Pre-Emptive Strategies for Holiday Stress

(I stole this from CNN and made appropriate adjustments to fit a family with five kids and one larcenous farting dog, but I feel obligated to give CNN some of the credit … even though Rick Sanchez is a huge wanker!)

When stress is at its peak, it's hard to stop and regroup. Take steps to help prevent normal holiday depression from progressing into chronic depression. Try these tips:

Acknowledge your feelings. If a loved one has recently died or you aren't near your loved ones, realize that it's normal to feel sadness or grief. It's OK now and then to take time just to cry or express your feelings. You can't force yourself to be happy just because it's the holiday season.

(you should also acknowledge that, your loved ones that are no longer with you are now free from the emotional and psychological hell that is family holiday gatherings … this may change your sadness and grief to full blown jealousy, thus making you completely pissed at lost loved ones not in attendance and thereby relieving all feelings of sadness & grief. I do not recommend vandalizing graves as a method of dealing with your new feelings, but drawing a curly moustache and pointy beard on old family photos is probably acceptable.)

Seek support. If you feel isolated or down, seek out family members and friends, or community, religious or social services. They can offer support and companionship. Consider volunteering at a community or religious function. Getting involved and helping others can lift your spirits and broaden your social circle. Also, enlist support for organizing holiday gatherings, as well as meal preparation and cleanup. You don't have to go it alone. Don't be a martyr.

(You may also want to seek support from these specific individuals: Jack Daniels, Robert Mondavi, Jose Cuervo, and/or Jim Beam ~ I enthusiastically recommend them for immediate and lasting results … although the lasting results are not always pleasant … for that I recommend 4 aspirin, 1 Dramamine, and a V8.)

Be realistic. As families change and grow, traditions often change as well. Hold on to those you can and want to. But understand in some cases that may no longer be possible. Perhaps your entire extended family can't gather together at your house. Instead, find new ways to celebrate together from afar, such as sharing pictures, e-mails or videotapes.

(This may be the best suggestion if you suffer from social anxiety and are prone to panic attacks when approached by crowds of old people, teenagers, children, and black sheep … especially if you failed to refill your Paxil because you were too busy testing your sweet potato soufflé recipe … two words … WEB CAM! Phone it in baby! Have your sister-in-law open the laptop on the kitchen counter and participate from afar … you can always cut out early due to “technical difficulties”.)

Set differences aside. Try to accept family members and friends as they are, even if they don't live up to all your expectations. Set aside grievances until a more appropriate time for discussion. With stress and activity levels high, the holidays might not be conducive to making quality time for relationships. And be understanding if others get upset or distressed when something goes awry. Chances are, they're feeling the effects of holiday stress, too.

(Best advice: the holidays are NOT the most conducive time to making quality time for relationships … just accept that (since you cannot accept your family members and friends and move on). Alternative: make yourself busy preparing food while wearing headphones … explain that all recipes are recorded on your ipod and you must listen attentively at all times … so you don’t make a mistake.)

Plan ahead. Set aside specific days for shopping, baking, visiting friends and other activities. Plan your menus and then make one big food-shopping trip. That'll help prevent a last-minute scramble to buy forgotten ingredients — and you'll have time to make another pie, if the first one's a flop. Allow extra time for travel so that delays won't worsen your stress.

(Plan to visit the pharmacy and party/ABC store (depending on your location). Do not skip this step or leave having time to "stop on the way" to chance. Stop early and often … you won’t regret taking the time the plan ahead.)

Learn to say no. Believe it or not, people will understand if you can't do certain projects or activities. If you say yes only to what you really want to do, you'll avoid feeling resentful and overwhelmed. If it's really not possible to say no when your boss asks you to work overtime, try to remove something else from your agenda to make up for the lost time.

(If you have kids, you should already understand this concept. As for your boss, perhaps overtime is just what the doctor ordered … this will keep you away from your spouse, kids, mother-in-law, etc. … and you will be making money … money that you can use for your “new” drivers license and passport when you finally decide to fake your death and relocate to Barbados.)

Don't abandon healthy habits. Don't let the holidays become a dietary free-for-all. Some indulgence is OK, but overindulgence only adds to your stress and guilt. Have a healthy snack before holiday parties so that you don't go overboard on sweets, cheese or drinks. Continue to get plenty of sleep and schedule time for physical activity.

(This relies on the fact that you practice healthy habits, which you probably don’t, but if you do … and you want a healthy snack before parties so you don’t pig out … I suggest … LOL!!! … I know crap about healthy snacks … but I can tell you that eating yogurt and then drinking yourself into a comatose state won’t make you feel very healthy.)

Take a breather. Make some time for yourself. Spending just 15 minutes alone, without distractions, may refresh you enough to handle everything you need to do. Steal away to a quiet place, even if it's the bathroom, for a few moments of solitude. Take a walk at night and stargaze. Listen to soothing music. Find something that clears your mind, slows your breathing and restores your calm.

(This pretty much speaks for itself … but if you can’t come up with something that clears your mind, may I suggest White Trash TV … you know … Cops, Cheaters, RepoMan … on second thought … this may remind you too much of an ex-boyfriendor relatives you are attempting to clear your mind of … I’ll keep working on this one!)

Forget about perfection. Holiday TV specials are filled with happy endings. But in real life, people don't usually resolve problems within an hour or two. Something always comes up. You may get stuck late at the office and miss your daughter's school play, your sister may dredge up an old argument, you may forget to put nuts in the cake, and your mother may criticize how you and your partner are raising the kids. All in the same day. Expect and accept imperfections.

(There’s no such thing as perfection, and somebody is sure to cross into your emotional space over the holidays … don’t sweat it … this is sure to get you out of anything that might set you up for criticism … BREAK SOMETHING! … an arm, foot, leg, heck, even a couple of fingers will get you off the hook for cooking) it doesn’t’ matter which body part (and you can even fake it if you’re creative enough) … it’s a free pass from cooking, socializing, and driving (for any reason)! You’ll be perfectly relaxed, watching television, while everyone else does all the work. I also suggest wearing a tiara and insisting that your ice be crushed (blame it on the Vicodin.)

Seek professional help if you need it. Despite your best efforts, you may find yourself feeling persistently sad or anxious, plagued by physical complaints, unable to sleep, irritable and hopeless, and unable to face routine chores. If these feelings last for several weeks, talk to your doctor or a mental health professional. You may have depression.

(Even if you don’t have depression, claim you do. They’ll talk about you behind your back, but they won’t expect much from you in conversation … feel free to sit in the back and work Soduku puzzles … but be sure to disguise your booze in a coke bottle or Styrofoam quicki-mart cup (you don't want to give the wrong impression!)

