Our Ghosts, our selves

Last night, over a few glasses of wine, a conversation between a friend and me happened upon the topic of ghosts. She fully believes in the presence of ghosts and their powers, while I remain skeptical. I tend to have issues with the whole idea that 9 out of 10 living people are, at their core, good while 9 out of 10 reported ghosts seem to be, at their core, mean spirited. Ghosts would be so much more useful if they provided back massages, delivered yummy wine or solved our 10th grade science questions.

The topic has lingered in my head throughout today, however, and I wonder if ghosts do exist; not in the traditional/Casper form but in our learned defenses. Recently, a nervous feeling translated itself quickly into exhaustion and resulted in my earlier-than-necessary departure from a lovely group of interesting people at a bar. Was an internal ghost of previous experiences triggered and exhaustion merely natural defense? If I am to believe in ghosts, and all their omnipotency, they are those of previous circumstances, so old all but the gut feeling has faded, but can compel genuine emotion and action. Ghosts are scary after all, even if they are those of nice people.

But I would prefer a wine-bearing, chemistry problem solving masseuse instead.

Home Slice

Yesterday was a day of travel. Though, in reality, I only lost 2 hours to flight (took off from fair Lontontown at 11 am and landed in crazy-ass-storm-Boston at 1:10 pm), my post flight hours were spent in a haze that ultimately resulted in a much needed 6:00 pm bedtime and 14.5 hours of glorious sleep. The US, it turns out, is also quite lovely for sleep.

My last night in Blighty was spent with the fashionable and funny sister of WWW (WWW, as it happens, had already returned to this side of the Atlantic to delight and stun the masses with her accent and wit). She and I enjoyed a pub dinner and then, I think it is fair to say, that my life changed for ever. Post-dinner, WAY too late into my trip to the UK, I was introduced to Gavin and Stacey- the headlining characters for a newish sitcom on the BBC. Gavin and Stacey, themselves, are quite boring- almost too sappy in love. Yet, the friends and families of G&S pretty much rule my life and I already miss them. I found myself wondering, as I settled upon a 4:30 wake up call to allow for ample time for tube foul-ups on the way to Heathrow, if I could possibly wake up at 4 am (FOUR!) to squeeze in just-one-more episode. Needless to say, sleep took precedence. But I am overjoyed to report that episodes of G&S are widely available on the BBC website. God, I love government sponsored television.

Big Day

I spent the majority of the day sleeping. The UK is great for sleep. Also saw a castle. Bloody good day.

Summer Getaway Found

While sweating up the enormous, steep hills of the Welsh countryside this morning, I decided that when I am a famous movie star (or rock star...still haven't decided which I will be when I grow up) I will have a summer get away here in Wales. It is quiet, people mind their own business and there is absolutely no way the paparazzi could track someone down through out these crazy roads. One must make a mental image of shrubs and trees to remember which bush-lined road to turn on to; signs, evidently, are for suckers.

In other news, British people impersonating an American accent all sound like a cross between a robot and, sadly, George Bush. Most Americans, it has been reported to me, sound like a very posh, annoying Brit while imitating the tongue of the mother land. The word terribly is used a terribly large amount. I blame Hugh Grant.

Wales! The land of...sheep

The last 72 hours have been spent with a lovely British family on the southern coast of Wales. Among the spectacular rural vistas and beaches nestled into precarious looking cliffs I have seen a male nudist (with, according to my friends jolly English dad, a small willy), roughly 5 million sheep and a couple of castles. Today we spent the day in Cardiff, the capital of the under-rated British nation. While a good portion of our day was spent sitting in a cafe and chatting about Life, some of our time focused upon souvenir shopping for my family members back home. In an attempt to dispel the myth that the British countryside was purely one of excess farm animals and castles, I looked for a small figurine of a male nudist (modestly endowed, obviously) but had no luck. I did however find many a stuffed sheep, dragon figurines and even a tic-tac-toe set with movable sheep and dragon pieces.

My Welsh Wonder Woman (WWW) friend grew up in a small village, of approximately 100 people, about 20 minutes outside the capital. The village is centered upon an 12th century church, and is too small to have its own pub. Thus, as thirsty women, we ventured to another nearby village that had a lovely pub, fully equipped with a fireplace, dark wooden tables and about 20 heavily accented men- who apparently have never laid eyes on a woman before. WWW and I entered into said establishment about as greasy as we've ever been; to give blog readers a sense, I took my hair out of a ponytail just prior to ordering and my hair REMAINED on top of my HEAD. Clearly, we were super attractive and ready to mate. Upon entry, the entire bar went silent and our greasy selves were subject of intense scrutiny, scientific in method. It was clear that their questions abounded with thoughts such as: 'What is this thing, called a "woman"?' and ' If we are very silent, will they notice that we are watching them?' We escaped to the lawn before any of them had a chance to prod us and take skin and/or (greasy) hair samples.

