Six Flags Over Crazy

As I wrote yesterday, I actually enjoy Texas drivers. Texans drive fast, really fast, no matter how many cars are clogging the roads. When you combine dense traffic, breakneck speed and an out-of-towner driving a less-than-nimble minivan, the very last thing I need to deal with is stupid street names. To get to my hotel, I take Six Flags Drive to Road to Six Flags Street. No, wait. Road to Six Flags then Six Flags, right? Maybe. These roads border the Six Flags over Texas park on two sides, but then one shoots off West and one goes South, so you really don't want to get them mixed up. Thankfully, Six Flags itself is a brilliant landmark.

Another orienting landmark is the International Bowling Museum and Hall of Fame's monumental bowling pin with rotating stripes. If I had not screwed up each and every time I have left the hotel, I would never have known there was such an institution. As luck would have it, I've passed it three times. I confess to feeling a bit like Clark Griswold as I take wrong turn after wrong turn only to be confronted yet again by skyscraping roller coasters. Look kids! Six Flags! International Bowling Museum!

In the same general where-is-the-damn-hotel locale are two enormous stadiums. Perchance there are some important sporting teams in the area? If you are coming in for a game, enjoy guessing whether you want Exit 28B / Ballpark in Arlington or Exit 29 / Ballpark Way. Also, be warned that while Ballpark Way will get you to Rangers Ballpark, Stadium Drive does not actually go to Cowboys Stadium.

Bulletproof

I'm sitting in a hotel room in Arlington, Texas, by a window overlooking a closed amusement park. It took six hours to drive here today, and at the last minute, I veered from my directions skirting Dallas and instead drove right through its heart. Dallas is notorious for its heavy, mad traffic and jumbled, confusing exchanges, and I wanted to prove I could still handle it. I never used to blink at racing along in fast traffic on major city roads, and I wanted to feel like the person I was before I got so damn old and responsible and soft. Keeping pace with the high speeds, navigating fearlessly, slipping into the groove of the commuter rush: it was euphoric.

That was my life almost ten years ago, tearing down the highways around the Bay Area, free, bold, answering to no one. The person I was then didn't make meal plans and to-do lists. She had all the time in the world, and her choice of how to spend it.

Just as I was reveling in my invincibility, a song came on the radio that made me miss my boys. It wasn't a sweet, childish song, of course; they have their dad to inform their musical taste. It was Bulletproof by La Roux. Paolo knows every word, knows the song well enough to make up alternate goofy lyrics, and Luca belts out the chorus. Bulletproof, hah! At this point in my life, I couldn't be more vulnerable. I no longer exist in exclusivity; my husband and children are part of me. I am saddled with demands, stretched thin, and chained tight, because I am loved. I do not long for the days when no one waited to hear I had arrived safely.

When I'm away from home, sitting in an empty hotel room, she's so close to me, the person I was. Sometimes I like to check in with her, to step back into the stream of a faster, more reckless life, to feel young and unencumbered, but these are moments of nostalgia, not regret. Living without a net or an anchor is no way to spend your whole life, and I knew that ten years ago with the sunroof open, music screaming, going 80 down the highway.

Don't loose the goose.

We are in Omaha for Thanksgiving, which means Sam and I are doing some serious shopping. Most girls prefer shopping alone or with girlfriends, but I always make the best purchases with my husband. I don't know how he does it, but Sam can pick out a pair of shoes from 20 yards away that, once I've tried on, I can't live without.

One of our requisite stops in Omaha is Whole Foods, one of many stores that we don't have in Fayetteville. The wine and cheese section was packed with shoppers gleefully downing free samples, and we eagerly joined in. One of the platters held "goose mousse" on a wee cracker. I have never had goose pate, but it has been on my list of things to eat if ever faced with the opportunity. I handed a cracker to to Sam and we popped it in right after the Manchego.

I offer the following taste experience as a public service announcement, in case any of you are thinking about classing up a holiday party with some pureed fowl. Imagine, if you will, a whole, unwashed goose - feathers, poop, and all - put into a blender, chilled, and spread on a triscuit. It was a real effort to get it down, and as I searched desperately for a complimentary swish of Beajoulais, Sam's pained gaze met mine. "What do you think?," he asked. "About the goose?," I replied. "I really wish that hadn't happened."

