Hiatus?

I'm taking a break from Project Runway: The All Star Challenge to blog. I think I may have forgotten how to pay attention to television anyway. Which is sad, because I LOVE Project Runway. I love Tim Gunn. If he and Cat Deely were to ever join forces, the sheer power of their combined charm, taste, good looks, and genuine supportiveness would cause peace to spotaneously burst out in the middle east... AND in democratic townhall meeetings!

I'm also taking a permanent break from arguing about healthcare on the internet. Instead, I'm putting my little money where my mouth is and I went to Act Blue and gave them $25. If you want a public option too, give them some scratch. We got Barack Obama elected by raising money $25 at a time. Let's give the congressional dems a taste too. I know the cynics disagree, but I think we got a real shot at this thing. (I notice the people who say the public option is dead are the same people who thought Obama was going to lose the election. To quote CNN, just sayin'!)

And while I'm taking breaks from reality television and arguing healthcare, I'm taking a break from life too. We're heading off to scenic downtown Lake Ojiboki, Iowa for a few days of R&R and when I get back, I'm going to try to start really writing again. Which means also a break from this bloggy thing.

My plan is to try and get really disciplined about this thing. That said, all is not lost my 1.5 fans! If all works out as planned, I'll serialize weekly. If all works out as planned. Of course, when has THAT ever happened?

But one rant for the road. You know what really chaps my hide? People who refer to the president as "Barry." I get it. Barack is evidently some kind of subtle anti-American affectation and completely and entirely unrelated to the great, grand, gone Poobah of the Republican party having gone by Ronald instead of Ronnie. As Atrios so eloquently (and frequently) says: the stupid, it burns!

Adios for a few weeks!

Three Only Loosely Related Thoughts - None Even Bordering on Political

So, I accidentally quit smoking. I didn't mean to, only I ran out a few weeks ago. I used to have this nightly habit: once the dishes were done, work caught up on, child nestled all snug in her bed: I'd lean over the sink with a drink and a cigarette. It was awesome. But then I smoked the last one in a pack and every time I thought about running across the street to get some more, I figured I'd probably end up shot in a robbery or hit by a car and then the newspapers the next day would say "Mother,40, Killed Running Across the Street for Smokes." And since there's nothing shamier than smoking, they'd probably find some way to throw in how much I weigh. So, I just sort of fell out of the habit of leaning over the sink with a cigarette and when I did my life insurance bloodwork, my blood came back negative for nicotine.

Who'd of thunk?

Of course, if I find myself in the presence of one who has not accidentally quit smoking, I quickly metamorphose from someone who doesn't smoke to someone who "doesn't smoke."

***********
All day today I felt really fat and gross and jiggly. I have a rule that I'm not allowed to use the phrase "I feel fat" around my daughter. It is one of many fond wishes that I manage to, if not kill, at least thwart the body shame that women pass from generation to generation. My mother was almost always on a diet which was a shame because really loves food and would have been gorgeous even if she'd weighed 30 pounds more than she did. It'd be nice to be able to really relish a meal without feeling guilty about it almost immediately after. Maybe that can happen for Laney.

What's weird, though, about my particular body issues is that they're pretty fleeting. Today I felt fat and gross and jiggly. Tomorrow, I'll put on heels and a dress and then on the way to work I'll catch some guy checking me out and I'll feel great about myself.

There's a sad little self esteem irony, huh?

**********

Poetry hour! I decided to read poetry to Laney tonight. She never wants to do it, until we get a poem or two in to Where the Sidewalk Ends. If you have kids, you can totally hook them on poetry with Dreadful. Just make sure you really burp at the end.

The thing about Shel Silverstein, though, is that his poetry is only ostensibly for kids. As you leaf through, you'll stumble across a poem that's so wistful and lovely you know there's no way a six year old would get it. Shel slipped it in there for the mommies and the daddies. Like this one. Read it aloud. It's Shel Fucking Silverstein - you can read THAT much poetry, can't you? Aloud?

Forgotten Language

Once I spoke the language of the flowers,
Once I understood each word the caterpillar said,
Once I smiled in secret at the gossip of the starlings,
And shared a conversation with the housefly
in my bed.
Once I heard and answered all the questions
of the crickets,
And joined the crying of each falling dying
flake of snow,
Once I spoke the language of the flowers...
How did it go?
How did it go?

