HCR

OK, I'm pretty sure of this: expecting to lose is a terrible strategy for winning.

It's been two days since we lost our super-majority (a super majority that was a lot more on the limp and lame than super side) and already across the blogosphere I'm picking up this bitter acceptance of defeat.

And worse that: bitter acceptance of an expected defeat.

The irony of this, is that by bitterly accepting defeat we open the doors to let our elected officials act like big girls' blouses. We stop pushing, stop fighting and expect that everything will suck forever. And, the entire legislative branch says, "Well, hey, what can we do? You all know how it is..."

I'm going to try a different approach this time and pull on my big girl panties and remember that the legislative branch is, almost to a member, made up of the intractable, lazy, spoiled, entitled employees. I say "employees" since they do, you know, work for us.

As far as I can tell there are three options:

- Kill it and start over
- Congress passes the senate bill as is
- Senate passes the bill through reconciliation

I'm partial to number 2 myself. It's my understanding that the restrictions on insurance companies can't be legislated via reconciliation. And starting over just strikes me as more defeatist than not.

I plan on telling someone that.

I've blogged before about this, but it's easier to be a righty-republican than a lefty-democrat. As far as I can tell, talking points seem adequate to fall in lockstep behind your conservative representative. They just have to talk a good game. Whereas, we lefties expect performance. Sort of. It seems we actually expect our representatives to fail to perform. And so they do. Until we stop expecting it. Especially, Christ on a cracker, TWO DAYS into the "game changer."

In the words of the great American philosopher, Bluto Blutarsky, it's not over until we say it's over.

Resolutions and Rush

So, I made a sort of quiet resolution this year to begin assuming people were operating in good faith until they proved otherwise. I was pretty sure that if I did this, I would find that more often than not, people were.

In other words, I was going to stop assuming nefarious causes for that email from a coworker, stop assuming that the SUV cut me off on purpose. And, you know, it's been pretty nice. I've found myself a lot less irritated in general, and found the world an easier place to be.

And since this has been better for my soul than yoga (I'm not a bendy person and yoga generally just makes me feel old and fat), I thought I might try extending it to the public, political arenas I travel in.

I know that there are Conservatives and Republicans out there who operate in good faith. I know that even if I think their politics are wrong, it doesn't mean that they're mean or stupid. I've tried to be aware that the quickest path to ideologue is the assumption that all opposing arguments are de facto without merit.

But let's take a look at this quote from today's Rush Limbaugh Show today:"

I want you to remember, it took [Obama] three days -- three days! -- to respond to the Christmas Day fruit of ka-boom bomber ... He comes out here in less than 24 hours to speak about Haiti ... [later in same program] ... they'll use this to burnish ahhh their, ahhh shall we say, ahhh credibility with the black community, both the light skinned and, ahhh, hmmm ... dark skinned black community ...

I was going to let this pass without comment, because I didn't want to use this horrifying humanitarian crisis to shore up a political point of my own. But, I feel like I really want to say something about that, and that is this:

It is time for conservative party leadership to start acting in good fucking faith. For Mitch McConnell or President John "bomb bomb bomb Iran" McCain to to stand up and say out lout that vile, toxic, racist, and stupid politicization of EVERYTHING is wrong and bad for all of us.

But, I won't hold my breath for that one. Instead I'm going to make a paltry contribution to the Red Cross disaster relief fund. If I were a praying woman, I'd pray. But I'm not. Besides, I think my $25 is probably more useful.

Today in Stupid

I'm having a really stupid day and I seem to be unusually unable to deal with it and move on. So, I'm going to indulge in a brief rant.

Mark McGuire fessed up to the whole steroid thing. Let me react with all the eloquence I can muster up from 4th grade: no shit, Sherlock. Of COURSE he was juiced up. What I don't get is why we're supposed to care so much. I was there in '98. We had a blast and we all knew they were juicing. Anyone who claims to be surprised that Mark McGuire, Sammy Sosa, and Barry Bonds and their late 90s arms of Suddenly Impressive Hugosity were juicing is either hopelessly naive or lying.

And yet across America people are expressing the same kind betrayal that you might find from the Beave if he'd learned in midlife that Ward had kept a piece on the side (ask your parents... or maybe your grandparents).