It's a She thing

Why are all the commentators on television, attempting to answer the question, 'How do we get the women vote?,' all male? Here is a sneak peak into the mentality of a woman: we are human. We appreciate honesty, transparency and virtue. We tend to believe that we are fully equal to men, even if such a ideal is not true in practice. We don't think that sexual harassment is funny. People who refer to anyone as a bitch, militant, whiney, weak, delicate, or fragile- simply because he or she has an opinion-makes us feel that said people are ignorant assholes. We love our country and want what is best for all us, our friends and our communities. Essentially, we are Americans. We like the things we like and there is little that can sway us from those views.

Frank Rich's article in this Sunday's times caught my interest -both in his analysis of the 'women' conundrum, as well as, the mirage of disunity among democrats. This election is a plane hovering on a jet way, waiting to take off. It is in the process of making sure that everyone has his or her tray tables and seats in upright position. The pundits are spinning their wheels waiting for the real action to take off. Until that moment happens, I think we will have to deal with more and more men attempting to peel away the layers of complexity of women and their votes.

Big Tim; Larger than Life

One of my former 8th grade students once told me that he would be a basketball great if only a key player or coach could see him soon. In response, I smiled and nodded at his 4’9” frame.

My dream is just as lofty and unlikely. I believed that if I could just get 5 minutes with Tim Russert and chat politics, ideally at a tailgate prior to a BC football game, I would be discovered as a young political mind. Russert was both key player and coach, a teacher and a student; he always had a seat at my table in the game “10 historical people” with whom you’d most like to have dinner. Aside from my fictional ideal world emulated in the West Wing series, Meet the Press is my favorite television program. Under Russert’s guidance, MTP became the closest to ideal that our tumultuous political schema could attain; his persistence in seeking the truth, the transparency in his questions and his love for political life was a rare breath of fresh air.

My love for Tim Russert was solidified and marked eternal during the Scooter Libby trial. Ultimately, Russert served as the key testifier that resulted in Libby’s conviction, a role that career and social ladder climbing members of the media and political arena would have relished for the ability to carry the ‘scoop’. Yet, the formidable Washington player visably loathed the position in which he was placed. He loved politics for what it could be, the role it could serve and the possibilities it could engender. The scandals and disgraces that others may exploit for personal gain he dismissed; such things degraded the promise of politics and cast a shadow over the light that truth and fairness could bring to the political forum.

This presidential election has been so special to me because politics is ‘cool’ again. I delight in conversations overheard at gas stations, grocery stores and around kitchen tables regarding not only the politicians but the ISSUES. Russert has been a steadfast compass to me and other students of government with regard to the need to communicate politics on an approachable and relevant level. I will miss his professionalism and wit, but most of all, I will miss his passion for politics- the better side of politics.

Sex and the City Movie

Sex in the City revealed its greatness to me not in fabulous clothes or bedroom romps, as would appear to the untrained eye. In fact, there was a point where I felt I could not stand to watch Carrie in her selfish, pun-spinning glory for one more minute. Yet, in the end, the cultural phenomenon, capsulized in 28 minute segments, drew me in for its underlying themes of honest communication, a love of place and the healing power of friendship among women.



I hesitated to see the movie for several reasons, not the least of which was the release fell on the most inconvienient, moving-laden days for me. Yet last night, lured by the promise of an air-conditioned theater and a glimpse of a shirtless Smith Jarrod (I'm not completely immune to the men...), I took the plunge back into the half-relatable/half-ridiculous life of the four women who I consider my friends from NYC.

Aside from the first 20 minutes of the movie which rang of the first chapter of all Babysitter's Club books, reminding the audience of the 'basics' of each character, I was thoroughly entertained. I particularly enjoyed the 'theme' of the movie, forgiveness. Forgiveness is something that I struggle with, as each of these women did in the movie. The theme spanned from the most obvious, 'movie' form of forgiveness (that of infidelity) to far more complex and less 'socially accepted' forms of forgiveness- forgiving yourself for being complex and needy, forgiveness of those that you love for having different priorities, forgiveness of flawed but loyal friends, etc.