Sigh. It's so wonderful watching your kid speak that language but, dammitalltohell, isn't it sad knowing that you never will again?

Downer, huh? Click on the link for Dreadful. It's awesome. Especially if you really burp.

Two Notes on Two Amendments

First Amendment: I am not infringing upon your first amendment rights if I call you rude or stupid or ill-informed or a giant sucker. I am exercising mine.

Second Amendment*: If you think your rights as an American are being infringed upon because you are not allowed to carry a loaded sidearm into a presidential rally, you are nuts. Nutsaroo. Nutty McCrazypants.

Also, if you are Chris Matthews, you should not be giving a forum to Nutty McCrazypants.

Finally, if you are Chris Matthews and you ignore my good advice and have Nutty McCrazypants on your show, you can at the very least insist that he articulate what American freedoms are being lost BESIDES the right to carry a loaded weapon into a presidential rally.

Sigh. Sometimes I love Chris. Other times, I want to punch him in the junk.

* Typically I hate it when a blogger answers a question that hasn't been asked. Like when they say "I don't like cats. And, no, I don't think kittens should be drowned for sport." Are you familiar with that stylistic meme? It's creepy; a way for the writer to articulate her point and then assume that anyone who disagrees does so because they're bonkers. That said, I do feel like I should mention that, no, I don't think guns should be outlawed. I don't know many people who do. I think if you want to own a gun, don't have a criminal record and will abide by sensible gun control laws (like, you know, you can't bring one into a presidential rally), more power to ya. Guns scare the shit out of me. But so do junebugs. And I don't think junebugs should be illegal.

Loudmouths

It has gotten LOUD out there, hasn't it?

Think of those dimwits screeching about socialism and how Barack has six letters in it and so does Hitler and A HA STALINISMCAKES!!!!! This leaves me wanting to stand on a chair and scream "WHYAREYOUSUCHAGIANTDOUCHEYDUMMY?" You can see how I might be concerned about the productivity of such a move.

I admire people who can coolly and calmly address issues. Once I saw Molly Ivins, Bill O'Reilly and Al Franken on the same panel. O'Reilly was typically red-faced, incoherent and furious. Franken kept interrupting him, trying to correct, as O'Reilly laid slander and stupidity upon stupider stupidity and slandery slander. Molly Ivins just sat there taking notes and then, when called upon, revealed herself as the smartest, savviest one there. Hold back, take notes, and then destroy them with the force of sheer logic. Franken was delighted. O'Reilly had on his "Fuck it! We'll do it live!"face. It was awesome.

Barack Obama seems to have driven the right completely bananas. I mean, Rush Limbaugh is up on his show telling his audience, who, let's face it, probably ain't the sharpest tacks in the toolshed, that if Obama gets his way, it will be the end of representative democracy and that a bunch of men in black (or black men, which sort of seems to be implied) are coming to kill your grannies.

So, is yelling back helpful or not? I keep waiting for Obama to pull a Molly Ivins (she would have loved him, I suspect, and also been wildly disappointed in him. There are no words for how much I miss her hilarious, kind and trenchant analysis). The problem is that there's no moderator. No one seems to be calling on the folks who've held back and taken notes. It's all heat and no light and it really sounds like the leading conservative voices in the media are dog whistling some pretty heavy shit.

I'm kinda freaked out. But I also remember during the primary, when K.O. did a special comment about how Hillary Clinton was dog whistling an Obama assassination. Dude, I fucking HATED Hillary Clinton during the campaign, but even I thought that was pushing it. (Hillary will, I'm sure, be glad to know that I once again love her and have left all that primary craziness behind). Are we lefties freaking out over nothing? Surely there can't be that many people who really think that Barack Obama is a stalinist, muslim, kenyan usurper who hates old people and mentally disabled babies, right? Right? RIGHT?

Friday Bourbon Blogging

A lotta lotta years ago, but after the end of Star Trek: TNG (this is a necessary qualifier and not just another nerdy Trek reference... well, and not JUST another nerdy Trek reference), I had this dream where I was walking through LAX, and from far across the terminal, I saw Jonathan Frakes walking towards me with this big grin. In the dream, we'd worked together on Star Trek. In the dream, I was so glad to see him. I was filled with a sense of pleasure and happiness at this meeting; consumed by an entirely comfortable joy at the prospect of reconnecting with my past; equally satisfied with both my past and present.