You know what would be just tits? If we as a society could have been just as betrayed, you know, when we learned about those fictional weapons of mass destruction.

Speaking of stupid American society: it's an established truth that nothing makes a wingnut happier than pissing off a liberal. So, lookit liberals: if we keep letting Sarah Palin piss us off, she's going to keep poisoning our atmosphere. Stop feeding the troll. From this moment forward, I shall speak of her no more. No matter how hilarious or delicious the gossip is. I'm swearing off Sarah Palin. You should too.

And get over the steroid thing.

It's Time to Educate the Guys

I was out walking the dog on this pretty winter morning, listening to This American Life who dedicated the whole show to America's Number One Party School. One of the producers starts talking to a couple at a frat party. The guy says "I'm just trying to get her drunk so I can take advantage of her." Ha ha ha. Boyswillbeboyscakes.

The phrase "take advantage of" needs to be excised entirely from our vocabulary when we're talking about sexual contact.

Which reminds me of a certain Ask Amy column.

Dear Amy: I recently attended a frat party, got drunk and made some bad decisions.

I let a guy take me to "his" room because he promised that he wouldn't do anything I wasn't comfortable with.

Many times, I clearly said I didn't want to have sex, and he promised to my face that he wouldn't.

Then he quickly proceeded to go against what he "promised." I was shocked, and maybe being intoxicated made my reaction time a bit slow in realizing what was happening.

We were soon kicked out of the room by the guy who lived there, who was pretty angry.

I guess my question is, if I wasn't kicking and fighting him off, is it still rape?


Response from Amy Dickenson:

Were you a victim? Yes.

First, you were a victim of your own awful judgment. Getting drunk at a frat house is a hazardous choice for anyone to make because of the risk (some might say a likelihood) that you will engage in unwise or unwanted sexual contact.

Notice how blithely Amy conflates "unwise" with "unwanted" sexual contact. Let me run down three situations:

Situation One: You got drunk and went home with an ex-boyfriend who's probably going to think that this means you want to get back together and that'll be a whole big thing you have to sort out. That's unwise.

Situation Two: You got drunk and said no and the guy put his penis inside you despite your objections. That's rape.

Situation Three: You got so drunk you were incapacitated and some guy put his penis inside you. That's rape.

Since girls first started going to parties and boozing it up with the boys, we've been told to avoid putting ourselves in a bad situation. We educate our girls on how to avoid these "bad situations." Don't drink too much. Don't wear slutty clothes. Make sure you have a buddy to keep an eye on you. Make sure you don't get raped because if you do, sorry, honey, that's just what happens when you put yourself in a bad situation.

And what happens when we don't focus the same (or any) energy on educating our boys? We end up with college guys who operate under the dangerous notion that it's possible to "take advantage" of a girl without raping her. So let's educate our boys on this one simple fact: you're either having sex with a willing partner or you're raping her. There's no gray area. A drunk girl can say 'yes.' She can be a willing participant in her own unwise sex.

I can't help but think that if our boys were educated to the same degree about this issue as our girls, the problem would be alleviated. It's hard to fathom that a guy wouldn't alter his behavior if he understood that he wasn't being "ungentlemanly", he's being a rapist.

Looking Back

So, this time last decade, I was planning a ginormous Y2K party. Remember Y2K? Do you feel a little silly now? I was kindasorta worried about it. My girlfriends and I rented out a room over the liquor store on Chicago and Wells and invited the crowds to come. I was engaged and living in Wicker Park and just barely 30 and on the edge of real life in a way that seems kind of adorable to me now.

Politically, globally, nationally, it was SUCH a shitty decade. It was the decade of 9/11 and George Bush and torture as foreign policy. But personally, it was really good. I got married to Don who is, honestly, the best man I know. He's so entirely himself, so full of life, and (mostly) so much fun to be around. (I add the parenthetical 'mostly' because he NEVER gets enough sleep and can be irritable as a result... I'm working on training him to sleep the way I know how to sleep. If sleep were an Olympic sport, I'd gold medal in that fucker every four years).