It's About Tradition

On Saturday we went to Tontitown for the 111th Annual Grape Festival. Tontitown is a little community about 12 miles northwest of Fayetteville that was settled by Italian immigrants in the early 1900s. When I first moved to Fayetteville, everyone I met asked me if I was from Tontitown. I learned quickly that Italian last names are rare here, unless you’re a descendant of a Tontitown settler. Tontitown is very proud of its heritage and strives to keep its traditions alive, through annual events such as the fall Polenta Smear and the summer Grape Festival .

As with all local fairs, the Grape Festival features a midway of sketchy rides, a visual feast of mullets, a section of arts and crafts tents selling Confederate flag bikinis, and a string of overpriced junk food vendors. Paolo nearly broke my heart when he opted for a corn dog instead of the wildly popular spaghetti dinner, but that’s his father in him. Throughout his boyhood, Sam didn’t miss a Missouri state fair, and the smell of carnie sweat and corn dogs (to be eaten on the fourth day of the fair, never earlier, allowing the grease enough time to reach the right level of putrid) always puts a certain twinkle in his eye.

We ate over in the park so the boys could play on the multitude of playground equipment. There are half a dozen different play areas in the park, with lots of old-school gear not found in parks anymore. As we spun on the merry-go-round, I shared my story of how I got my worst scar from a merry-go-round on my elementary school playground. I was pushing it around and didn’t clear the edge when I jumped on, which left me with a two-inch long scar on my left shin. The next play area over, I described how I was nearly crippled as a child when a mean see-saw partner slid off the back of the seat, leaving me to plummet to the ground, crushing my feet under the seat. I can still feel the shock of that pain traveling like lightning from my ankles to my waist. It occurred to me there is a reason those particular playground artifacts are not in use anymore.

After last year’s Grape Festival, I decided to inquire about volunteering at the local museum because I admired the community and really missed having a museum, no matter how small, in my life. I now serve on the Board of Directors and have befriended all those wonderful people whose last names end in vowels. They believe I have a lot to offer their small museum, and I am hopeful that I can prove them right.

As we drove home, faces and fingers sticky with grape ice cream, I reflected upon past Grape Festivals we’ve attended, with Paolo growing from a toddler to a schoolboy, and Gianluca, first just a bump (of freakish proportions, due to arrive a week later), and now nearly ready for the rides. I pictured our family coming back to Tontitown year after year to enjoy their tradition, and to make it our own. I can honestly say that being a small part of this kind and welcoming Italian-American community makes it even easier to embrace a long, long stay in Northwest Arkansas.

Home Sweet GONE

My new career is really eating into my blogging-at-work time. I'll have to bring that up at the next staff meeting. I have things to say, cute stories to tell, gripes to vent, but I have no time at a computer to bang them out. If there were some sort of technology available that would type up a post AS I WAS THINKING IT, I'd be golden.

So here I am typing furiously when I should be packing up the family to drive to Omaha tonight. In a minute, in a minute! Yesterday, I found out about a house for sale the next street up from us. It was the right size, the right location, and saints be praised, the right price. Yeah, that lasted about 5 minutes before it had three offers and was ultimately sold in a day. We never had a chance. Apparently, a sincere homebuyer should have something called "pre-approval" for a mort-gauge, more-gorge, something like that. We have no such thing or any idea how to get one. Obviously.

We're stubbornly committed to living in this neighborhood, arguably the most desirable area in town. I don't know who would argue about it. I know I wouldn't. At first I was crushed because we've been waiting (and may yet wait) years for an opportunity like this. But to look on the bright side, I learned a lot from the experience, like the need to be prepared to pounce. When a chance like this comes again, I don't want to lose out because I didn't do some groundwork.

There is nothing stopping me except ignorance, so I am trying to remedy that. So far I've figured out that I need this pre-approvity for a home lawn thing. I am told it's important. Next I need a Real-tar. Fake tar is not as good, I'm guessing. I should have this all figured out very quickly.

And that stupid house up the block that sold before I could dial the phone? It is steps away from our local city green space, our lovely green hill where the boys spend untold hours running, playing, hunting Easter eggs, sledding, and flying kites. Not that I care. Who wants to live that close to a park, anyway? The sound of children's laughter is SO annoying.

