelation.  Today's entry is going to be one of those.  

Toward the end of the work day today, I had a Very Upsetting Conversation with a constituent.  Said constituent, herein classified via the name ASS, is one of many in the past few months that called to lodge a complaint regarding the recent budget cuts.  What is to follow is a 3rd person narrative account of my conversation with ASS, as told from the omniscient point of view of blogger and blogger's inside voice (BIV, not to be confused with the middle guy from Bel Biv Devoe (now you know, yo slick...blow)).

ASS:  I am a concerned parent that has a budget question, could you help me with that?

Blogger:  You bet.  

ASS:  I'm concerned with the two budget line items that pertain to Gay and Lesbian youth funding.

B:  What's your concern?

ASS: They were not cut enough while other, important, meaningful, parent-supported programs were cut.

BIV: deep breath, he just needs to get it off his chest.  inhale, exhale.  repeat.

B:  The LGBT programs were cut, in concert with all the other cuts.  Nothing was held harmless.

ASS:  All I'm saying is that if you have to make more cuts you should cut both programs entirely.  Do  you know what they are teaching my kid at school?

BIV: Um, tolerance and multi-lateralism? Loving oneself just as you are?  Caring more about who a person is than his/her sexual orientation?

ASS:...They are teaching him about transgender rights!  My god,  (BIV: clearly NOT the same god as mine) it is just a dishonor to our children.

B:  Ok, sir.  I appreciate your interest in youth development. 

ASS:  Who makes the decisions about what gets cut?

B:  The governor has the final say, as per constitutional mandate.

ASS: Well, you know the governor, he's no use.  He's in with those people and needs them and all that but us normal parents, we would be very happy if all the funding were to be cut....

BIV: I want to reach through the phone and strangle your ignorant throat.  But then I will seem like an angry lesbian, of which I am neither, and we will get nowhere, so I will just sit this one out and let you go wallow in your hatred. 

ASS:...and that gay and lesbian suicide prevention program?  That is just a poor use of money, so loosely defined...

BIV:  hmm.  Sounds pretty well defined to me

ASS: And I can tell you understand where I'm coming from...

BIV: huh?

B: Well sir, the governor is my boss and I serve at his pleasure.  I agree with his platform and can assure you...

ASS: OH. So you're one of them.  Well I guess he needs people like you to work for him, when no one else agrees with him.

B: Erm, ok. (BIV: You are the weakest link) Good bye.

And here I am, dear readers, more sad than irate.  Trying to understand why people are so afraid and angry about gay rights.  Hoping in this effort I can find some common ground in our humanity.  But I can't.  I am right and ASS and his other asshole parent friends are wrong; I only hope that they don't turn their children into little assholes.  

Counting Sheep

Sleep surpassed food as my Favorite Thing Ever many a bland peanut butter sandwich ago.  I crave it.  I worship it.  Sleep is my deity.  

It shouldn't be hard to imagine, then, my dismay when I realized the typically quiet and respectful gentleman who resides in the apartment above mine is prone to the worship of all things football.  His church is more southern Baptist to my Catholic; while mine values strict adherence to silent worship, his is a hooting, hollering good time.  Myself, I like a good football game, but even the best football game doesn't come close to a good night's sleep.  

Not one to encourage the prohibition of practicing one's faith, I sought solace.   Peace was found in a local Brookstone store, it came in the form of a white noise machine.  My nights have been filled with the same noise that ends Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band album--sonic emptiness in the form of static white noise.  

Last night, after a lovely dinner and bit of comic entertainment, I meandered home through my typically quiet neighborhood and was a bit disturbed to see large trucks with enormous jackhammers going at my road like a mosquito on exposed skin.  Allow me to clarify- I was first confused by the Batman-paging lighting scheme that allowed for the construction crew to indiscriminately penetrate my residential neighborhood.   I quickly checked my own closet for a misplaced latex suit- lest I was the One sought (not to be confused with That One).  Upon finding nothing hanging but cotton and wool, I jacked up my white noise maker and attempted my nightly worship of down comforters and sweatpants.  

It is safe to say that while I was able to win the battle with my neighbor, aided by my secret white noise weapon, I lost the war with the City construction crew last night.  I reached a breaking point around 2:30 am; speaking aloud to myself I likened the glaring light to Gestapo interrogation techniques and considered a quick trip into the cold to reason with the drillers.  

Instead, I pumped my white noise machine so loudly that my footballing neighbor may have had an unlikely dream segue that every TV at Buffalo Wild Wings had switched from NFL coverage to static.  I fell into a troubled sleep and awoke unsatisfied.  Tonight, I shall do penance and hope to redeem my faith in horizontal worship.

The Attack of the Killer Sandwich

Perhaps it was in my youth when the constant refrain of my parents to a young, under-the-weather me was that I should just stick it out and go to school. Maybe its a result of having spent way to much time in doctors' offices for the past decade of my life. Or maybe I'm just like Paula's forbidden fruit, a Cold Hearted Snake. Regardless of the reason, I have little sympathy or tolerance for physical pain. Rather than dwell on injury or sickness, I simply pretend it's not there. In college, for example, I functioned at a decently high level with incredible pain in my hip. Turns out, oops!, my hip was broken- guess I probably shouldn't have 'toughed it out' during those painful jogs around the reservoir...

It should not come as a surprise that when my father-recently back in the house after the foot surgery- complained of a stomach ache and had me WebMD some remedies last night, I thought nothing of it. Just a little tummy ache. This morning, however, I arose to a phone call from said father who began the conversation with, "just want to let you know, everything's fine." That is code for something is definitely not right, something is quite wrong.

Following our conversation I was transformed into a 20th century switchboard operator/press secretary regarding my dad's health. As soon as I got a trinket of information i was charged with calling and no less than ten individuals who would relay his gastric-intestinal issues to the next chink on the phone chain.

The game of telephone does not need to go through too many connections to become badly garbled. Below are some of the highlights of the many MANY conversations I've had with various family members and neighbors:

- Icka-itis? Is that what you said?
- I have some good contacts at the middle school. Do you want me to see if I can get MJ on the phone? (Blogger is actually still laughing about this one)
- His head got stuck?
- Apparently our neighbor was yelling at the EMTs for bringing the ritual small town parade of all available emergency vehicles (of which there are many at 3:30 am) after being expressly told to only bring the ambulance. They were slightly forgiven after they noted to said neighbor that at least they didn't turn on the sirens.
- Yellow skin?

Turns out, the real evil-doer in this whole situation is (drum roll) a tuna sandwich. After a few hours of painless feet yesterday, my dad indulged in a delicious treat from the sea that did not sit well with the meds and vulnerable immune system. Colonel Mustard in the kitchen with the tuna. That is the secret to this mystery, and I have to get through the standard ten follow-up phone calls without laughing while relaying it.

Horse Pills

Overheard among co-workers today:
#1: How's your grandmother doing?
#2: Still not dead!

My activities today have been health care focused. This is not an unusual phenomenon, as I deal in HC policy and the myriad twists and turns of Health Care Reform in MA, but it seemed more striking today than usual. My father got his toes welded together yesterday. While this sounds like a mythical accident metal lab teachers use to scare their students, it actually occurred at an expensive and prominent hospital.