I couldn't help but wonder (obvious Carrie Bradshaw plug) as I watched the movie come to a close as Samantha turned 50 and the other women settled comfortably in their 40s, if forgiveness is one of those life-long 'works in progress'. The ultimate prize seemed to be forgiving of oneself for her own flaws, aging body and face and persistent desires. And it is for that reason the show and it's concept continue to speak to all women- we are all a work in progress.

*** Should be noted that this blogger felt there was NOT even close to enough Stanford Blatch in the movie***

Go Hillary.

It seems as though Obama supporters and journalists alike are reluctant to give Hillary any praise these days, but this FOO (fan of Obama, not to be confused with foo- slang for fool) feels that her concession speech was fabulous on Saturday. Though her endorsement of Obama was clearly mechanical and forced, her tone and word choice felt more genuine than most of that which she said publicly in the last few months. After a long fought battle in which she truly convinced herself that Obama was 'the opponent' and surrounded by sycophantic enablers, she is no where near believing that he is the strongest candidate. And to be honest, if I were her, I would not believe it either. Yet, as I've been thinking quite a bit lately during my reprisal of living at home, time heals all wounds. And in politics, a few weeks is an eternity. I have no doubt that by the convention in August, the party will be unified; by November, barring a major catastrophe/scandal, we will be a force at the polls.

I feel that the issue surrounding the actual endorsement part of HRC's endorsement is not the Senator's real triumph from the weekend; it's simply the network's attempt at juicing out the last morsel of drama between the two candidates. She spoke to the millions of women who remember the struggles of the feminist movement and the struggle faced by each woman who attempted to chip away at the virtually inpenatratable glass ceiling in their careers, homes and communities. But this time she also spoke to those of us who are, gratefully, the beneficiaries of such struggles.

Like most women in this nation, I have been subject to inappropriate assumptions, as well as, violating comments, looks and grabs from men. Ignorance and sexism are still pervasive in our nation, and we still have a far way to go before de facto gender discrimination is eliminated. I have spent some time over the past few months, trying to consider feminism through the lens of a feminist of the generation birthed and bred during the civil rights movement; a generation for whom a female in the oval office was the golden ring at the end of a frustrating and circular carousel ride. But feminism to me, as a product of my times, is not simply a women's issue- and a woman doesn't need to be in charge to ensure that feminist needs are prioritized. I was put off by the insinuation by the Clinton campaign that a vote for Obama was a vote against feminism and women in general. One need only view the life of his mother, Michelle and the women whose opinions he values to know that he is, in fact, quite a feminist himself. Feminism has evolved beyond a (mind the pun) black/white issue and to reduce it to such standards denies the complex lens through which we must view women's issues in America.

HRC's speech on Sunday, however, stepped beyond the simple message of, "women should support her because she is a woman." and into "women should support any person that represents her values, passions, and issues." The need for a feminist awareness extends further than the gender of political candidates; feminist issues are not going away simply because the female has stepped down. I, in fact, question the HRC loyals who 'can't bring themselves to support Obama.' Any woman who votes for McCain is voting for a conservative anti-choice Justice on the Supreme Court.

I dig the Big Dig.

For months, as the esteemed Intern in my office, I was privy to the massive plans of my now Alma Mater to expand its campus eastward to the shores of the nearby industrial river. Among said plans was an array of pencil drawings, ambitiously plotting out the beautiful landscapes and students (wearing University apparel, of course) lounging on the grass and/or enjoying a snack from a nearby cafe. (I was going to say co-eds instead of students in that last sentence but I realized that that term may be a throw back to a more ignorant, sexist, misogynist time- and I will not be supporting anything of that nature.) These drawings captivated my inner inquisitiveness with their complexity and the idea of 'what could be' while amusing my more dominant, inner cynic with their calculated summation of 'human life' on campus.

Last night, however, I had the pleasure of spending time with a Fantastic Friend. Given the extreme heat and Boston's simple inability to cope with such weather phenomenons, the entire city was out on the street- cavorting and seeking some semblance of cooling. We settled on the Rose Fitzgerald Kennedy Greenway and I instantly realized what all those architects have in mind when they create their optimistic pencil drawings. There were dogs playing while adults and children alike splashed in the wading areas. I can even vouch that on a few occasions, Bostonians were actually smiling at each other, not simply giving the head nod or walking quickly by, preoccupied with Life. It was a virtual Where's Waldo of activities sprung to life.