Orientation: Getting to Know Me

New Co-Worker: I've been married to my wonderful husband for twelve years, and he has given me two terrific kids.

Me: My husband didn't give me my children. I'm pretty sure I earned them.

Things that are good this morning

Freshly sliced mango for breakfast

Brand new windshield wipers in a Spring rain

Just-woken toddler stumbling to me, heavy-lidded, for a hug

Farewell, cruel legal world

It's official. I've accepted a job elsewhere, and it is not a law firm. In fact, it is in the art world. Let me tell you how good it feels to leave the legal world after ten years. It feels hot-chocolate-with-marshmallows, foot-rub-with-lotion, freshly-bathed-baby-neck good.

I took a job as a legal secretary to put myself through my Master's program in California. And then I moved to Arkansas, where the opportunity to use my degree was nonexistent. I fell back on law firms, and it chafed because I knew I was just as educated and intelligent as the people I supported. More often than you want to know if you've ever paid an attorney's fees, I was much smarter and more capable. I believed my time in the South was temporary, but then life happened, kids happened, and this town felt more and more like home. Bad news for the career I wanted, the chance I never had.

Then one day the mountain came to Mohammed. An amazing institution, destined to be world class, is under construction about 30 miles north of here. And I've just been hired to work there. Maybe you enjoy your job; I hope you do. Maybe it fulfills you and makes you proud to contribute to a greater good. I don't know what that's like, but I'm about to find out how it feels to make a living doing work that matters to me.

My last day at the firm is tomorrow, and I'm trying to act like I'll miss the place although, in truth, I will not. I hold no illusions that my new job will be anything but another reincarnation of Office Space. However, my new eight bosses will not be lawyers, and that is a significant improvement.

Breastfeeding Backlash

My husband set me up with a slew of crap to read and view on my lunch break about all this unreasonable pressure on women to breastfeed their babies, not to mention the guilt they are made to feel for choosing formula over breastmilk. I mean, gah, it’s so unfair!

Shut up. Shut the hell up. Why are doctors and scientists and mothers trying to rationalize breastfeeding? Why does the debate continue to rage? It couldn’t be simpler. You carry a baby for nine months, you give birth to said baby, YOUR RESPONSIBILITY TO THAT BABY DOES NOT END THERE. If it did, your boobs wouldn’t fill up with milk three days later.

We don’t need to understand breastmilk on a molecular level or to conduct long-term studies of breastfed vs. formula-fed children to decide what the best food is for a baby. Common sense tells us that a mother’s body, which has been nurturing and growing a baby during gestation, will produce the perfect food on which her baby will thrive. Her body knows more than a crapshoot of chemicals in a can. True, a formula-exclusive diet will not kill a baby…anymore…unless you live in China…but it’s not the best diet. It says so right on the can of formula.

Of course there are circumstances in which mothers are unable to feed their infants, and they have every right be pissed at getting the stink-eye from strangers for whipping out a bottle of formula. Let me be clear: it is the unwilling, not the unable, who rub me the wrong way. Women who are unwilling to breastfeed argue that breastfeeding is awkward, weird, inconvenient, painful, shape-altering, and difficult to continue while working. Yes, it is all of those things. It is also many wonderful things, but I won’t enumerate them because, apparently, that propaganda keeps getting shoved down our throats.

Breastfeeding isn't a trend; it's the next fundamental step after giving birth. A mother who chooses not to bother for only selfish reasons is shirking her duty. And her complaints of being made to feel guilty for putting formula on her baby shower registry? Well, maybe she should feel guilty. I can’t say this enough: If you are going to have a baby, HAVE a baby. Otherwise, what’s the point? You will have sore nipples, you will be sleep-deprived, you will get peed on. It is all part of having a baby, YOUR baby. You would lay down your life for your baby. You won’t lay down a boob?

Please always be with me.

I glared at the message light on my office phone Monday morning and rolled my eyes impatiently while the robotic voice announced that my missed call had come Sunday morning at 7:02. Surely a wrong number. Finally, the message played: just some incomprehensible noise, almost as if someone were mouthing the phone, and then “gah-gah-gah” – click. I quickly scrolled down the Caller ID to confirm that the call had come from my house. It was Luca; my baby called me.