His roommate at said hospital was unlike anyone I've ever seen before, yet have spoke of many a time in meetings regarding Health Care cost containment and the like. According to what my dad could piece together through his morphine soaked haze, this man- let's go ahead and call him Bob, for ease of story telling- was poisoned by his girlfriend via his meal (sounds like a stable relationship). Said girlfriend then pushed Bob down the stairs breaking his feet (which is why, presumably, he landed in Ortho recovery) then stole all of his furniture(...?...). My dad joined Bob, uninsured and literally without a chair to sit on, in room 610 on his 13th day in arguably the most expensive hospital in the nation. It was, however, the first time within those nearly 2 weeks that he agreed to take a shower- during which he flooded the shared room, as well as the one next to it (always a plus for people waddling around in attempt to recover from knee or foot surgery).

It is in my father's roommate that I find the paradox of health care and my greatest dilemma in negotiating my liberal soul with my pragmatic approach to policy. Clearly, this man needed and deserved care. Yet, 13 days of constant attention screams of abuse of the system. The fine line of medical care is both clear to the naked eye, as well as, so indiscernible that brilliant economists and their financial wizard colleagues can't put a fine point upon it. I struggle to resolve my 'stance' on health care goals as neither an expert in many of its nuances nor an impartial party to the nature of health care as a basic human right.

We are bleeding money to the health care industry, yet any cut means real pain for real, hard working people. We long to promote primary care as an alternative to expensive hospitalization, yet do not dedicate enough resources toward education for those for whom there has never been any option but the ER for medical care. We get angry about the Bob's but don't adequately address the nature of the problem that got him to his comfortable bed (far superior to his new lack-o-bed awaiting him at home) and allowed him to stay in it for too long on the taxpayer's dime. For these, and so SO many more constant and daunting issues within our medical system, I have no answers- and working among some of the smartest people I've met as only revealed the depth of the complexities inherent in any efforts to find 'solutions'.

BUT

In light of the recent holiday, I am thankful for the care that my dad and many other important people I love have received and wouldn't want it denied in any circumstance. That's the thing- once you have a name and a face, nothing seems like too much. And so I continue plugging, half angry at agencies that can not dig deep and find some waste to be cut just as I celebrate the incredible accomplishments of medicine and its reach to the masses in my old/new state. Sometimes it feels like life is one big, massive confusing contradiction.

At least I still have all of my furniture.

The Stain

I was not what one would call a fashionista in High School.  In fact, my extra large sized sweat-pant driven attire would better be classified under the, "dear god, please let me just blend in," category.   Due in equal parts to insecurity and a comfortable position in a low-key group of friends, I never took the way I looked seriously.  While this was perfect for my younger years, I didn't necessarily want complete spazziness of appearance to be my legacy.  Thus, with my 10 year reunion approaching,  I vowed to aspire to a level of presence slightly above that of a giant Boston College sweatshirt and my tennis team warm-up sweatpants. 

Last night, my stomach was in nervous knots in consideration of the overwhelming atmosphere of long-forgotten alliances, nicknames and shared awkward phases.  Still the lesser fashion forward woman in my family, I relied on my little sister to tell me what to wear- including a very cute and comfortable shirt that didn't make me look pregnant, despite its pregnancy inducing style.    A bit sauced following a preunion pre-gaming event at a friend's parent's home, I was ready for the daunting entrance and subsequent semi-awkward conversations that were to follow.  

The event quickly evolved into what all functions among my high school classmates tend to become: a giant dance party.  Cameras clicked, capturing moments shared by long lost friends, and my inelegant dance moves were brought back to the floor.  As is appropriate for any dance where space for the holy spirit is not required, the lights were dim in the facility where we high school classmates, with 10 years of respective baggage, boogied down.  

An unfortunate result of the necessary lower lighting scheme, it wasn't until today, when friends started posting photos from the extravaganza that I noticed: The Stain.  Oblivious to me and my friends who have subsequently vowed they would have notified me had they noticed,  a giant stain in the shape of the continent of Asia marked the lower portion of my sister's generously bestowed shirt.  The Stain, appalling in many ways,  would indicate to the untrained eye that I had, in fact, laid down on the floor in the middle of the reunion (belly down) and peed my pants. 

Today has been spent playing damage control and alerting various other Facebook junkies to do the same.  My best theory of how the stain actually came to be is a heedless lean against the bar that was messy with the spilled beer of anxious reuniters.  Yet, to those who may not see anything of me again for another five years, save the posted pictures, I'm That Girl with The Stain.  Awesome. 

Putting the FUN in

Limited discretionary funds resulted in a subscription to Basic Cable; a choice that left me with no option but to invest 2 hours of my life in a Mandy Moore movie last night. My life is also a bit emptier due to a dearth of MSNBC. While I do not miss the utterly irritating mid-day broadcasters, I miss my Morning Joe. Without the witty, thoughtful political banter between Joe, Mika and their frequent guests, I’ve been forced to watch the Today Show. The bite sized captions of news are not enough to satiate my daily desire to delve into the Washingtonian circus and proceedings of the incumbent administration. Often interesting segments are cut short to make way for ‘regular people’ interests such as the Jonas Brothers and on-line shopping. Each of these fascinating topics has its place in life, but not directly after the pronouncement of a death toll in Iraq or the new Secretary of Treasury who is charged with pulling the nation out of its financial crisis.

This morning there was a story regarding a child who was in the unfortunate circumstance of having a key lodged in his brain. Too grossed out to hear anymore than that headline and subsequent x-ray photo of said child with said key clearly outlined in his dome, I changed the channel and happened upon a news story that got me thinking.

The news story was a rather banal account of a family that experiences the stressors common to intensive family time had around the holidays. All well-known neuroses seem to surface and become widely discussed among family alliances prior to, after and sometimes during well-attended holiday functions. As the story noted, all families are dysfunctional. DUH. But the story seemed to emulate the gossiping and inside jokes that increase family drama exponentially. Throughout the turmoil that my parents divorce threw upon my family for the past few years, the consistent positive has been the dismissal of such insider/outsider tendencies that allow family drama to thrive.

There has been much reported on about the evolving relationships between parents and their Echo-Boom children. We tend to be more communicative and less deferential to our parents. While this changed approach to the most essential of relationships comes with its own faults, and I certainly could have done with LESS communication about my parents divorce as it was concurrently affecting me as a kid or that relationship, there is a really great offspring (pun intended) that’s come in the generational culture shift- at least in my family. I look forward to the holidays; our bizarre eccentricities are all out on the table and addressed so we have more time for board games and dance parties. It took a lot of time, a lot of seemingly reiterative conversations and a lot of tears to get there- and we will doubtless need to have many others as we grow together. Maybe I should write to Matt and Meredith and ask them to do more segments on effective communication and less stereotyped families; we with dysfunctional families tend to defy stereotypes anyway. At least they can come up with something more useful than a key lodged in the brain.

Home!