Good Luck & Happy Thanksgiving!!!

Gobble, Gobble, Wobble, Wobble

Holiday Fat Ass ~ Pumpkin Swirl Cheesecake

Are you afraid of making a cheesecake? Don't let the recipe books intimidate you ... you can do it ... and yours will be better than any cheesecake you will find elsewhere. The base of this cheesecake goes with everything ... any topping ... any swirl ... any crust.

This is the best, and I PROMISE, the easiest cheesecake ever. I have experimented with it a thousand times (not exaggerating ... I make hundreds of cheesecakes/year) and you just can't screw it up. It is also all natural ... 5 ingredients, plus the crust & pumpkin: you are going to LOVE it!!!

For the crust: You can purchase a pre-made graham cracker crust or you can crush half a box of ginger snaps, mix it with 1/2 cup of melted butter and mash it into the bottom of a cheesecake pan or a 9x13 baking dish ... whatever floats your boat ... (if you do the gingersnap/butter ... bake it at 350 for about 10 mintues before you put the filling in) / (if you do the ready made crust, half the recipe for filling). Be sure to grease the pan.

Filling:
4 (8 oz.) blocks cream cheese ~ softened
1 cup sugar
4 eggs
1/2 cup heavy cream
2 tsp. Vanilla

Beat the cream cheese until it's pretty smooth ... add the sugar (the sugar will soften the cream cheese up more and help to smooth out the last lumps. Add the eggs one at a time and beat until smooth. Be sure to use a spatula to clean the sides of the bowl a few times in-between. Add the Cream & vanilla and beat for about 30 seconds. Remove 1/2 cup filling. Pour the rest onto crust.

Put 1/2 cup of filling and 1/2 cup pumpkin puree (the canned stuff works great) in a bowl and mix well with a fork (no lumps!). Add a tablespoon of pumpkin pie spice. Drizzle pumpkin mixture onto cheesecake ... Use a knife to push it down into vanilla filling and swirl it around.

Bake for about 80 minutes at 300 if using gingersnap crust in cheesecake pan ... about 50 - 60 minutes in pre-made crust or 9x13. Just watch the top for browning ... and give it the shake test ... it should wiggle a little in the middle.

Crack the oven door and leave the cake in there for about an hour. I don't know what this does, but it's an important step ...

Throw in fridge for at least 6 hours ...

Again ~ let me promise you ... you can't screw this up. I've beat the eggs too long ... used whole milk instead of cream ... used generic cream cheese instead of Philly ... used one less egg ... beat it with the whisk attachment because the beater was in the dishwasher ... with water bath and without ... you name it ...

This will turn out well and will be delicious!!! Enjoy!!!

Emotional Rescue ~ Disappointment ... In Pictures

Saving My Child From The Disappointment That Is

The National Geographic Photography Contest

My sweet, caring, enthusiastic child entered the National Geographic photo contest. We go to their website often … she is a lover of animals and people and differences … and we study each photograph … its colors and layers and meaning.

She decided that she could be such a photographer … and set out to capture all forms of beauty … to capture things of significance that might help her win said contest. I may have forgotten to mention that she is a competitive neanderthal … beat it, kill it, dance on it, eat it. This philosophy applies to all sports and was now to be applied to the sensitive and fragile nature of the art of photography.

With a child’s eye and bullish determination, she set out to capture the moment, and the prize, but alas, she did not win. Her photographs, which are quite wonderful, all things considered, didn’t even buy her a seat at the table … or a thumbnail on the website. The disappointment was overwhelming … not necessarily noticeable, but a huge emotional sacrifice … the kind you make behind closed doors … the kind girls make when they don’t want to be thought of as ‘girls’ anymore.

How do you know, as a mother, when to pull them back and when to let them go? How do you decide ... to save them from disappointment or allow them to succeed ... when the outcome might be either? How do we put that control in the hands of strangers ... control of our chidren's self-esteem? How do you know, as a mother, which band-aids go on which boo-boo's and which scratches just need to be left alone ... to heal? Is love enough?

And so, with a mother’s love, may I present to you …

the photography of my daughter:

101 Words: Virtous Reality

Virtuous Reality. That’s the name of the ‘abstinence only’ sex ed. program being taught in our school system … being taught to my daughter. Clever title.

Every night she “interviews” me.

“What did you think LOVE was when you were a teenager?”
“What do you think is the difference between LOVE and infatuation?”

She records my answers.

Infatuation is a word that has come up every day over the last week.

Can you really squash teenage love by degrading it to infatuation or is that just unrealistic, misguided semantics?

I wonder if Virtuous Reality is a sin of commission or omission?

42 Cents & A Bottle of Wine

It’s that time again … time to get started on the Family Photo Christmas card. I have learned that the more kids you have, the more this practice is expected. It always seems like a good idea at first…

When we had one child and lived in our hometown, it was easy … one sweet little girl, under the tree …Click. Stamp. Send. Mom happy.

Add one precious little boy … living a few hours from hometown. Little girl holds little boy beside a tower of presents. Little boy sleeps, little girl smiles a perfect smile. Send more than usual … Mom showing off a little.

Add another little baby boy … still living a few hours from hometown … maybe something different? The pumpkin patch seems like awesome idea, until picture is actually seen … NOPE!!! Kids in overalls climbing on hundreds of giant pumpkins are adorable until placed next to a snowman wearing a Santa hat. Thirty bucks … down the toilet. Generic “Peace On Earth” from Walgreens … Mom disappointed.

Add two more little boys … tiny crying babies … one thousand miles from hometown … too depressed to send any card at all. Big kids choose & send “Hoops & YoYo” from Hallmark online. Mom cries.

The next year … everyone growing … still one thousand miles from hometown … want to do something special … all 7 of us. Seek professional photographer … too late … all booked. Seek shaky-hand neighbor … she’s available. Dress everyone … move table … plug up tree. Change one’s shirt. Change another’s pants. Mom drinks.

Screw it … everyone put on pajamas. Sit down. Shut up. Smile, damnit! 79 pictures. Not one has everyone looking full of ...


C H R I S T M A S J O Y!!!


DAMN ALL OF YOU!!! Not one has everyone looking at camera or smiling. Jeez … time is running out. Must send family photo this year … must, must, must …

Message: Oh just screw it ~ Here's your card. Merry-Damn-Christmas.


(((Oh shit!!! We forgot the dog!!!))) Mom passes out in own vomit.

Maybe we'll just skip it this year ... save on stamps AND wine ... well, maybe on stamps.