I still don’t know how he did it, but it sure made my day, and it made me realize anew how he has made my life. It amazes me that a short eighteen months ago (Happy 1½, kiddo!) I didn’t know this boy at all. And now, how unimaginable my life would be without him. I lose my breath just contemplating it.

Who has made your life, colored it in, given it fire and meaning and joy? It doesn’t have to be a child; it could be a friend or a lover. Who are the people that you didn’t start this life with, but without whom your life would be a shame? Tell them, even if you whisper it while they’re sleeping, even if you just leave them a message.

Five Days Without Video Games

After my last morose post on the ice storm and its aftermath, I wanted to share that it didn’t all suck. Although Paolo is perfectly capable of speaking for himself, he is a terrible typist, so I’m going to speak for him.

Tuesday. I woke up when it was dark because of green flashes in the sky and a loud rrrrrrrrr sound like an evil robot. I tried to wake Mama up to ask her what it was, but she was too grumpy. No school today. It rained all day long. We played hide and seek, but I did not play even one video game because we don’t have any electricity. I have to wear so many clothes because it’s cold in our house. Mama is making me wear even slippers. Daddy made us a campout in Mama’s room when it got dark, and we watched a movie on the DVD player. I have my own flashlight.

Wednesday. Daddy made oatmeal for breakfast, and I ate the sprinkles off the top. Daddy had a saw and he did works outside chopping down big branches that fell down. I was a helper by hitting ice off some branches with a stick and finding long icicles. A couple times, a branch fell really close to me. When Daddy got all the trees off the car we went for an adventure to see what happened to the world and to get Mama a radio. It’s cool because it has a flashing red light and a siren, but it doesn’t play Pink I’m a Rock Star. At darktime, I watched Ice Age 2 in the car with Mama until she said we had to stop because the car was almost out of gas. It looks like Ice Age outside our house.

Thursday. Daddy made pancakes for breakfast. We took Mama to work and then we were in the car a long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long time. Daddy was looking for stuff but all the stores were closed or had too many people. We had Chick-fil-A for lunch and I played on the playground. Luca kept trying to climb up the stairs but I told him he had to be a big boy first so he had to stay in the little kid section on the bottom. We ate at the penguin barbecue restaurant for dinner and went to the grocery store. I only got to watch a little Teen Titans. I was listening for the rrrrrrrr sound because that means our electricity is coming back, but I didn't hear anything.

Friday. Daddy had to go to work, so Mama took me and Luca to see Stellaluna at the arts center. I was supposed to go with my class, but there’s no school today either. Stellaluna was about a girl bat, but the mama bird was the funniest, funnier than the baby birds. It wasn’t very good. Mama said I wasn’t being grateful, so I told her it was a little good. We ate dinner at Daddy’s work, and I got to play computer games. We went to a hotel at nighttime, and I watched a movie. Why does everyone else have electricity except us?

Saturday. I like our hotel pretty good. It has a treadmill in a room, and Mama showed me how to use it. I only fell down once. Luca stuck his hand in it and hurt his fingers so he can’t go back to the room, but I can if Daddy will take me. There is a TV so I can watch cartoons but sometimes Daddy wants to watch basketball. I don’t know why he is so mean.

Sunday. The workers finally fixed our house and we had an Electricity Party. We turned on all the lights and I played Sonic and Lego Batman video games all day until Daddy had to watch football. Luca and I had bathtime and then Daddy said I didn’t get to watch a movie tonight because we have electricity now and I have to go to school tomorrow. The end.

The Thaw

Photo by Brooke McNeely,
Northwest Arkansas Times
Believe me, I know how fortunate we are. This is just a follow-up report for anyone who wonders "What do people do when the power goes out and it's so cold?" Last week's ice storm was a disaster in this part of the state, and clean-up will take months. There are people in Fayetteville (and half a million people in Kentucky) who are still without power. So, obviously, this is not some sort of suffering contest. It is simply my experience.