It's cold in Boston.  I'm not talking, "Brr.  It's chilly outside."  I'm referring to the type of cold that leave skin completely moisture-free and fingers numb well beyond one's initial entry into an overly heated building.  I braved the weather, however, to venture to the local Hay Market and partake in the completely overwhelming engagement of all senses therein.  

Saturday Hay Market is about as vintage Boston as one can get:  packs of people puffing out their breath in between gloved fingers as they ask edgy vendors for 5 of their best apples.  Fifty cents and a bit of shared human spirit later, the fruit buyer moves on to the next stand- eager to get the best deal possible while avoiding the near constant chiding of vendors that have little tolerance for indecision and/or hesitation.  

My neighborhood is quite close to the Hay Market- a brief walk filled with Italian bakeries, cafes and old men enjoying a bit of sidewalk conversation.  Many of my dear readers have asked for a description of my new apartment, and the Hay Market seemed like the natural lead to the myriad reasons why I am in love with a simple studio apartment in the lovely, Italian neighborhood in which I now reside.

A few days ago, I was stopped by a Ben Franklin impersonator who delights tourists in the city's old marketplace that happens to be a part of my commute to and from work.  (No, I'm not making this up).  It was quite cold that evening, and I was better equipped for the inclement weather than Ben (short pants and tights are not adequate for this bone-chilling weather).  He noted that I was walking quite quickly and that he would be much warmer if he were able to put on such speed (again, those pilgrim shoes aren't great for a rapid stride).  While concurrently laughing and thinking how odd it was that I was speaking to a colonist, it hit me:  I am so glad to be in the bizarre, esoteric Commonwealth of Massachusetts.

My apartment, itself, is also a relic of the historic and proud city in which it dwells.  Two walls of exposed brick and wood beaming frame the small space that I call home.  I've only 10 television channels, but about 35 delicious Italian restaurants nearby.  I live a block and a half from Boston Harbor and can solicit at least 3 different wine stores within a 2 block radius.

I may need the warmth the wine provides my insides, because MAN it's cold here.

Rapper's Delight

I just got off the phone with my Wonderful Welsh friend.  In the midst of catching each other up on our recent important life events, which centered upon our respective budget cutting jobs and related circumstances, she spoke of a night out with her boss- a man who happens to be the mayor of a large American city (not to be confused with a mayor of a irrelevant, turkey assassinating city).  She mentioned that after a few rounds of bowling and more than a few rounds of drinks, her boss began his oft-revealed love of public displays of rapping.  Her gut reaction was, "Oh my God, this is so American."  I laughed as she relayed the story to me, but then I got to thinking: I like that kind of America.  

I like the America that takes responsibility for balancing budgets, rather than borrowing beyond our means.  

I like the America that values a good night out, as well as, a good performance.

I like the America that takes an active role in the lives of her constituents, rather than passively letting day after day of lame duck status create a pathetic, Washingtonian 'leadership vacuum'.

I like the America when it is a land of possibility, a land of hope and a land that instills the value of syllable-by-syllable knowledge of the Rappers Delight.

Ball and Chain

A phenomenon has taken over my office, and countless others nationwide. Pulled by the human need for companionship people are coupling off into platonic relationships that are deep, meaningful and highly emotionally-laden. These pairs can send messages to each other across conference tables and know when the other just. needs. space. The have fights and inside jokes that are exclusive to their intimate relationship; they know how the other takes his/her coffee. They are Work Spouses.

The Work Spouse does not follow traditional lines of relationships; there are no age limits, similar levels of physical attractiveness or gender specifications in these pairs. There is only a shared sense of professional lifestyle and, often, shared dedication to one's job.

My office mate is in such a relationship. She and her Work Spouse would certainly not gravitate to each other in a bar; they probably wouldn't even go to the same bars. But when it comes to work, they have several daily check-ins. They ensure that the other is on board with a message before it gets delivered to anyone outside of the relationship. More often than not, they see the other first thing in the morning and pop-in to wish each other "Good Night" before they leave at night.

I am not in such a relationship, the closest I've been was during my first year of teaching. My Work Spouse was your classic crazy English teacher who wanted nothing but commiseration and a place to deposit misbehaving children. I was a novice in a Strange, Strange land with a need for any kind of solace. Thus, our relationship was dysfunctional, greatly based upon opportunism. After two long years, I left my 6th grade World Cultures post; our Work Spouse break-up followed. We left on good terms, however, and I was free to pursue a better connection. Since then, however, I've bumped from place to place so often that I've not the chance to develop such a relationship. In the event that you, dear reader, and I ever work together and are up for the job- I take my coffee iced, no sugar with soy milk.

It's all About Me.

Those of you unfamiliar with the world wide phenomenon that is Facebook, allow me to enlighten you of a certain component of the crack-addictive social net work and its recent implications on my life.

Among the many critical preferences that Facebook allows one to display to the world regarding television, books, politics and religious denomination there is one ‘open ended answer’ offered; this section is referred to as the “About Me.” The about me is an individuals chance to express his or her true uniqueness. Many people choose to reiterate tenets already established in other categories (His dominance in Guitar Hero, Her belief that the Dave Matthews Band really speaks to her heart etc.), others provide information regarding future plans, hopes and dreams. The most hesitant among we Facebook fiends choose to leave the space blank for fear that completing the open ended section will reveal just too much to his/her friends who know everything else about him/her- that one last detail may just be the tipping point between holding some semblance of privacy and total self-imposed disregard of the 9th amendment.

I, on the other hand, have a very specific approach to my “About Me” section; it is a chance to share a bit of information with my good (and not so good) friends that is a critical factor of my daily existence that they otherwise would not have known. My current About Me has not been changed for months now. It reads, “I get the hiccups when I’m hungry.” I figured it was fascinating - yet not widely known- and would perhaps allow me to send non-verbal cues to friends when I am in their presence and in need of a snack. Yet, dear readers, I feel it is time for me to move on and provide my die-hard fans with a new snippet of information from my utterly compelling daily life. The unfortunate result of this commitment to Fair and Accurate reporting About Me is that I now find myself thinking in 200 character phrases. Ideas that have crossed my mind in the past few days include, but are not limited to:

- I am afraid to light a match. I used tongs and a Bunsen burner for matches required in 10th grade chemistry class. (This one would make my chemistry partner from said class smile)
- I’m that sweaty girl at the gym.
- I am afraid of getting stuck in elevators; not because of the small space aspect, but because, ‘What if I have to go to the bathroom?’
- Matt Damon, Zach Braff, Taye Diggs and Jim from the Office are on my Five List. The spot formally held by Tom Brady is open for negotiation.
- I drink more water than you. (I do believe this is a universal truth)

While there are several others in contention, and I am open to suggestion, I think I may just settle upon:

I have the unsettling habit of thinking in phrases of 200 characters or less.

Also: A bit of viewing pleasure from my alma mater: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6FahBBnfHAQ

Them Apples.