You Never Forget Your First

Training dyslexic students is tedious, boring, and repetitive … for the student and often for the teacher. The pace of things discourages many students. Imagine spending 10 hours per week learning that digraphs (sh, ch, wh, th, etc.) are two letters that make one new sound. Say the words. Write the words. Break up the words. Review, review, review. Do it all again. Then do it again. Now, do it as fast as you can. In the end, a student may move on or they may get another week of the same thing. It depends on how much of the lesson or rule is retained.

I know that sounds practically abusive, but it’s necessary. It's almost impossible to wrap your brain around not having an internal system for language. I'm guessing that nobody ever had to tell you in specific terms that a vowel between two consonants in a one-syllable word has a short sound. You just got it, noticed the pattern in other words, and went on to read them. Easy, right? Dyslexic kids don’t have that. They see, simply, letters on paper … sometimes they don’t even see the actual letters that are on the paper, they see something else. It is frustrating, can be emotionally devastating and many students want to succumb to feeling inadequate or using behavior as a mask (better to be bad, than dumb).

Teaching dyslexic students in a private school is the best job I ever had. My first year, I made a whopping salary of $18,000 and I would have stayed in that job forever and worked for that same salary until they threw me out. The level of compassion and stamina in that building was overwhelming and I felt lucky to work there then, and now I just feel blessed to have had the opportunity to be a part of it … to be a part of an amazing faculty and to be a part of the lives of amazing students.

I know teachers aren’t supposed to have favorites, but every teacher has one … a student that captures your heart and embodies the success you dream of for them … a student who validates your life’s work ... and you can see it in them long before they actually achieve the dream.

Let me tell you about Austin. Sweet. Athletic. Motivated. Trusting. Honest. Wide-eyed. Optimistic. Loving. Smart. Happy. And Dyslexic.

Austin came to my classroom for the first time when he was 8 years old. He had that adorable little bowl-cut hair and the biggest smile you’ve ever seen. From day one, he was willing to work harder and longer than anyone else. He traveled over an hour to and from the school and played on a very successful soccer team. Though it was only my second year teaching and I was still riddled with my own anxiety and inadequacies, he believed in me completely and motivated me, just as I worked to motivate him. I taught him for almost three years, and throughout the summers. He even lived with us one summer during the school session. I fell in love with his family. His mother is probably one of my greatest role models (that’s another story). She is a champion of the learning disabled and a die-hard advocate for student’s rights. (((For God’s sake, she now tutors students in an old VW bus, in the school parking lot, because the school doesn’t want her to work (privately) inside the building. ~ the woman is awesome!!!))) My relationship with them lasted far past the time that I had to leave the school, to relocate with my own family … in fact, it is still alive and well.

Austin was the first kid I ever taught to read. I would like to take all of the credit, but obviously that would be obnoxious and narcissistic, not to mention untrue, but I guess the thing I can take credit for ~ is sticking with him. Long after he learned his spelling rules and achieved grade-level fluency … won state soccer championships (amazing goal keeper) in high school … got accepted to and graduated from a top-notch private college where he continued to excel at his sport … through all of the ups and down, the academic problems and the broken bones … through a devastating lung injury and the dream job offer … I’ve been there as his cheerleader, confidante, and advocate. He is a part of my family, not just part of my identity as an educator.

He called me last week to say he was going to propose to his long-time girlfriend. For the first time in … well, ever … I was speechless. I bumbled around with congratulatory remarks and asked all the appropriate questions about when & how. Maybe, for the first time in over a decade, it occurred to me that he isn’t still ten years old. He’s a grown man and God-forbid, he might not need me anymore. Days later, I still don’t know how I feel about that.
In many ways, Austin was my first child. He was my first professional success. He was my first student to graduate from college. Now he’s the first to leave me … to move on to the next part of his life … the part where he and his wife will solve their own problems and share their own successes.

Now, it’s my turn … a chance to be a first … the first to wish him a long, happy life with a woman he loves … the first to congratulate his family on the addition to their wonderful clan … and maybe, or certainly, the very last to say goodbye to that precious little boy long ago replaced by a very capable, wonderful young man. I love you, kid.


(((Lesson learned: I promise to never, ever, ever roll my eyes at the mother of the groom again … cry it out sister … I feel your pain. Also, maybe this is a message from God or my mother ~ I do have four sons of my own … and I guess someday I will go through this with them … all I can say is, “woe be unto you, “future-daughters-in-law!!!”)))

You’re Not Special and Barack Obama Doesn’t Owe YOU Anything

I am not a special interest group. Neither are the millions of other Americans that gave Barack Obama their hard earned money to run that freight train of a campaign right through John McCain’s House of Whacks. I have to say I was surprised to hear McCain and Palin, every one of their surrogates, the Fox News robots, and others (especially, sanctimonious Joe Scarborough who seems to honestly believe that Floridians are stupid) whine about public/private financing and the unfairly enormous ad campaign of Barack Obama and how he broke his word to the American people and to John McCain. First of all, who gives a damn … not me. The tired nonsense about Obama “lying” to the American people and John McCain and the outrageous “typical Chicago politician” line are still being mumbled in the background … it’s just a matter of time before Sarah Palin pulls it out of her bedside table and tries to drive it home again. She’s already resurrected Tito the Builder and Joe the Plumber.

((sidenote: if anyone from her “camp” is reading this … GET HER SOME NEW LINES AND TELL HER NOT TO DO THAT GROWLY, LOW, TEETH-CLENCHED THING WITH HER VOICE WHEN SHE DOESN’T KNOW WHAT SHE’S TALKING ABOUT … WE ALL KNOW THAT TELL … so with that in mind ~ don’t get her a guest spot on any of those celebrity poker shows either … although … I would love to see her in a remake of “Rounders” … she would be a natural as “Worm” … she lies all the time; she already has a relationship with Matt Damon … but, the truth is, I just want to see her get her ass beat by the Russians (because I guess they can see her from over there, too) and be left broken and alone in a church gymnasium … still scheming. This could really be a break-out role for her … plus getting her to Hollywood early will make it easier for Oliver Stone to get busy on his next project.))

OK ~ back to what I was saying before …

Now, I hear the pundits talking about who is expecting favors from the new President Elect. “Who” got him elected and what “they” will be expecting in return … what??? … you’ve got to be joking, right???