To recap, we lost power for good on Tuesday just before lunch. We stayed in the house for three nights despite below-freezing temperatures. The first night was an adventure, the second an ordeal, and the third night did me in. It wore me down spending all day thinking about how we would stay warm, how we would eat, how we would amuse the boys. I’d be up all night tucking little hands back under blankets, pulling hats down over ears, then get up in the morning to a freezing house for another day of the same struggle. We were among tens of thousands without power. The hotels were full; there was nowhere to go.

By mid-morning Thursday, my office was open. I looked and felt like a refugee. I was wearing so many layers of clothing I was stifling, but I kept them all on. I knew I only had so many hours before I’d be cold again. Sam and the boys spent most of the day driving around in search of fuel for the car and camp stove and someplace warm to pass the time. No mall, no Target, no Walmart, but thankfully, Chick-fil-A with an indoor playground.

Friday I worked until 1:00 and then shuttled the boys between the arts center and the library until going home to prep dinner before the sun set. As it got darker and colder, dread overwhelmed me. Just thinking about the night to come made me want to cry. I confessed to Sam that something very like hysteria was creeping up on me, and I was open to suggestions. He told me to start calling hotels again, and I found one nearby with a single room left. For the next two nights I found a hundred reasons to touch the boys just to feel their warm skin.

Thanks to the thousand-plus workers from as far away as Minnesota, and the electrician who drove to Oklahoma and back for a part to re-connect the power line to our building, we had power by Sunday morning. We spent all Sunday cleaning the house top to bottom, systematically and thoroughly, as if exorcising an evil spirit.

Eager to resume our normal routine, we ate dinner, had baths and got the boys to bed on time. I flicked off the light in Paolo’s room to read his bedtime books by flashlight, like we always do. Suddenly, in the dark room, lit only by the weak beam of a flashlight, I panicked. It felt like a flashback. Have I been in a war? I had to tell myself, several times over, that I wasn’t cold and I could turn on that light whenever I wanted to.

Naughty List

1. Home room mom who checked up on me the day of the class holiday party. It’s not that I mind her making sure I remembered to pick up the cookies. I mind her asking what kind of cookies I got, and then bringing two bags of cookies in case my cookies sucked. Also dressing as a hooker to attend the party. Really? Really with the fake tan, tight jeans, cleavage and big hair at the kindergarten party? MILF it out, girlfriend.

2. People who give cash to children rather than a present. I have no problem slipping a twenty to those hard-to-buy-for teenagers, but neither the one-year-old nor the five-year-old have a firm grasp on currency just yet.

3. Banana Republic Credit. I paid these a-holes in October, and they have yet to apply the payment to the credit card account. They took the money, mind you, it left my bank. They “can’t find the payment,” and thus keep adding late fees, finance charges, de-activating the card, and robo-calling us daily.

4. Me. I complained for months about a co-worker of mine for being an annoying hypochondriac until she found out all the pain she’d been suffering from was due to cancer. That’s right, cancer.

Rejoicing from a Red State

Sometimes I forget that I live in Arkansas, but election years always remind me. I wish I could say, like the proud voters in Florida and Ohio, that my state flipped for Obama, that my red state turned blue. It's especially hard on me having moved here from California, where I could always count on my neighbors to do the right thing (well, almost always).

The voters of the state of Arkansas overwhelmingly voted McCain. They also voted to ban unmarried couples from being foster or adoptive parents, a thinly veiled assault on gay couples that ultimately hurts only children in need. Nice one, Arkansas.

I am elated at the election of Barack Obama for so many reasons, a big one being that we all wondered if our country was still, let's face it, too racist to elect a black president. I believe that people who voted for Obama did so because of what was inside the man, not the color of the skin that encased it. I also believe there were people who voted against Obama solely for the reverse, but finally and definitively, those people were drowned out by the wave of goodwill and hope inspired by our president-elect.

I was deeply moved by the emotion of The View's Sherri Shepherd as she related telling her son that he now had "no limitations" on what he could do or who he could become. All my life I have argued, out of hope rather than certitude, that racism in America was shrinking steadily, and that soon it would be powerless to squash the dreams or halt the achievements of great Americans of every color. Seeing the proof of it standing at the podium in Grant Park on Tuesday night was soul-satisfying.