I've let many a tear trickle down my cheek in the past twenty-four hours. I'm not the only one. That I know. I've seen them crying, all over the Television. Internet videos show horns beeping, chants erupting and overall shared happiness among fellow Americans. Poignant moments that have swept me away in a tide of shared pride, emotion and hope include, but are not limited to:

- A win in VA. Not only is Nixon's bigoted Southern Strategy officially put to rest, Ulysses S. Grant gets one more chance to do a drunken jig all over Robert E. Lee.

- The calling of the race by the cautious networks. My friend and I sat frozen, simply saying: "oh my god" ad nauseum, as as the tears streamed.

- Obama's Speech. Nailed it.

- An anecdote from a friend that a woman in her office told said friend that she (colleague), "felt like she belonged in America for the first time."

- An elderly gentleman still wearing his Obama pin on his trench coat lapel

As much as I overdose on Nerd when it comes to politics, I rarely allow myself to get swept away from the emotion that politics, at its best, can bring. This week has been an exception, and I am grateful to this election for being so tremendously powerful that it provided a bit of respite to my cynical nature.

Obama will frustrate me, and I feel that his fiscal approach will frustrate those more fiscally liberal than I even more. I will become scared that his message of hope was somewhat naive, that the 'system' will corrupt him, and thereby corrupt a small part of all of us who stood firmly behind him. I will question actions of his surrogates and worry when pundits call for a midterm backlash in the House.

But for now, I will choose to delight in the poignancy of the moment, join the masses in anticipating what kind of dog Malia and Sasha will choose for their new home and concur with our President Elect's assertion that:

In the unlikely story that is America, there has never been anything false about hope.

Hoy en dia

Today I saw a kilo of cocaine.  I'm not kidding- it had a playboy bunny etched into the top and smelled oddly of decaying organic matter.  Additionally on my day's roster: attesting that I never committed a felony, peering into the guts of a CT scanner and carefully ignoring persistent pleas for greater funding-funding which my office, and certainly I, do not have.

Today was field trip day at work and I got quite an eyeful.   Now that I am back at home, snuggled in and watching gossip girl I am reflecting upon such field trips. Even in 2nd grade, they never were what they were cracked up to be- unless you were the lucky one who actually got to milk the cow at the farm.  Today's field trip was no different.  As I look back on life, I know I'll be happy that I spent 7 hours on my feet, touring public facilities that do amazing things on string budget- but for right now, I am really regretting the choice of wearing wedge heels over flats.  

Grrrrrr!

I couldn't find anyone that wanted to take a hike with me yesterday.  To be fair, I only made a few calls to 'outdoorsy-type' friends and family members and gave them less than an hour to realize that a chance to spend time among the trees with me would be their greatest gift of the weekend.  No dice.  Thus, I ventured to the great wild by myself.  My alone-ness allowed me to take random turns, scale the difficult trails and simply turn around if it suited my fancy.  While on the more difficult trail of my local mountain, I found myself leaning back, extending my left foot while extending my right arm for counter-balance.  Throughout this feat of natural balance that kept me from plummeting to my death, I started to think about the inner animal in all of us.  It is the animal that allows me to sense a potential fall and lean just enough to escape it.  It is the animal in me that can hear a twig break in the distance and ensure my cellphone is still in my pocket (an adaptive animal-meets-technology reflex) and keep my eyes out for Bad Guys.  

Up until this election, I've always thought that Republicans are more in touch with their inner-animals.  They are reactive, lean into the wedges that define social platforms and rely on tribal associations to create the in team and the out team.  We democrats often respond partly with anger and partly with hurt feelings- we don't understand why republicans deride the intellect that separates us from the lower beings on the food chain.  We wish they would focus more on the issues and less on the gut animalistic reaction to the emotive language associated with anti-real-Americanism.  But, Sarah Palin, has allowed the democrats to get in touch with their inner animals.  The visceral reaction of democrats towards the Alaskan Governor is one that should be easy for republicans to understand- they originally tapped into it.  She makes us bear our teeth, grip our claws and long to tear her down to protect the ways in which she threatens our tribe: the common good, humility in the face of great challenge and the ability to speak candidly about issues.  She is the alpha; that which can attract the most fervent members of her own tribe while making the auto-defense mechanisms that lay dormant in the opposing tribe finally mount up.

It is the animal in my that wants a John McCain loss to be highly correlated to his VP pick.  I want her to go down- not because she is a woman (stop accusing me of being sexist, you sexist Fox news announcers with perfect makeup and coiffed hair!), not because she is a maverick (a loose, self-defined term), not even because she so obviously is a pawn to the campaign and completely reliant upon them to define her 'core beliefs' (sounds very maverickish, huh?).  I want her to go down because she is a threat to my tribe.   I do not want folksy mean slogans to triumph over research and intellectualism.  I do not want "Do as I say, Not as I do" (abstinence education...) to rule my country.  Most of all, I do not want ignorance to win.  Call me a fool, but I still believe in democracy and have faith in the majority's rationality.  

** I do like that the top spell check option for Palin is "Plain".  So true. 

Go on Ladies!

One of the unappreciated highlights of this election is the role that women have played. No, I do not mean the 'historic nature of HRC's campaign'. And, this may come to a shock to my faithful readers, I am not about to pay Sarah Palin a complement. The fabulous women to whom I refer are those of Saturday Night Live who have emerged of late as the saviors of the show and democracy itself.

In a decade marked by pitiful SNL performances, save only for a few male dominated highlights and a few lewd musical numbers that play on the playa hatin' video girl stereotypes, Amy Pohler and Tina Fey have rocked Saturday nights and the subsequent network morning shows for weeks. Pohler looks as though she may pop she is so very pregnant and Fey can coif her hair better than Gov. Palin herself. Together, the dynamic duo are renewing social commentary and political parody that has been lacking in my Playstation/Reality TV/Sports Center generation. High school classmates now eagerly watch Presidential debates- a coup in itself- so that they can understand the jokes on Saturday night.

Currently, I have a heroin-esque addition to Pohler's Palin Rap. I don't even know what my favorite part is, there are just so many (the McCain scary face, the Moose, Todd, etc.). For the past two weeks, these women have effectively dominated the water cooler chat in my, and I can only assume many other, office. The dead on wit and national appreciation for the genre makes me hopeful for the future- on the several Saturday nights when I am staying in, already had three-four glasses of wine and just ready to laugh.

Budget madness ends- but my life is still bizarre.

My day yesterday:

5:45 am:  Innocuously climb aboard an elliptical trainer at my neighborhood gym.  Within the 1/2 hour aboard, learn that the new owner of said gym doesn't believe that acid-washed jeans have gone out of style.   Toward the end of my a.m. sweat session, get into a semi-brawl with a father of a high-school classmate who claims that Obama represents socialism and I must want socialists to take over the country. 

8:17 am: Peaceful commuter rail ride disrupted as a set of women sit across from me.  Our knees nearly touch.  Women #1 proceeds to tell Woman #2, and inevitably myself, about her tumultuous relationship.  Apparently #1's Man ditched her at Chowda fest, and paraded around in a costume.  Loosely tied to this event is #1's disdain for the way that the Man treats her.  To resolve this issue, #1 went to have her cahds read.  #2 quickly inquired to whom #1 to get her cards read to which #1 responded:  "I get my cahds read by all of them; Regina, the otha one- I've spent so much g.d. money getting my cahds read this week.  But whateva, it's what I'm into."  Apparently Regina, card heiress extraordinaire, told #1 to change her locks, break up with the Man after he had done all the work that needs to be done around the house.  