(1) Hispanics ~ voted for Obama in record numbers over Amnesty Man, John McCain …
(2) African Americans ~ voted for Obama in record numbers over Whitey (seriously man ... get some bronzer), John McCain
(3) Hillary Supporters ~ voted for Obama because Hillary told them to … except for the duchess or princess or whoever
(4) Pennsylvanians (taking time out from clinging to guns & religion) ~ voted blue, as usual, for Obama, even though John McCain pimped Sarah Palin out to them for two whole months
(5) Jews and other old people ~ gave the nod to Obama instead of their fellow AARP member
(6) Gays and Lesbians ~ voted overwhelmingly for Obama even though he opposes gay marriage … (that topic is discussed enough … I’ll just leave that there)

Educated white people, Duke fans, Teachers, Nurses, Middle class, middle income families, Catholics, Grandmothers … this list could go on and on …

Here’s my point ~ None of us are “special interest”. Contributing to a campaign and casting your vote is not like buying a hooker … there is no twenty dollar special. We don't lobby our vote to whatever “category” exit polls force us into and we don't reject our democratic principles in exchange for presidential favors ... we are Americans. We choose for ourselves when that curtain closes. So, I don’t care who you are or what group you belong to or don’t belong to … You’re Not Special and Barack Obama Doesn’t Owe YOU Anything.

Two Heads Are Better Than One

I heard a hum. My cellphone? I picked it up … nothing. It stopped.

I unloaded a few more dishes from the dishwasher. Did I hear it again? Yes, humming. I looked around on the kitchen counter. It stopped.

What was humming? Stuck my ear to the refrigerator … nope. I walked around the whole kitchen with my ear tilted up, jutting out just past my shoulder, eyes closed … as if I could hear better that way. It stopped.

I went back to doing the dishwasher. Hhhhuuuuuummmmmmmmmm … then a bump.

The boys. The boys were supposed to be watching Micky Mouse while I cleaned up the breakfast mess made by five different children eating, at a minimum, five different breakfasts. I could literally run my dishwasher after every meal and it would probably work more efficiently that way … but I prefer to cram as much in there as humanly possible. I get a small thrill from challenging my appliances, including but not limited to, my washing machine and, especially, the dishwasher.

Hhhhuuuuuuummmmmmmmmmmm.

What the hell is making that noise? A quick look told me that the twins were not watching Micky Mouse. I called for them … a sweet, sing-songy beckoning ... “Thing One …. Thing Two ….” … Nothing.
I called a little louder. “Hey Boy-eees … Where are you?” … Nothing.
I called a little louder and a little more urgently. “Boys! Get in here!” … Nothing.
I went to the bottom of the stairs … in my angry voice, “Are you up there?” … Nothing.

Hhhhuuuuummmmmmmmmmmmmm. Bump.

<<<<>>>>>

I walked around to the back of the island and opened the cabinet door. Stuffed in the cabinet and looking oh, so guilty … my twins. Nothing seemed amiss though. “Get out of there.” They climbed out slowly, but then raced into the den and dove behind the sofa. Suspicious, at best, I thought and walked over towards their hiding place. I put one knee on the cushion and then the other … I peered over the back of the sofa …

Looking down on them crouched between the sofa and the wall … all I could see was the top of their heads. B I N G O! The humming … I finally figured out what was making the humming sound. The boys looked like a couple of mangy, little dogs … hair sticking up here and no hair over there. The tops of their little heads were covered with shaved spots and behind one of their backs, I could see the clippers I had used that morning to trim my oldest son’s hair that had grown out over his ears … a personal pet peeve of mine.

I sighed that mother-in-distress sigh and flopped down on the sofa. I couldn’t decide if I was furious or if I was going to laugh. I couldn’t decide if it was their fault or mine. I couldn’t decide if they were being naughty or if they were just engaging in wonderful, imagination play, with an unfortunate healthy dose of reality. Good or bad? Funny or not … funny looking for sure. Should I throw a fit and play the “time-out” card or should I try something else … ((( yes, they were still hiding behind the sofa ))).

The fact that they were still back there let me know that they knew perfectly well that they had done something wrong ... but I still hadn’t decided that it was all that wrong. I took the clippers, explained that they belonged to me and that they were never to touch them again … something I had never really done or thought I had to do … and I put the clippers away. Then some cutie-patooty, singing blue birds flew down and trimmed their hair with magic scissors until they looked like perfect little picture-frame insert models.

Okay … it didn’t really go that way. I threw a hissy fit. I freaked out. I wanted justice! How was I going to show my face at WalMart or Target or the library? I could shave their heads myself .. I do have the tools … I could take them to the barber shop … so everyone could judge me for not knowing that my kids were shaving each other’s heads exactly 5 feet from where I was standing and I knew nothing about it … or …

I could just leave it like that … just leave their little barbed heads the way they were. They didn’t seem to care a bit. So that’s what I did. I just left it and I guess we’ll go get a haircut after it grows out a little … maybe I’ll just say they had bubblegum in their hair and I had to cut it out … maybe they will just wear stocking hats until after Christmas … we’ll just have to wait and see.

My Night As A Paranormal Investigator

I have lived in southwest Missouri for almost four years in a suburb of Joplin, if you consider very small cities to actually have suburbs. It might me more accurate to say that I live in a small town beside a small city.

A friend of mine, came to visit this summer and did a little research before she came. She discovered “The Joplin Spook Light” in a tourism guide (Joplin took up exactly one page) and insisted that we check it out ~ she is crazy-brave and always up for anything. I live here and I had never heard mention of such a thing, but I started asking around and indeed, the Spook Light is a local phenomenon. My neighbor is the ultimate thrill seeker. She loves all things adrenaline-laced and seeks them with vigor. The two of them were like junkies looking for drugs ... and the SpookLight was the fix.

Let me say this … I hate scary things. I hate scary movies. I hate wandering around in the night, even on my own street. I hate, hate, and hate all of it. As with most fears, this powerful inner-emotion has evolved into a full-throttle fight-or-flight response to all things that go bump in the night. It’s like this ~ I don’t swim out in the ocean because that’s the home of sea creatures that can kill me (and I don’t like for my body parts to be submerged in foreign substances in which, therefore, I cannot see them) and I feel the same way about the night. The dark night on a wooded back road, even if I can see all my parts, is a foreign territory that belongs to someone or something else. I am a trespasser … and as such, I would deserve any attacks or cruel, chainsaw- wielded treatment I may receive there. So, I don’t go there. I consider my absense from such places as respectfully polite.

Reluctantly, and under peer pressure of the most intense kind, I agreed to go “see” the SpookLight. According to internet lore, not everyone actually sees the SpookLight. In fact, I didn’t talk to one single person who had actually been there who had ever seen it. There was a very slight amount of comfort in that fact. The SpookLight is not considered an evil presence; it is more of a spiritual legend … or electrical anomaly. So maybe it’s the spirits of two, young Indian lovers who jumped to their death; or maybe it’s the spirit of an old woman looking for her husband; or electricity run amok … no one really knows, even though this “thing” has been under investigation since the late 1800’s. SpookLight Road sits on the border of Missouri and Oklahoma … deep, deep in the country … on a very, very narrow country road, under an umbrella of scraggly tree branches long since forgotten by the county maintenance crew.