It has been a very long time since I have felt proud of this country, but that changed Tuesday night when we as a nation told our African-American children to dream as big as they want. But, please, let us remember that the fight for equality is not over, not until we can give that happy pronouncement to our daughters.

Election Day

What follows is an actual conversation I had with Paolo this morning walking to school, as closely as I can remember it. I thought it would be hard to explain a presidential election and my choice of candidate in a way that a kindergartner could understand. Turns out it was really easy.

Paolo, remember how yesterday you got to vote at school? Today, Daddy and I get to vote, and we’re really excited.

Mama, are you going to vote Farack Obama? You have to vote for him because he has a cool name.

Yes, we are going to vote for Barack Obama, but we like him the best because he’s really nice and he has better ideas than McCain.

Is McCain a bad guy?

No, he’s a good guy, too, but he only wants to help his friends, and Obama wants to help everybody.

Is McCain mean?

Not really, but he told people that Obama was a scary guy and said things about him that aren’t true.

So McCain thinks Obama is a bad guy?

Actually, no, he knows Obama is a good guy. He just wants to be president so bad, he forgot his manners.

Okay, well don’t forget to vote Farack Obama so he can help everyone. And tell Daddy.

We won’t forget.

The kitchen can be a dirty place.

I was listening to a bit with Nigella Lawson on NPR's Morning Edition. Nigella talked through several Fall recipes that, apparently, make her feel like a kitten has curled up in her stomach for a nap or some such nonsense. I admit, I’m not a fan. Has anyone else noticed that it is impossible to replicate her dishes because she provides no concrete instruction? For instance, "Chop the chocolate with a mezzaluna...until you have rubbly shards." Also, her recipes are guaranteed to include ingredients that do not exist in this country. Once you have your rubbly shards, pile on 2 meringue nests from a packet and sweetened chestnut puree or spread, such as Clement Faugier. Right. I'll just pop down the corner shop and get some from the guv'nor.

NPR's Steve Inskeep ended the feature by saying that every man in the studio had been listening intently to Nigella throughout the piece. You could hear in Steve's husky voice that Nigella's closing remark about a creamy dessert - "And then, as my brother would say, I apply it to my face" - in her trademark sultry English accent, had achieved its desired effect. The female co-host, Renee Montagne, jumped in immediately to say that all the women in the studio had been listening intently, too, because women appreciate Nigella just as much as men. That's sweet, Renee, but completely inaccurate.

Nigella is supposed to seduce men with her little sex-kitten act. All of the women on Food Network are groomed to make kitchen porn. First, the uniform of a bright V-neck top and dark-colored pants to emphasize the cleavage and de-emphasize the posterior. If you can ever tear your eyes off of Nigella’s mouth, baby got back. Staying tuned throughout the flirtatious cooking sequence is rewarded by the most overtly sexual moment of every female-hosted cooking show: the money shot, when the host takes a huge bite of her delicious creation and her eyes roll back in her head. "Ohhhhhhh, it’s good, mmm, so rich and creamy. Ahhh, I can't get enough. OOOOh, it tastes even better right off my fingers. Oh, yes, Yes, YES, mmmm. Okay, I’ll see you next time on Licking Lucy’s Bowl!"

Have you ever seen a male host perform a money shot? I think not. If they taste the food at all, and usually they hand it to someone else to eat, it’s a quick, small bite and a terse, “That’s good.” And I’m not complaining, no sir. If I ever see Emeril or Mario Batali moaning in pleasure, smacking their buttery lips, I may have to gouge out my eyes.

Filling the tank for $30.00 never felt so bad.

Me: Did you see that gas dropped below $3.00 just in time for me to fill up? Pretty sweet.

Sam: I wish it would go up to $5.00 a gallon. Gas needs to be as expensive as it is in Europe so people will stop driving huge gas-guzzling cars.

Me: Well, yeah. I just meant…

Sam: And so cities will invest in pedestrian- and bicycle-friendly infrastructure and mass transit.

Me: Of course. It’s just a little Woo Hoooo, not even that big, more of a w’hoo.

Sam: Less urban sprawl! More infill!

Me: A wuh, at most.

Sam: Developing alternative energy sources has got to be a top priority, and it never will be as long as gas is considered affordable.