8:54 am: I briefly ponder becoming a card reader/opportunistic woman guide.

9:36 am:  Six minutes into a site visit at an urban nutrition center, I realize that the woman who is to guide us through the ins and outs of said center is Not Well.  

10:04 am  Woman at center reveals that she is all jacked up on steroids and other drugs.  Reasons sited include: major problems lately.  Hmmm.  She proceeds to guide us through the paper work needed to apply for the service.  Such directives included, but were not limited to, "and then I have them sign on the line right here.  Then they put the date next to that line, on the 'date' line."  

11:40 am: Return to office, fearing a voice mail box filled with questions about my morality.  Recent budget cuts had dropped upon the Commonwealth the day before and I had the good fortune of having 6 of the 9 cuts highlighted in a local newspaper be those within the departments with whom I work as designated budget cutter.

11:42 am: Finish checking voicemail.  No angry constituents, only those confused that all earmarks are not showing up as cut on the website. 

11:47 am:  Come to grips with the fact that I will never, ever be able to figure out website programming.

12:oo-5:00 pm:  Frantically attempt to catch up on the regular business that fell to the wayside amid budget cut panic.

5:45 pm:  Sign the lease to my new apartment.  Simultaneously become excited and scared (a la Jesse Spano) to live there and pay for it without taking on a stint as a street mime or otherwise untaxed employment.

8:16 pm:  Go to bed.  Exhausted from budget cut madness, commuter rail trauma and occasional anger toward Sarah Palin.

All of us WILL learn

It's increasingly easy to become discouraged by the state of the world- the very human problems that are molded into very mechanical political needs go unaddressed and we are stuck in a holding pattern of ever widening socio-economic gaps and faltering services to adequately address them. Unfortunately, we often look to one-solution-fits-all cures when the only cure for hugely inadequate education and health systems would be blowing the whole thing up and starting fresh. With 49-51% of our nation subscribing to the conservative persuasion, TNT style reform is unlikely. It is in this vein that I make a self-promotional plug to a burgeoning reform in the education world that I was lucky enough to teach within for 2 years- the Knowledge is Power Program- or KIPP Schools. It's unique approach to educating low income youth is as much derided as it is embraced- but its success is undeniable. What's great about KIPP is that it doesn't claim to be THE solution, merely part of it.

One of the founders of KIPP appeared on the Colbert Report earlier this week. Dave Levin, whom I will have an everlasting and very real crush, used his 5 minutes to discuss the urgency of NOW in our education system. My first group of Kippsters are applying to college this year- the very idea of it and what they've overcome as individuals blows my mind. My job is currently asking me to evaluate very difficult decisions about levels of human-centric services that are required to cut back due to this implosion in the economy. I can only hope that cuts are being made strategically and programs that change as many lives as KIPP (which actually doesn't receive government funding outside of its per-pupil allotment) don't end up on the chopping block.

I am not alone!!!

It is not in my nature to be completely swayed by the spinning heads in the back room of a political forum, but after Thursday night's Vice Presidential debate I wondered if I had seen a completely different debate than those who make their living commenting on such events.  I saw two space-shot candidates; one whose priority was to prove that she can speak in complete sentences, regardless of relevance to the topic at hand (hmmm... was a winning strategy in the past two elections) and the other who parsed his words so much to show that he is not in anyway looking down on a candidate that thoroughly deserves to be looked down upon (I need Jed Bartlet, circa season three in here STAT).  The former was completely void of gravitas but terrifyingly assured of her superiority; the latter looked like he was suppressing his gravitas under his ubiquitous grin while avoiding any nod in the direction of his opponent's quite apparent inferiority. 

Yet, in hearing the pundits I started to believe that I was dead wrong.  Perhaps, I thought, my solidified views of both candidates overshadowed my ability to really WATCH the debate, maybe I was simply seeing what I wanted to see.

And then I rode the commuter rail the next day.  

The commuter rail tends to attract a segment of the population that limits interaction to, "Can I sit there?",  "Did you see the Sox game last night?", or "Tickets, please!".  I, along with the majority of the riding population tend to bury my head in my book, alternated with sneaking peaks over the top of said book to people watch and deliberate what offices allow its employees to wear THAT (!).   

But, Friday's commuter rail ride was a virtual Roman Forum of politics.  Things overheard include:

- She didn't mess up, but she didn't really SAY anything.  

- Why did she keep winking?  It was weird.

- She reminded me of my girlfriend. My girlfriend always tells me to stop bringing up the past and I'm always like, Dude, I've just started to absorb the past.

- "I can't believe you watched that." Person A.  "Are you kidding?! Do you know how much is at stake?" Person B (Blogger, silently, 'YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS')

And, thus, my 'man on the street (well, train)' survey  has proven my gut instincts right and made me feel less alone in this crazy pre-presidential atmosphere.  

Lucky Number 7

It's pretty poignant that the Dow closed at 777 points under its starting point today. In the mecca of gambling, Las Vegas, landing on triple sevens is the equivalent to a near miracle while the triple digit loss in the financial world is a near disaster. But, ironically, both results are the outcome of a large, impractical gamble. As the greatest country in history scrambles to patch the damage and its citizens frantically paw for those who are at fault; the remains of our gamble hover in the air, unfinished business that may result in a longer stint in gambler's rehab than we were ready for. We loved our endless prosperity so much that we can't accept what it's come to; if not a complete end, a serious traffic jam that may result in more than a few angry drivers and passengers.

Like a kid who mis-budgets and, oops!, spends his rent money on beer and needs to make a whimpering call to his better-off parents to bail him out, the government was poised to step in and bail out our frivolous, mortgage traunching financiers out. The beer loving kid would be more closely watched by his parents and, ultimately, pay them back- perhaps with interest. The government, with the bailout, would have been able to more closely monitor and regulate the flippant financial mega-corps and, eventually be paid back by the reckless recipients of survival money. Americans, in their quest for someone to blame, got so caught up in the idea of helping the 'same people that got us into this mess', that they forgot that we are going to be cleaning up the mess one way or another because the financial company has no rich dad...they WERE the rich dad.

Today, as the news of the House rejection of the spending plan sunk in, a slow, creeping feeling of coolness invaded my chest and other panic-friendly zones. "What will this mean for us? How will we ever get out of this?" "Why is John McCain still blaming this entire fiasco on Barack Obama?!" I have faith in my country. I have faith in capitalism. But I lose faith with the partisan crap that gets in the way of both. I really hope that we can come out of this on the other side.

Thank you, John McCain!

Nothing unites the republican base like an angry liberal. So rather than expressing my ire at the recent antics of Team McCain/Palin, I would like to express my gratitude.