Our venture onto SpookLight Road began, of course, with watching a scary movie (slightly scary to them, to me it was horrifying and I spent the entire 106 minutes with my head under a blanket … peeking through at the non-scary parts). It was late, maybe 11:00, when we finally left home. Supposedly, the best time to see the SpookLight is around 1:00 am, which ties into one of the Indian legends (I don’t remember which one). Another reason to go with the flow … the SpookLight is only about 30 minutes from our house … assurance that we would not see anything. I climbed into the middle row of my neighbor’s SUV since they wanted to ride in the front … so they could ‘air quote’ see ‘air quote’. I took the blanket with me …

If you believe in signs, then you will agree with a few of my initial instincts as we took out. First of all we missed the exit and had to drive 20 miles into Oklahoma, and pay a toll to turn around and drive 20 miles back to the correct exit. Math told me that we would be almost one full hour closer to the "time". I found this sign to be enough for us to go home … no. Then, following the map, we drove up and down a stretch of road, maybe a mile long, and could not find the turn. This was also a good reason to scrap the trip and return home … no. Eventually, and more determined than ever, my friends decided to take a side road with no sign. This side road did eventually end at another road, with a sign, which unfortunately provided proof that we were going the right way. The roads were so dark and they climbed up, up, up and then fell off like a small roller coaster. My neighbor, who drives like a Nascar hack, on a good day, was barreling up and down these hills and we were literally bouncing up and down in her Navigator as we bottomed out in each valley. I hit my head more than once.

I was terrified before we ever got to SpookLight Road. I had that elephant-on-your chest feeling … I couldn’t decide if I should close my eyes and go under-covers or if it was more beneficial to check and re-check the seat behind me, as well as the door locks. My head sat on my neck like a manual typewriter, on which someone was speed pecking my own obituary …left to right … look, look, look, look, look, look, look, return … look, look, look, look, look, look, look, return. Oddly, looking back, I do not feel I overreacted at all, although my friends found me funny that night and have since let the legend of my fear evolve into a hilarious every-single-party story for anyone who will listen.

Before we actually turned onto SpookLight Road, we stopped. Another sign … a black cat in the road. I found this to be enough and voiced my objections to any continuation of this adventure. I was assured that the small cat-like animal in the road was a “dog” … yhea, right. We turned onto the road … nothing but pitch black ahead of us … under a swag of ragged tree limbs that completely shut out the night sky. The road was barely wide enough to accommodate the SUV. Our driver, every so slowly, swerved from edge to edge attempting to miss the limbs that were scratching at the car. At this point I had the blanket wrapped around my head … looking somewhat like Yoda and equally as green. I don’t know if it was the motion of the car or the fear-sickness churning in my gut, but I felt like I was going to pass out.

We stopped. Right in the middle of the road, we stopped … and then someone hit the interior lights. For me, this may as well have been a full on alien abduction with anal probe. I screamed and pulled the blanket further down over my face. (((If you are in a car, in the dark, with the lights on inside and you look at the window, you will see your own reflection.))) That sounds completely benign, unless your reflection shows a dark hooded figure with shoulders up around its ears … which then jerks and jabs and starts screaming at you … until you finally realize that it’s actually you … but by then, it’s too late. A little pee is running down your leg. Twenty yards onto SpookLight Road and I had already blown my wad. I was totally wrecked. I collapsed down into the back seat to the haughty laughter of my friends who were actually taking pictures of me now.

We slowly inched forward. From my slumped position in the back seat, I could see a light ahead of us. I stared at it, but said nothing. We creeped over the little hills and down into the low valleys … in the dark. I could still see it. Then it blinked. It was a cell phone tower. Whew! I was so thankful that I didn’t say anything. I wrapped my blanket tighter around my head and began saying The Lord’s Prayer. I don’t know why I thought The Lord’s Prayer was a good thing to chant on a spooky road in the dead of night … approaching 12:30, but something about the trespassing made good sense to me and so I continued humming very quietly … “and lead me not into temptation” … I could see another light … “for thine is the power and the glory forever”. They saw the new light, too.

“Do you see that?”
“Yhea … maybe it’s a motorcycle.”
“But it’s moving straight ahead.”
“Yhea.”
“If it was a motorcycle, it would be moving up and down.”
“hallowed be thy name … thy kingdom come”
“I think that’s it.”
“thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.”

I pulled the blanket all the way down over my face.

The car slammed to another stop.

“forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us”

“What the fuck?”
“Do you see that?”

I wasn’t seeing because I wasn’t looking. I was busy praying for my soul. The light hum of my words had turned into a full Gregorian chant … but they weren’t listening to me or laughing at me anymore … something had their full attention and I wanted to know what it was, but I was too afraid to even peek from the tight wrapping of what my friends now call the “safety burrito”. “lead me not into temptation …”

“…Pentagram!!!”
“Holy shit!”
“What does that sign say?”
“trespassing, trespasser, God, trespassing …”
“... Pentagram.”
“Beware … white man … no.”

I sat up … I couldn’t take anymore of the heat from my own breath inside that blanket and my curiosity was at that one, itsy-bitsy second, more powerful than my fear. I sat straight up and all I could see around us was trees. They were still mumbling about the sign. To my left there was a sign nailed to a tree, but it was too dark to see what it said. I looked off the hood of the car and there it was … the pentagram they were talking about. It filled the entire road … edge to edge. In the headlights, you could see colors, purple, red … and above it writing … “man”, “white” …
Again I screamed, but not a generic scream this time. I began spontaneously screaming as some might begin to speak in tongues. I was not having a spiritual embodiment, however, I was having what is often described as the “shitting-her-pants-breakdown”.

“Back the fuck up!”
“Back the fuck up!”
“Back the fuck up!”
“Back the fuck up!”
“Back the fuck up!”

Apparently, I screamed that phrase more than once. Also apparent to me now is the fact that fear is contagious. You can get it from other people and the girls in the front caught it ... quick-like. As I screamed and wedged myself under the middle row of that SUV, my friends also began to scream. I don’t remember how we got out of there. The road was so narrow … and there were ditches on each side. I have no idea how we got turned around, but we did. All three of us screaming … that huge car turned around and we were turning out onto another road before I emerged from under the seat. We bounced up and down those back roads until we finally found light at a highway truckstop.

We sat there, under the neon, breathing rapidly, and being totally silent. I was silent because I had taken a vow not to ever speak to either of them … ever again. They were silent because they really thought that they saw the SpookLight … or maybe because they finally realized that they were a little scared too. It’s hard to say with those two.
We slipped into the truckstop, hit the potty, and grabbed some drinks. I tried to buy beer, but you can’t buy beer after midnight on Saturday.