I woke up depressed. I couldn't think of anyone in my own life I'd have been so glad to see. It felt like most of what I'd done had been hallmarked by plodding effort and insincerity and it would be tedious and arduous to muster up that long since cast away persona. God, what would we have to talk about?

That dream has stayed with me. It seemed so sad that of all the people I've loved, I wasn't eager to run into any of them walking down the street. My own past was just too murky and disconnected to invite it into my present.

And then tonight. I was dining al fresco with LaneyBon, chatting about this and that, when a friend from way back in the day suddenly appeared at my side. And, what do you know? I was just as happy to see him in the waking world as I'd been to see Riker in my dream world. I was filled with this totally comfortable joy at the chance to reconnect, however briefly, with someone from back then.

I'm not sure what happened, what shifted. I suspect this is one of the happier circumstances of aging. It's easier to be who you are, generally less awkward. And you grow forgiving of any inauthenticity or discomfiture of the past. Because, after all, they were good days.

Aw, it was just so good to see my old friend. I hope I run into him again one day.

Marriage

Let me begin this blogpost with an absolutely true anecdote from the files of Megbon. On May 5, 2000 at 5:00 in the afternoon, I was standing at the back of St. Stanislaus Church in Chicago's Wicker Park absolutely scared shitless. I looked down the aisle, spotted Donbon, and said to myself "eye on the prize, Rhem, keep your eye on the prize." And then I walked down the aisle and got married and haven't regretted it for a day. Not the marrying Don part (although: that too), the having a wedding part.

When you're planning a wedding, you'd be surprised how many people tell you that you should just go to city hall because it's stupid to spend all that money "for one day." Once you're married, if you have the wedding, you'll be tempted to bewail the money spent, wish it back, regret the finery and the pomp. But, me? I'm all about the ritual.

Here's the thing: marriage is work. It's an awful lot of work. But that's not a bad thing; what thing of value do you have that isn't work? Marriage is an endeavor and an adventure and I think it's best to anchor it with a little ritual.

We made real promises to each other that day. We made them publicly and that gave them some heft, some durability. I have, for example, left a dry towel in the bathroom for Don every day (that was a vow). Don has had pizza with me every Sunday, in spirit if not in fact (that was a vow). We have been faithful to each other, we have been interested in each other (we promised that too). We have kept on loving each other, even when we had to remind ourselves to do that.

Throughout the course of my marriage, I've fallen in and out of love with Don thousands of time, sometimes in the same day. And when I'm picking up his socks for the eight millionth time and thinking what a grind, what a challenge it is, I remind myself to keep my eye on the prize. And then suddenly, before I know it, that cute guy in the terrible tuxedo (I lied, I have one regret about my wedding: that goddamn, stupid stud he wore in lieu of a tie) shows up again. And I remember what I promised. And I'm glad I promised it.

And, don't kid yourself, I've seen that same look cross Don's face. I've seen him look at me with renewed fondness, with an "ah, there's my girl again" face.

Finally, don't forget the party. Never underestimate the value of a truly great party. Our wedding remains the best party we've every thrown (and we've thrown some wang-doozies). We drank and danced and ate and laughed and we did it in a roomful of people who were, honestly, happy for us and happy to be there. That alone was worth the price of admission.

Shoot, y'all, I'd do it all again if I could.

Yeah, That's What You Think

So I stumbled across a comment thread on Facebook that began with a status update from the airport which went something like "Too many wild children in this airport! Parents, it's your job to control your kids!" And then there were a string of comments mostly along the lines of "my Mom would NEVER have let me..." and "when I was a kid I knew better than to..."

At first blush this seemed reasonable. I mean, my daughter has thrown some wild fits out in public and I don't remember ever throwing wild fits out in public. Ipso facto, our parents were better disciplinarians.

And then I thought a little more and un-ipso-ed that facto. My daughter is 6 and is at an age where I can nip a tantrum in the bud in a public place. When she was two or three or even four, it was a little trickier. Like a bolt out of the blue it hits me: all of us, every last damn one of us has acted like a miserable little cuss in public and made one or both of our parents' life hell. But the good lord that I don't believe in has arranged it so that our rotten behavior happens in our own personal prehistory.

If you don't believe me, call your mother. I bet she has at least one story about you acting like a total toddler asshole in the grocery store or a restaurant. Probably more.