Thank you, John McCain. Thank you for having the courage and fortitude to take a hiatus from the exhausting world of campaigning to return to Washington and take the lead on solving the economic crisis. Your lack of expertise or background in the subject of the economy is nothing compared to your sheer willingness to BE there in Washington while other leaders and experts work to alleviate the fear and uncertainty felt by so many Americans as their lives become precariously close to falling apart.

Much gratitude, Senator, for your willingness to pass up the opportunity to refer to Sen. Obama as ‘your friend’ during the debate that has been long scheduled for Friday in order to join your pal George Bush in the depths of government in Washington. Together you two can discuss how much government IS the problem while you guys are effectively problem SOLVERS; the fact that you both ARE the government is simply a fact that we liberals bring up as a ploy to bring you down.

I even appreciate your generosity in dispensing your good cop surrogates to your less-than-ready VP pick. They are SO quick to thank the press during any public appearance that the governor makes that she is unable to answer any questions. Their excessive politeness must be delighting your kindergarten teacher contingent.

For these, and so many others, reasons, I want to say a sincere Thank You, Senator. Thank you, Thank you, Thank you for continuing to put Country First ©.

Hoot Hoot

I have never been good at Science.  And since I don't like to do things that I am not good at (read: embarrassingly bad at), only a few lessons from my mandated 12 year science curriculum are memorable enough to pop back into my head from time to time.  One of such notable lessons falls into the fauna/flora category; to be more specific, nocturnal animals.  I remember being floored by the concept of beings that not only can exist, but THRIVE well after the Cosby Show's closing captions wound up the TV and I was shuttled off to bed.  

It appears that our Commander in Chief has become such a nocturnal animal.  Owl-like, he emerges post news cycle with redundant iterations of that which has already been determined.  Bush returned home to TX, several days after Ike's wrath washed through and just before my Houston friends and colleagues regained electricity and water, to certify that a hurricane had indeed hit the Lone Star State and that, yes, it would take a long time to recover.  I bet he thought that he did a bang-up job there, just because he actually landed and talked to people instead of gravely nodding from 10,000 feet on Air Force 1. 

Later that week, our Chief Executive, emerged to note our economy is in rough shape.  Really?  Is that what all of those white people looking sad while holding cardboard boxes is all about?  He finished with a token call for bipartisanship- a call which, to him, loosely translates to, "Congress should let me do whatever I want.  This should be the policy despite the fact that I've not done much right and clearly don't understand what is going on."   

I wonder if our nocturnal president will continue to disregard our daily reality.  I really don't know if I can answer that question because, again, I've never been good at science.  

Employment

Top 5 surprising bonuses to my new job:

5.  Two office mates that have similar senses of humor AND tastes in music as mine.  Let's just say that "No Diggity" graces the play list.

4.  I can go to the bathroom and/or go get coffee whenever I want.  (BIG bonus for any former classroom teacher that has experienced bladder compromising situations)

3.  No longer an intern, my phone calls actually get returned.  Promptly.

2.  An environment that fosters my newly acknowledged inner-contrarian

1.  A seat at the table where ideas are disseminated and decisions are made.  

Oh, Sarah.

Readers, it's been too long.  

I've taken a prolonged hiatus in order to wrap my head around my feelings towards Governor Sarah Palin's rising star and why it disturbs me so.  Yet, despite my extended thinking period the only thing that I can come up with that the politicos in the mainstream media have not yet said is this: for the first time, I know what people mean when they say that someone gives them a bad taste in their mouth.  She holds a strong, repugnant taste that I feel fully whenever I see or hear her scripted appearances.  I long for a breath mint, a wave of refreshment, when she repeats the half truths that I am convinced she believes as strongly as the Word of God.  I wonder if one swish of Listerine is enough to eliminate the bacteria that is spreading from the GOP's personality war- and the lack of substance beneath the facade of 'non-blinking clarity'.  Aside from her social platform, which makes me cringe to think about, she believes that the War in Iraq (and really anything else in life, such as environmental crises) are acts of God, doesn't know her Pakistan from her Tajikistan and considers reform more important than governing.  A winning combination of grit and pragmatism she is not, rather a reactionary and caustic leader who feels that an oblique view of Russia's country side provides key insight into the actions taken from the Kremlin.

In my attempts to cleanse my palate from the countless Sarah Palin media spots, I'm struck by two thoughts:, the first being that John McCain is effectively dodging the spotlight and thereby misleading America as to who he actually is.   The second, more shocking revelation is that I get why some people just don't like Barack Obama, the gut feeling that many conservatives must feel when they hear his voice is the same that I feel towards that of Gov. Palin.  Perhaps they just don't believe him, and their completely different stances on social issues reinforces their belief that Obama is not only dangerous but also oblivious to the needs and realities of the Common American.   But I bet that Obama would have been able to voice his opinions on the Bush doctrine, and I hope that he would have said, "Bush didn't blink, but I guarantee you that as president that I would not only blink but any action taken from Oval Office would be given the amount of considered respect that I hold for the American people."

Republicans Love You!

Until you're born.


...more on this after this blogger cools off and stops her secret evil plans to overtax the average American and threaten health care reform.

Not your Grandfather's Fire Side Chat

In a shocking recent development, I have become addicted to talk radio, especially that of the conservative persuasion.  I enjoy hearing what the other side thinks and to prepare for the times in which I want to be on my toes to counter the economic and social nonsense in their politics.  Most of all, however, I like to pick apart the hypocrisy in the daily rants against the democrats and for the republicans of the world.  Many a time in the past few months I've driven with conservative radio personalities screaming at People Like Me and our destructive liberal tendencies.  While I do think that it is true that I, and the people I choose to socialize with and love, tend to be quite liberal on social issues AND that we tend to be educated to the point of being 'out of touch' with Joe SixPack.  Yet, the vitriolic methods and transparent attempts to brainwash the American radio listeners about the evils of all things democrat seem just as abhorrent as, gasp, Ivy League Universities. 

The selectivity of stories presented by such strongly opinionated conservative havens, inclusive of all Murdoch media outlets, provides a great disservice to Americans who long to be involved in politics.  If this election has the power to do anything, it is to garner a passion for politics and the process that the nation hasn't seen since the our collective spirit was broken in Watergate.  Liberal leaning radio stations are far from balanced in their reporting, yet Conservative talk radio seems to take mind control to a new level.  The goal of each discussion is the dissemination of unilateral opinions concerning the 'other' as well as inundate listeners with so much junk mail that the real messages never make it into the voter's mental inbox.  And yet I still listen, captivated by the slow, methodical pulse of conservative voices beating into the brains of all those who will listen.  

GOP's Morning Sickness

Bristol Palin's baby is a gift from god to Democrats.  The family values party is dealing with the shock of the demise of the 'holier than thou' wedge issues that they cling to, while desperately trying to encapsulate "Palin is a solid choice, is not a thinly veiled attempt to garner Hillary's woman vote AND we respect her daughter's decision," into a catchy 5 word phrase.   It's enough for Karl Rove to need a stiff drink.  Initially, I was insulted by McCain's unlikely running mate choice.  Gov. Palin is, yes, a woman.  That is about as far as it goes for the women-friendly track record of the life-long NRA member.  I've had a few days to calm down about the choice, and I am now slightly hopeful that the GOP are so far off on their assumptions of the American constituency that the choice will push some disenfranchised Hillary voters finally into Obama's camp: the assumption that they just want ANY woman is, plainly, too much for even the staunchest of Hillary Nobama supporters to bear.  