We got into the car and headed home. I swear to
God, we hadn’t been in that damn car for 30 seconds before they started laughing. Laughing! Laughing LOUD!!! “Back the fuck up!” … hahahahahahahahaha … “Chicken shit!” … hahahahahahahaha.

Bitches.

The next morning my phone rang.

“Hello.”

“hahahahahahahah!!!! Ahahahahahahahaha!!! Hahahahahahahah!!! Back the fuck up!!! Hahahahahahahah!!!” … for at least 5 minutes …

Bitches.

My Life: The Parrothead Soundtrack

Who are you

I'm a piece of work, I'm iron and lace
I'm shy, I'm right up in your face
I'm all dumbfounded, stubborn as an ass
Sharp as an arrow in a pile of glass.
I'm a sweetheart, genius, reckless jerk.
Lord, have mercy, I'm a piece of work

Are you male or female?

Photograph shows she is lovely
Her barefeet are a work of art
Her fragrance speaks of frangipanni
Yes she's still a hula girl at heart

What place do you love best?

I wanna be there
Wanna go back down and lie beside the sea there
With a tin cup for a chalice, fill it up with good red wine
And I'm a' chewin' on a honeysuckle vine

What do you look like?

She had rings on her fingers and bells on her shoes
And I knew without askin' she was into the blues
She wore scarlet begonias tucked into her curls
I knew right away she was not like other girls, other girls (Grateful Dead cover)

What do you want to say to your best friend?

These moments we're left with
May you always remember
These moments are shared by few
There's wind in our hair
And there's water in our shoes
Honey, it's been a lovely cruise

What’s your best quality?

So tell me all your troubles
I'll surely tell you mine
We'll laugh and smoke and cuss and joke
And have a glass of wine

What’s your worst quality?

I know that I've
The imagination of a child
And there are times
When I let it all run wild

Where do you see yourself in one year?

A Woman On A Mission
Quite Familiar With Quasars
Her Hearts Still In The Kitchen
But Her Soul Is In The Stars
Her Engine Fueled With Logic
And Navigation Expertise
It's A Very Distant Puzzle
She's Gonna Get Her Piece

What’s your secret?

The rumors and the stories of my past I can't deny
I'm no Saint Ignatius but again I'm no barfly
The wrong thing is the right thing until you lose control
I've got this bank of bad habits in a corner of my soul

Something you like about yourself

I live on a big round ball
I never do dream I may fall
And even one day if I do
Well I'll jump up and smile back at you

What does love mean to you?

When the day that lies ahead of me
Seems impossible to face
When someone else instead of me
Always seems to know the way

Then I look at you
And the world's alright with me
Just one look at you
And I know it's gonna be
A lovely day...

What would you say to the one who got away?

Tried to phone from Paris thinking
Things could be arranged
Me and you could rendezvous
But I found your number changed
So I drove to San Remo where
The crazy painter dwells
And toasted our old photographs
Still up there on his shelf

What makes you angry?

You can hear it on the coconut telegraph
Can't keep nothin' under their hat
You can hear 'em on the coconut telegraph
Sayin' who did dis and dat
Dis and dat dis and dat

What makes you happy?

My old red bike
Gets me around
To the bars and the beaches of my town
And there aren't many reasons I would leave
Yes, I have found me some peace.

What makes you sad?

He died about a month ago while winter filled the air
And though I cried I was so proud to love a man so rare
He's somewhere on the ocean now that's where he oughta be
With one hand on the starboard rail he's wavin' back at me

I never used to miss the chance to climb up on his knee
And listen to the many tales of life upon the sea
We'd go sailing back on Barkentines we'd talk of things he did
Tomorrow just a day away for the Captain and the kid

How do you feel when you think about your biggest mistake?

Well the coffee is strong
at the Cafe Du Monde,
And the donuts are too hot to touch;
But just like a fool, when those
sweet goodies cool, I ate 'til I ate way too much.
Cause I'm livin' on things that excite me,
Be they pastries or lobsters or love;
I'm just tryin' to get by being quiet and shy,
In a world full of pushin' and shove.

Some words to live by

Sail the main course
In a simple sturdy craft
Keep her well stocked
With short stories and long laughs
Go fast enough to get there
But slow enough to see
Moderation seems to be the key

"Faux Intimacy" and My Dead Mother's Wig

A few days ago there was a comment made about “faux intimacy” regarding people’s emotional response to the death of Madelyn Dunham, Barack Obama’s grandmother. At the time I was reading the post, I agreed with the premise that the internet gives us a false sense of connectedness and I agreed that in retrospect (all of 2 days), the enormous response tiptoed towards strange and stunk of personal inadequacy and emotion, for the sake of emotion. I chastised myself for feeling genuinely sad for Barack Obama (and yes … for crying when his grandmother died.) Looking back again (two more whole days later), I’m considering the fact that I had a “faux reaction” to that post. My sadness upon hearing of the death of Madelyn Dunham, which provoked my tears and led to an ultimate feeling of depression wasn’t “faux intimacy”. It was real. My tears for Barack Obama and his grandmother provided me with the ultimate feeling of intimacy; of shared experience on the deepest emotional level … the universal and profound understanding of loss.


Like President Elect Obama, I lost one of the most important people in my life on the eve of what will always be one of my greatest moments. My mother died on the “due date” of my first child. June 10. I had lived and breathed for 9 months waiting for June 10 to arrive. We counted down the days together … and there was absolutely nothing on this earth my mother wanted more than a grandchild. We counted down as the cancer ate away at her lungs and her brain and her blood. She was a tough, old bird … going from dual treatments straight to the mall to pick up one more blanket or look for a new outfit, just a little cuter than the last one she had gotten. God … I remember being able to barely reach the wheelchair handles because my belly blocked me from getting close enough. We made it though … we made it right up to the day that our girl was to be born. It turned out though, that our countdown ended … not exactly as we had expected.


She died at about 3 am on June 10 quietly and with dignity … just her, my dad, and a nurse. I got much of the same advice that I heard William Bennett give Barack Obama. He described the notion that one could find comfort in knowing that this enormous loss was the end of the “before” part of life and the beginning of the “after” part of life … before-presidency or after-motherhood … an acknowledgment that the collective prize remains though the achievement will now be singular. I know that sadness. You know that sadness. Our humanity gives us the ability to share that sadness, in person and from afar.