Me: Yes. All of that. I just thought for me, only me, it was kind of nice to pay a little less today. I drive a small car, you’re a bicycle commuter. We’re good people. Only now I feel like an asshole.

I must be green behind the ears, too.

I wasn't going to write any more about politics, but I’m just so disappointed and frustrated. Like Senator Obama, there are some things I just don’t understand. I don’t understand why we need character assassination to pick a president. Why can’t Americans just disagree on ideas, plans and policies? If you want to vote Republican, that’s fine with me, but have a valid reason. I won’t hate you for it. You may have different interests than mine. Vote Republican because you have a lot of money and don’t want to pay taxes on it. Vote Republican because you believe in small government and deregulation. Vote Republican because you don’t want your tax dollars to fund social programs.

Do not vote for McCain because he and his bulldog are telling you Obama is a Muslim and a terrorist. He is neither of those things, and you are a gullible fool if you don’t understand that. If you vote out of fear, if you vote out of hate, you are wasting your vote. In a democracy, your vote is your voice. What do you want to say?

The longest three minutes of her life

Someone I met at one of Paolo’s soccer games invited me to attend a meeting of an organization she’s involved with. Actually, it was the coach’s wife, who I had previously written off due to the alarming rise of her pants. Until she had the parents stand in two lines and form a tunnel for the kids to run through after the game, and they screamed with delight. What a fabulous idea! It was then I deduced that cinching ones pants high and tight forces more blood to the brain. So I accepted her invitation and went to the meeting. The next day I wrote to my friend, my FRIEND, Melissa, and mentioned the meeting, and this was her response:

So, what was it like? Did you think of glass eye balls all night while speaking in fragments because you're staring at the glass eye and you can't get out a coherent thought? You didn't do the JD Mind Wander, didn't you? No really, I am very proud of you. Look at you, all grown up and talking to strangers.

I am not a complete fool every time I step out in public, you know. I do have some people skills, and I can work a room without seeing glass eyes in every new face. Although, there was a woman in a dark blue suit with a flesh-colored camisole under the jacket. So flesh-colored, in fact, it was hard to tell where the scoop-necked shirt ended and her skin began. It was sort of mesmerizing, and as she talked on and on about stocks or traffic or something, my eyes kept drifting back down to her chest as if to solve the mystery.

An Amendment Concerning Voting

On November 4, in addition to casting inexplicable ballots for McCain, qualified residents in the great state of Arkansas will vote on the following consitutional amendment:

PROPOSED CONSTITUTIONAL AMENDMENT NO. 1
(REFERRED TO THE PEOPLE BY THE GENERAL ASSEMBLY)
(Popular Name)
AN AMENDMENT CONCERNING VOTING, QUALIFICATIONS OF VOTERS AND ELECTION OFFICERS, AND THE TIME OF HOLDING GENERAL ELECTIONS
(Ballot Title)

AMENDING VARIOUS PROVISIONS OF THE ARKANSAS CONSTITUTION CONCERNING VOTING AND ELECTIONS; PROVIDING THAT ALL PERSONS MAY VOTE WHO ARE CITIZENS OF THE UNITED STATES, RESIDENTS OF THE STATE OF ARKANSAS, AT LEAST EIGHTEEN (18) YEARS OF AGE, AND LAWFULLY REGISTERED TO VOTE; TO REPEAL THE REQUIREMENT THAT THE RIGHT TO VOTE SHALL NOT BE MADE TO DEPEND ON ANY PREVIOUS REGISTRATION OF AN ELECTOR'S NAME; REPEALING ARTICLE 3, SECTION 5 OF THE ARKANSAS CONSTITUTION PROVIDING THAT NO IDIOT OR INSANE PERSON SHALL BE ENTITLED TO THE PRIVILEGES OF AN ELECTOR; AND PERMITTING THE GENERAL ASSEMBLY TO ESTABLISH THE DATE AND TIME OF ELECTIONS AND THE QUALIFICATIONS OF ELECTION OFFICERS.

Am I reading this correctly, Arkansas General Assembly? You want to ALLOW idiots and insane people to be able to vote? I don’t know if you’ve noticed who is in the White House, but it appears to me they already can.