Bristol shall be bearing the nation's youngest GOP faithful, in the spot light with a shot gun marriage to boot.  I wonder if Bush will lend them the family ranch at Crawford to celebrate the holy union.  The girl, perhaps as a giant middle finger toward her mother or perhaps because there are lots of 17 year olds that are sexually active, without access or education about contraceptives.  Maybe this pregnancy was planned after all.  But I can't imagine the Governor hailed for her staunch social conservatism was in support of such a plan.  Either way, the family values party is treading water and hoping (PRAYING) that the democrats do something so scandalous that this little issue becomes a small distraction.  God only knows, the difficulties that are inherent in teenage pregnancies are about to be magnified as Bristol goes through the process in a very choreographed and intrusive manner.  

I realize this is a delicate situation, as teenage pregnancy is a major life-changer for tens of thousands of young American women each year and, needless to say, the opportunity for a woman (regardless of age) to choose how to address an unplanned pregnancy is critical.  I am just happy that the wedge attack that is doubtless planned for launch against Obama's call for early sex education is now off the table.  

Go Johnny go!

How GREAT was John Kerry tonight?  

The DNC convention is like my Superbowl.  I find myself wanting to make some popcorn and yell at the television screen as the moments pass.  Overall, Michelle has continued to rock my world.  Hillary was, predictably, self-focused while Bill was, pleasantly, magnanimous.  But the old Swift Boat veteran just went for it!  Senator Kerry was all of a sudden in his parlor (or some other fancy room) with Teresa, who still looks strangely drugged.  He was unabashed and thoroughly d.o.n.e with the inane anti-patriotic attacks hurled at the Democrats by Republicans that feel as if pride in one's country is something that they, as a party, can grant or take away from us at will.  

There is something about former Democratic presidential nominees; after toeing the line for seemingly endless campaign months, they emerge fed up with the bullshit and desiring to tell it like it is.  Gore went head first into climate crisis and emerged a hero and Nobel laureate.  Kerry, an early supporter for Sen. Obama's presidential bid, considerably loosened up and seems ready to counter attack any Republican removal of Obama's (or anyone else's) patriotism.  

I almost feel like Obama should wear a Swift boat pin under his lapel.  The symbol will be out of the predatory sight line of the press but close enough to his heart to remind him to go full throttle in a way that Kerry couldn't at the time. 

I heart NY!

Things I learned in New York this past weekend:

1. Sir Biden has been added to the Obama-licious ticket.  From an imperfect pool, the Democrats have selected the more perfect candidate.  I am thrilled for Biden's foreign policy experience to be added to the ticket although the combined beauty of the two couples up on stage together is a bit sickening.  He is brutally honest and will do his VP part of playing Bad Cop to Obama's Good; the Biden mouth is unpredictable- which I love.  I really don't think that his gaffes are going to compromise the ticket, they may distract the 24 hour news cycle for a while and I would not be surprised if Obama has him fall on a couple of swords to protect the greater image and campaign.  

2.  This blogger is employed!!  I received the call from my future job (policy analyst, clearly to be discussed more in the future) while lunching with an old friend on the Noisiest block of Manhattan.  Of the phrases that I heard, the salary is not going to put me on an episode of "The Fabulous Life of..." any time in the near future but the six (6!) people with whom I interviewed were fabulous themselves so perhaps I can redefine the meaning of fabulous life- most notably, I do not anticipate a yacht or my own staff to help me unwind.  

3.  The City that Never Sleeps welcomes artists of all denominations and specialties- this is not news.  Yet, I was exposed to a new form of public displays of art while sitting in Washington Square.  As I struggled with a late-week crossword I was pleasantly disturbed by a group of musicians, clad in 1940's garb, who started playing and singing Cole Porter songs ON TOP OF A BUS.  Bus top music has made a sudden surge in Art that I understand and appreciate (as opposed to installation pieces that resemble junk yards)

4.  It is possible for me to spend a weekend in New York without a trip to Tasti D Lite.  I am not excited about it, but I managed to miss any Tasti D's opportunity that was presented to me (albeit obliquely) in the 72 hours spent in the Big Apple.  I shall, therefore, make at least two trips to the not-quite-ice-cream phenomenon upon the occasion of my next trip. 

5.  Obviously.

Rail Travel

This blog session may be a multi-parter as I have much to say regarding my recent trip to the Big Apple and the various events that unfolded throughout.  I chose to travel Amtrak both ways because I hold the romantic notion of train riding as a graceful and passive view of America as it was meant to be seen.  Despite the chilly reception granted by friends, both close and distant, of my choice to spend more money and take the train over the much hailed Bolt Bus, I stood resolute in my decision (and as our President says, I am the decider).  Trains offer serenity that buses, with their stale air and ability to attract the strangest and most socially uncouth people to their services, simply cannot.  I have since refined such an assertion to include the clause, ' such views are contingent upon my ability occupy a full row of train seats and am seated near people who observe and respect the limited and hygienic behavior intrinsic to shared space. 

As I settled into my full row in Boston, I smiled- knowing that I had indeed made the correct choice on the railway splurge.  I attempted the day's crossword puzzle and gazed outside at the New England coastline as  visions of sugar plums danced in my head.  Then I got to Kingstown Rhode Island.  It was at that point that a family of four boarded the train; the parents of which promptly decided that seating their 4 year old twins, who had not eaten in 5 hours, next to me while they took their parental duty seriously from 2 rows behind.  I offered, kindly, to switch places with them and was met with looks of incredulity ("We just got rid of them, are you kidding") and a small brush off as the mother said to me, "no I can take care of them from back here."  WRONG.  After 10 minutes of tolerant behavior I rationalized that I was not a terrible person for ditching my surrogate parental duties, as the parents forgot to put me under contract, and strategically moved seats. 

Bad Idea.  

I settled next to a Hasidic couple who alternated between speaking loudly in Yiddish and snacking from their Mary Poppins-esque bag o' treats.  As the young woman chatted on her cell phone and twirled her wig around on her fingers, her presumed mate unabashedly took to staring at me per manner of a incredibly conservative, fully-clothed peep show.  I tried to focus my stare outside at the continuing scenery but found myself snapping my head back in a bizarre, unspoken game of gotcha with this young lad who most frequently would be caught staring at me, either twirling a side tendril or sucking pistachios out of their shells with ridiculous volume and discarding the remains in Poppins' bag.  