For most first-time mothers (or first time Presidents), I think that the loss of their own mother (defined as ‘the person who made you what you are’) during such a critical time, would be too much to handle. I, on the other hand had a different experience. Whether it was God or hormone-induced psychosis ~ I experienced an intervention that saved me from succumbing to the sadness and unfairness of loss. My mother spoke to me (not in words … thank God), but in a way that assured me that everything was going just the way she thought it ought to go. She reassured me in a way no one else could and I survived. I survived because every time I start to miss her (which is often) I smile. I laugh out loud sometimes … sometimes I cry and laugh … but mostly I laugh and the sadness washes away. Only a mother can give you that gift in death.


Here’s the story. I did not want to see my mother’s body after she died. I was against a “Family Night” at the local funeral parlor and I was completely against an open casket. My mother’s siblings, however, were to have no part of that … perhaps it’s a generational thing. I submitted a bit and allowed the casket to be open for one hour. I figured that was enough time for a dozen or so folks to say their goodbyes and do whatever it is people do when looking at a dead body. That was a fine plan and everyone felt satisfied … except my grandmother. My grandmother (God rest her soul) was the first one to see my mother and the first one to realize that hair didn’t look quite right … as it turned out, her wig was on upside down. My mother wore a cute little, dark brown page boy wig … worn correctly, very chic … upside down, surprisingly like Davy Jones of the Monkees. My grandmother only felt that it made sense to come back to our house and insist, in front of dozens of guests, that I … me … I go over to the funeral home and fix the wig. Me. Not her … or the dozen other people there or the employees who had been paid to prepare her for viewing. Me. At that moment I wasn’t sad anymore, I was totally and completely pissed off … at my grandmother, at the funeral home guy (who has since been busted in one of those 48 Hours-To-Catch-A-Predator things) at God … at my Dad … just overwhelmingly angry. Like it was some kind of challenge … I stormed across the small town, into the funeral home, past family and friends, and right into the room where Mother Jones (as we’ve come to call her since then) was … well … housed.


I slammed the double doors and stood there, afraid to turn around. It felt as though there was no oxygen in my body … like I might float up off the floor if I let go of the knobs. I stood there for what seemed like an hour and then I finally turned around. From across the room, I couldn’t really tell that anything was wrong with the wig and I almost decided to leave. Something else took over though and I knew I had to check on the wig. The stupid, damn wig. The stupid, damn wig that it took forever to pick out. The stupid, damn wig that she hated to wear … because it itched. That stupid, damn wig was going to force me to go face-to-face with my mother … who was dead … something I knew in my soul I could not do, could not handle, and from which I would not recover. That wig.


I walked a little closer. And then closer. As I neared the side of the casket, I almost didn’t recognize her. My mother suffered incredible edema as a side effect of her treatments. The woman I was looking at looked like someone I had known years ago, not the woman I had just seen days before. As the lump of emotion and the sensation of vomiting entered my throat, my eyes turned from her face to her head … the wig. The wig was definitely on upside down. She would have made a good “Paul” in a Beatles reunion band. As I stood there, with tears running down my face, I started to smile a little. That little smile turned to a bit of a giggle and as “She loves you, yeah, yeah,yeah … she loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah” started to play in my head, I fell into a full, belly laugh. I laughed and laughed and laughed some more. I laughed until my father started beating on the door because everyone standing outside thought my hysterical laughter was hysterical crying. I assured him I was all right and went about the business of fixing the wig.


In case you don’t know … a dead human head weighs like 30 pounds. I swear to God it is so heavy. I tried to reach in from the side of the casket, but my big belly kept me from getting very close. I thought I would be able to spin the wig … but I couldn’t. (I’m not saying this as a fact … but I’m pretty sure that the wig was stapled on or something) That wig would not budge. At this point I was just on a mission. If I knew anything at that point, it was that my mom would have come back to life just to kill me had I let anyone see her with that hairstyle. I moved around to the end of the casket, behind her head … this gave me a better angle and more leverage, however, the wig would not move (maybe sewn on?). I took a deep breath, grabbed the wig, and twisted with all my strength … bad idea … not only did I jerk the wig all the way off … my elbow rammed into the casket lid so hard that it knocked it off the wall hook and it lid slammed down. Now, I’m standing there, wig in hand. My dad is outside banging on the door. I lift the lid of the casket to find my mother, totally bald and in disarray among little trinkets and pictures, and a rose that had been resting on the little shelf made in the top when the door was open. I quickly grabbed all the stuff and threw it back up on the little ledge and went to work trying to get the wig on. It was one of those moments when you forget you’re an adult and the sensation of “being in trouble” takes over your entire psyche.


I got that wig back on … the right way … and before anyone was able to make it into the room. As my father and the pervert funeral home guy opened the doors, I looked down one last time, to check the wig. This time, instead, my eyes traveled down to her face. Whether it was a result of my belly banging the casket or the door slamming down … or on the chance that it was real … she was smiling at me. She was giving me a smirk that only mothers give … and it said that she had orchestrated the whole thing … the ultimate mother-manipulation … for one last chance to spend time with me. She was saying to me that it was ok … that she wanted me to move forward … and it seemed that the thing standing between us at that moment … the thing that had made it practically impossible for me to “fix” things and had provided that beautiful moment … was my belly and that precious little baby girl … who in that second received every beautiful gift my mother had to give her.


Death divides people, but death’s legacy of feelings and raw emotion also unites us as human beings. I don’t know if everyone has as strange a story as I do, but I bet a lot of people have one. If we cannot be connected and intimate in our most human moments, then when can we … with friends, family, strangers … we all have the capacity to be one in an experience … be that an election, a team victory, or something more mandatory … in the loss of a loved one.


I’m glad I cried when Madelyn Dunham died. I know exactly how that feels in the deepest part of my soul. In real time, I am connected to Barack Obama and millions of other humans who are and have experienced the same essential thing ~ that thing that’s indicative of our human nature … there’s nothing “faux” about that and I can’t think of a better definition of intimacy.

Please Obama Girls! Take My Dog!

Who can resist Thanksgiving food? Not me! And, it is EVERYWHERE! On every magazine cover that comes to my sunflower-clad mailbox ... on every staged magazine in the damn Wal-Mart check out line. I finally gave in the other day ... I got out of line and headed to the other side of the store. I had to have turkey and deli turkey was not going to do. I wanted to slave over it, smell it for hours and hours, and culminate the beautiful sensory experience with my very favorite hot turkey sandwich loaded with stuffing, mashed potatoes, and cranberry sauce ... smothered in gravy. Can't you just smell it??? It's still a little early for the Thanksgiving "meal", but not too early for a small indulgence just to satisfy my holiday food addiction.
It was all coming together right on time ... the delicious smell of the turkey and the sage from the stuffing ... the warm bread ... it was truly heavenly. I got everything out and fixed my daughter a sandwich (before soccer practice) knowing that all of the yumminess would be gone before she returned home. About the same time, Dad got home with some groceries, so I scooted out to the garage to help him get the bags in. Are you sensing that something is about to go wrong?