I couldn't help but think, as I traveled the commuter rail back to my Seaside Community, that the Big Dig was actually really worth it. The air is cleaner AND there is an outdoor, green playground where the highway used to be. I wonder if the vast mistakes that were made (under-budgeting, over-reaching, crossing funds, side stepping authority, negative press, shady/constantly expanding time-lines, etc. etc.)can serve as lessons for other communities and cities. The more time that people spend outdoors, the more they value the outdoors. The more value that air and play time has, the more effort will be put into micro and macro policies and lifestyle choices to sustain it's greatness. Unfortunately, the Big Dig has become a punch-line, both far and wide, for inefficiency. The results of the Dig, however are amazing and worthwhile, if not replicable.

Scotty's beams are not so bright

Circa 2003, I decided there were few people in this world that irritated me more than Scott McClellan. A political junkie, who chooses to watch CSPAN more than the average 20-something, I found his statements banal and unenlightening. In a tone that could be described, at best, as condescending, he repeated himself until he was thoroughly convinced that the partial stories and incomplete facts were, in fact, the truth.

I am not surprised that the former press secretary was put in many a compromising position by the Bush administration; their years have been mired in deceit and staunch loyalty toward the cloak-room men paired with wild disloyalty to that which is in the best interest of the nation. What I am surprised by, however, is the timing of such revelations. Despite the immense betrayal McClellan must feel for the destruction of his career and credibility by his 'friends', I wonder if holders of certain positions in the government should keep past grievances silent until the relevant administration has left office. McClellan did enough damage behind the White House podium, what American does his book help at this moment? What wounded soldier does his book heal? What part of Valarie Plame's life is better today than it was prior to Scotty's best seller was released?

I know I should keep my expectations as low as possible from the Bushies, past and present, but a book that confirms that which we already know is reminiscent of the Scott McClellan of 2003: repetitive and unenlightening.

I stand resolute

I have to admit, getting back into blogging is a frightening proposition. My hiatus was unwarranted, and far too long. I bear no bruises from my blogger past that I must heal prior to re-entry, nor do I feel as thought there is less political/life news to report. I have cold feet about starting a relationship with my blogger-self again. I remain unsure whether 'tis better to dip my toe in or cannonball; splashing opinions and nonsense everywhere. Thus I have developed a summer resolution list. Such a list is similar to that of a new year's resolution list but lacks the guilt associated with minor slip ups. I also can guarantee that dieting, drinking less wine, swearing less and/or thinking before I speak will not be gracing the list. So far I have: a. blogging daily b. doing Pilates for at least 20 minutes a day to work on my 'powerhouse' to avoid backaches.

Shockingly, I have been more vigilant to my pilates vow. I have a nifty tool called a 'magic circle'; a term to which I scoffed until I realized how very magic it truly is. This seemingly innocuous piece of metal and foam is a revolutionary motivator that reminds me to keep my shoulders plugged, stomach in and legs together. If only it was socially acceptable to bring such a toy into bars and other situations where proper posture seems to slip with each delicious sip of wine (which, I remind you, will not be given up this summer in an attempt to be 'healthier').

Moving Home

I’ve moved quite a bit for someone of my (extremely) young (and unbelievably spry) age. The most recent of the moves occurred this weekend. Moving really separates the boys from the men, or boys from the girls if I may. I proved to be an unworthy opponent to the one/two punch of heat and heavy boxes. Approximately 87 minutes into the moving effort, I felt compelled to lay down on the otherwise bare wood floor and ‘rest’, Meanwhile, my dad, hereby referred to as ‘The Champ’ in this passage due to his General-esque approach to the Operation Moving Thunder, toiled away on his mission hauling my un-coordinated furniture down to the rental truck.

As always, the process was that of cleansing; evaluating of that which I want to keep in my life and tossing all that would cause Stacey and Clinton to groan upon sight. My efforts to de-pack-rat myself extended when I arrived at my childhood home (my temporary place of residence until I figure out my Next Steps in life). My closet turned out to be a feat in and of itself: among that which I sorted were approximately 50 high school graduation cards, dozens of movie/theater tickets from the 1990s and my THIRD GRADE JOURNAL. This gem reminded me of my near-frightening obsession with the New Kids on the Block, my unwieldy nature and my absolute hatred of journal writing. One of my favorite entries addressed, I infer, the prompt: what are the ten biggest questions you have? My sagacity produced questions regarding the possibility of World War 3, what life would be like without parents, and the ever-present pondering of what I will be when I grow up. Just as I was feeling like I have made little to no progress in what I think about from third grade today I hit the bottom few questions, where I was, clearly, just trying to get the assignment d.o.n.e. These brilliant quandaries asked:

Why do we have to write in these journals?
And
Why can’t I meet the New Kids on the Block?