The two hour delay of my train ride home did not bode well for my overall justification of Amtrak support, yet I decided to approach the journey with an open mind, a full cell phone battery and an Early Edition of the Sunday Times to keep me occupied.  All was going well until the frustrated conductor screamed down the aisle, "the train is full.  Your bag can not take up a seat unless you've bought a seat for the bag."  I feigned deafness until a woman boldly approached me, and my defiant bag, and asked to sit next to me.  Her brother/husband/brother-in-law/no idea the relationship, was directly across the aisle and deemed Stamford, CT a great place to publicly trim his finger nails.  The bile was rising up in my throat in response when my seat buddy, who was greatly inhibiting my ability to unfold the Times enough to read the inner columns, reached into her purse grabbed a snack which resembled a fossilized cube of Macaroni and Cheese.  As the dad in front of me fruitlessly attempted to teach his 8-year-old how to count using Roman numerals, the gay couple behind me spoke loudly of their disdain for people who use their cell phones on trains just as I found a small piece of solace in a cell phone conversation with a friend.  The last, blissful minutes of the trip were spent in my own row, where I proceed to spread the Week in Review section across the entire seat- just because I could.  

West Siiiiiiiiiide

I've been actively resisting the recent media fascination with China; we all too often attempt to reduce the culture and country into simplistic, western generalizations.  We do not understand, therefore we judge.  But I haven't been able to shake this article out of my mind since I first read it.  We, indeed, are an individualistic culture; the very definition of capitalism demands such a mentality.  I do wonder how globalization will impact our nation's spirit and economy.  We may be at a disadvantage to societies with a more collectivist nature; if my work is for something greater than simply my own profit than perhaps my own selfish needs are less important than the end result.  

Personally, however, the more attention I've given to myself and my own self improvement has yielded more productivity and a greater spirit of generosity.  Therapy may seem indulgent in a collectivist society, yet I can attest to an hour a week of 'indulgent therapeutic time' produces ten fold my ability to relate on a professional and personal level.  Such results are antithetical to a person whom values the national reputation over her own 7-year-old need to feel like she is (good, pretty, talented) ENOUGH.** 

Perhaps as we dig our way deeper into the 21st century, we will find a way to negotiate our individualist impulses with the need for collectivist action.  Perhaps we will divide into greater extremes; political parties centered around more collectivism vs. those that demand individualism.  Perhaps we are headed for a world in which our individualism will have to be redefined through a powerful collectivist lens.  Perhaps I should talk to my therapist about this...

**The girl behind the curtain, so to speak, is extraordinarily cute by western standards.  

Supermarket Swept

Local Friend and I attempted to reenact an episode of Supermarket Sweep yesterday as we plowed our way through the wide aisles of the bulk food store that bears the unfortunate name of BJ's.  Historically, I'm not a fan of mega-stores that strain local businesses and make me believe that I, too, need 400 caplets of Immodium A-D 'just in case'; I was not excited during our drive home from the Cape when she received the call that she was responsible for picking up supplies for an afternoon BarBeQue at our Local Pool.  She and I divided and conquered to pick up no less than 160 frozen hamburgers, 14 bags of hamburger and/or hot dog rolls, 165 bottles of water and one package of brown-rice California rolls (my concession prize for such a large purchase of Grade B meat and nutrient-free meat nestlers).  The difficulty of placement for some of our BBQ necessities among the floor to ceiling displays of oversized wonderment were no match for us as we tossed our needs into our two carts with abandon.  

As we approached the counter, void of other customers and practically begging for us to check out, local friend noted, "This is really going our way!"   It was at this moment that Murphy's Law commenced and my hatred for BJ's was rekindled.  Our check-out attendant (is that the politically correct way of stating 'scanner'?) was among the slowest moving people I've ever encountered.  EVER.  If the tortoise could out run the fabled hare, this scanner would have been lapped by the tortoise, witnessed the birth of baby tortoises and been passed by the turtle, the evolutionary offspring of the tortoise.   Apparently the item count at a bulk store matters a lot to the overall success of the enterprise and we looked highly likely to throw our count off balance by somehow hiding a 64 ounce bottle of Pepto Bismol or something equally conspicuous in our open carts.  Said attendant glared at me in suspicion when I helped her in her 7th recount of our rolls, then continued in her mission to reveal us as thieves as she held the California rolls up in disgust as if it had jumped into our meat-erific cart by accident and was trying to pull a fast one on her.  She then called another attendant over to conduct a 34th recount of our items on the occasion of her's coming out inaccurate again.  Local friend attempted to end the ridiculous 1st grade counting session by saying, "I don't care if I've overpaid, I just need to get out of here," to no avail.  The counting continued and 35 minutes later Local Friend and I were released from our hell (after it was deemed that our items were accurate and fully paid for after all).  

We definitely would have not won super market sweep.  We would have been so slow that they would have had to show a real time update of our shameful finish during the following half hour of Shop 'til you Drop. 

Uncles and Republicans

A true New Englander, I got my hands nasty and sticky with Lobster yesterday and got into a fight with a southerner about the constructionist vs. activist interpretation of the 2nd amendment.  The only problem was that the 2nd amendment advocate and sub-Mason-Dixon Line resident happened to be the uncle of my friend who was lovely enough to invite me to enjoy the treasure of the sea at her childhood home.  Seems that wine makes me unable to withhold opinions about stupid, antiquated notions that are misinterpreted to support the "I do what I want" American attitude that is pervasive among those that are quick to call the defense of any other amendment (let's go ahead and say the 1st) as activist and disgraceful.

Prior to my spirited dinner engagement, my day would have read as just plain boring.  The sole salvation to the Day Which Will Not Be Remembered was this lovely little tidbit brought to my attention by my Uncle.  Instantly, I realized why Pres. Bush didn't consider 

boycotting the Olympics- even for a second.  I imagine that Laura was hovering close by, grin plastered on her face- like a good wifey should.  

Splash!

The summers of my youth were primarily spent in chlorine; the local swim team was the social, athletic and cultural epicenter of the world.  The negative attributes of Racer Back tan lines and greening hair paled in comparison from the joy obtained from the night of fun and games that marked the pinnacle of each summer, the Splash Party.  Such was a night to strut one's dolphin dive and bobbing ability in joke relays and attempt to score an underwater touchdown in 'Greased Watermelon Football' (a practice which has since been replaced with less life-threatening/pump clogging activities- I call them less fun activities).  

Last night, on the deck of the very same pool of my youth, marked the first 'Adult Splash Party'.  Apparently the parents wanted to get in on the fun, beer goggles style.  Prompted by an urgent message from my Local Friend, I made my way to this party to observe the adult enjoyment rituals of commenting on one's children, discussing the Red Sox and laughing at not-that-funny jokes.   It is within this framework that I met Little Man.  I've encountered many a Little Man in my life time- small and unattractive, with lots to complain about and a grudge towards all who outshine him; think George Constanza with Man Sandals (Mandals).  

In the few unfortunate moments I spent with Little Man, I was privvy for his disdain for Michael Phelps' wing span ("He's a freak" were Little Man's words of choice).  Additionally, Little Man still refuses to refer to French Fries as such and prefers "Freedom Fries".  I managed to edge my way out of the conversation by saying something brilliant, probably along the lines of, "Oh! Are those stuffed mushrooms??!"  

 

I then proceeded to rush home to catch Mr. Phelps in all his giant wingspanned glory take home another gold.  I bet HE doesn't wear Mandals.