I got the job I'm in today. A few years ago, I felt like an epic failure working at the same place, not moving ahead, not bringing in the big bucks. But, y'all, these days, I like it a lot. I like having this job that's steady and liberating, that I'm good at. Some of my British colleagues disagree with me about the job. I say they should take a week working for a regular American corporation. Upon their return, they'd go all George Bailey running through the streets of Bedford Falls. No one polices my desktop. I am allowed to install my own software. I can sit at my desk in ripped jeans, a tank top and a snuggie and no one gives the tiniest rat's ass. These things mean something, I tell you.

And, Laney. I got Laney! I will never forget standing upstairs in my bedroom in Logan Square, in the middle of a workout, having just recently steeled myself to head back into the adoption breach after a series of disappointments. And the call came and they said there was a girl for us. And then the Fedex came to me at work the next day with pictures of the loveliest little girl. Oh, what an adventure! And what a (mostly) joy she is. (I add the parenthetical 'mostly' because she's a kid and a lot of times kids are giant pains in the balls).

And in between all these big things, there were small things. I remember standing in the living room at my Aunt Katty's house reciting Terence, This is Stupid Stuff with my father. Seeing the way my brother's eyes go all crinkley like my dad's when he laughs. Long conversations with my mother about just whatever. Evenings over ashtrays and wine bottles with my friends. Laney's arms around my neck. My head on Don's lap when we're watching TV. The color of the sky at twilight. Cold cold cold winter mornings driving to work, watching the mist rise off the lake. The ornaments dancing in the tree in the front of my house. A random, inconsequential, genuine pleasantry exchanged in line at the CVS.

So, here I sit in the kitchen of my first home. Well, sort of our first home. We owe more on it than it's worth. But, we're not going anywhere, so that's cool. There's snow on the ground and the house is mostly clean and I had a nice meal and played Clue with Laney and all seems right enough with the world that I'm prepared to make two resolutions.

1) I will finish my book. I'm almost halfway there and, at the risk of being immodest, I think I'm onto something. I've been talking about this book forever. It's time it was written. I'll write it.

2) I will, as god is my witness, learn to do something with my hair this year. It's time, for crying out loud. Surely someone of my intelligence can figure out how to do a fucking chignon or something.

I hope life is good for both of you. Oh, what the hell, I'm feeling optimistic, all three of you! Happy New Year!

Laney Hits the Nail on the Head...

My mother is at the Memphis airport waiting for her flight to take her to me. Laney just got out of the tub. Following is a transcript of our conversation:

Me: I'm going to pick your clothes out for tomorrow
Laney: Why do you always?
Me: I don't always, but Mimi's coming and I want to show you off
Laney: Why do you? It's not like Mimi has any medals to give.

From the mouths of babes, huh? Also, Mimi thinks Laney is the cat's pajamas no matter what she wears.

St. Lucy's Night

So, here it is, the Winter Solstice, the shortest day of the year. It was light for 9 hours and 12 minutes in Chicago. In northern England, York, it was light for barely seven.

I'm in a distinct minority concerning these short days. I love them. I love Chicago in December. At around 4:00ish, looking out over the lake, the water and the sky are an almost indistinguishable, soft green. Right as the sun sets, the sky turns deep royal blue and it is like a gorgeous, lush, blanket.

When I was a girl in Memphis we celebrated Christmas Eve with my mother's family. The ladies would dress up. The men all wore ties. All the women in my mother's family have wonderful taste. Except me. If the party was at my Aunt Eileen's or my Great Aunt Katty's, it was always the same. The inside of the house looked so pretty, and there was good food on the table, the grown ups got a little loose and funny. And then, around midnight, we'd leave. I can still conjure up that magical, special feeling: the cold, crisp night, the privilege of being up so late, feeling secure and loved, blanketed in recent festivity, the quiet, bright lights and dark skies.

Oh, I know it still gets dark in the summer. But it's not the same. Summertime dark lacks the coziness and richness of night in winter.

Every night after this one is a little shorter.

People have celebrated the solstice since people have been people; they've celebrated the return of the light. But, there's room to mourn the coming shortness of the night. At least, that's how I always feel at this time of year.

What do you say to a little Byron? I hope you don't think this poem is shlocky. I mean, sure, pretentious dudes who overestimate their capacity for depth have tried to use it for a few hundred years as a means to getting laid. But, if I'm being fair, Byron probably wrote it to get laid. This doesn't really matter. I think he gets night about right. Remember: read it aloud!

SHE walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that 's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!