Yes! Utter and complete disaster! It was our very own "A Christmas Story" moment. My very calm and laid back daughter walks out to the garage and asks, "Did you know Gracie has the turkey?" "WHAT????", I screamed. "I took it away from her", Kit says, "but there's just a little left." "WHAT????", I'm screaming as I run back inside. I enter the kitchen to find the small, gnawed up remains of my succulent, delicious, little turkey breast. I could have just cried! (((This is where you think back to A Christmas Story and hear the Dad shouting at the dog ... "you son-of-a- ....., I'm gonna ....." ))). At that moment, my dear, wonderful Gracie was in more danger with me than she could have ever been in had she been living with Michael Vick. AAAGGGGggghhhhHhH!!!!!!!

I'm not a quitter though. I got myself together in spite of the raucous laughter of my family who only found the greatest of humor in our Christmas Story story. Breathe. Breathe. With fury in my heart and that damn ultimate turkey sandwich controlling my mind, I trimmed off all the sides ... sadly enough, not because the dog had eaten and slobbered there, but just because there was dog hair all over it (~ that crossed the gross line)... I considered washing the whole thing off in the sink and just going for it, but decided against that ... since everyone was watching. When I finally finished "cleaning" what was left of the turkey, I had just enough to fit in the palm of my hand ... and I had to share it ... with Dad & Son #2. Fortunately, my daugher had left for soccer before she could eat hers, so the twins split it.
Bad dog, Gracie! Bad dog!!!! You are such a BAD DOG!!!!!
In case you're wondering, Gracie did not find any of it to be a very big deal ... not even one tiny bit, and she proved once and for all that it's true ... what they say about turkey ... it does make you need a nap.


Today, I refuse to fix anything that takes longer or is more trouble than PopTarts. Cereal and microwave popcorn for everyone! We may have to just eat out though ... the turkey dog farts are killing me.
Give me a call Obama girls ... free delivery! and just in time for Thanksgiving Dinner!
(((only kidding about giving Gracie away ~ even though this dog is in an enormous amount of trouble ... she is a precious and valuable member of this family ... unless she pulls that shit again ... that's a deal-breaker!)))

A Black President Is Like A Tornado In November

Today my daughter was called “baby killer” at her junior high school because she voted for Obama in the classroom election. Yesterday, she was told (by a student) that “CHANGE” stood for “Come Help A Nigger Get Elected”. A kindergartener got off the bus today crying and told the principal that she was sad because “Obama is going to kill all the babies”. The jr. high librarian was verbally assaulted by a parent for squelching a conversation in which a student told other students that, “people who voted for Obama were going to hell because Obama is the anti-christ”. Another student remarked that he and his father were going to get their guns and “go get Obama”.



I’ve cried. I’ve shot off angry, but civil emails to the principal. I’ve talked to friends. Now I write. I don’t even know what I’m writing about. Anger? Frustration? Racism? Meanness? Ignorance? Hate? Fear? All of the above?



I admit, this is extra-white Missouri and we live in a very red part of the state, but isn’t there some level of responsibility that accompanies being a parent? How does one go about teaching their child to hate and demean? What in us empowers racial superiority and begs it to be taught to children? When and where will there be a place that is safe for ideas and compassion and progress?



This town is melting down over the election of Barack Obama. The black Barack Obama. Muslim, anti-christ, baby-killing Barack Obama. And my young, intelligent, thoughtful daughter is under fire for echoing my political philosophy. She is taking a social “hit” for believing in what I believe in. Her identity is being torn down because she is open minded enough to have faith in the same man that I believe transcends the nightmarish environment in which we live. I tell her to be proud of her clear mind and intellectual choices and yet I sit here crying out of guilt for my role in her situation.

Last night, in bed, I cried with Oprah and Jesse Jackson. I cried with hundreds of thousands of Americans who could finally see the light at the end of the tunnell. I went to bed feeling like today was the day … the new day I’ve been waiting for. Today is a terrible day. Now, as I sit here watching the big red blobs push my way on the weather channel radar map, and see the tornado warnings pop up on the television, my mind wanders back to all those hideous emails about the “end of days”. A November tornado … oddly fitting with the storms brewing in my head and in my heart.

Dear 3% Of Previously Undecided Voters

Dear 3 Percent of Previously Undecided Voters,


I am writing to offer my sincere apologies on behalf of Barack Obama & the entire Democratic party for bombarding you with enough media to sway your vote and move you from “undecided” to “decided”. Since it is not entirely clear as to which candidate you have moved your vote, I will assume that 100 percent (of your 3 percent) has moved into the Obama camp. According to McCain, Palin & Fox News, the outrageous overspending and unimaginable ratio of Obama ads to McCain ads (7:1) is the primary reason that Barack Obama is leading John McCain in the battleground states. Clearly, your vote has nothing to do with your personal values, tradition, or issues, but simply lies in your ability to watch 30-second television ads and respond appropriately. Perhaps you also have a penchant for being hypnotized and/or binge-eating after taking Ambien.


Undecided voters have been getting a lot of bad press lately, but I want to assure you that I am solely on your side. I have seen your numbers decrease rapidly … practically 3 points over the last twelve months. Unbelievable! Barack Obama’s donation-addicted, blind-hope followers are obviously on a mission to change America, which may or may not, but probably does, include controlling your mind with Sony HD. When a population such as yours is decreasing so quickly, it is only appropriate for the government party in charge to respond with vigor to alleviate these oppressive measures being used to fill your low-information heads with so much nonsense and gooballdy-gook. Thank you to Shep Smith for pointing out this brazen injustice plaguing pro-American voters who have lost their remote controls.


As a public service, and in defense of your choice-making disability, I am urging the Obama campaign to pull all 30 second ads off the air as of tomorrow, November 4, at midnight. Until that time, I suggest you read a newspaper or pick up a book or maybe phone a relative … just be sure to get to the polls. If you find yourself undecided again on the way to your polling place, I have a few suggestions to help you make up your mind:


Count yard signs – vote for the candidate with the most

Ask the person in front of you who they are voting for - go with that

Try doing “eenie, meenie, miney, moe” with your ballot

Close your eyes, turn around three times, and point to a name

Vote blindfolded


Good luck Decided-used-to-be-Undecided America. I hope you can find your way out of your house tomorrow and execute your civic duty! God Bless the Real (Dumb) America!


With Love,

Mother

HOLY CRAP! I Hope I Didn't Just Join The Skinheads

In light of the recent news of the two Skinheads planning an assassination attempt on Barack Obama, I visited several Skinhead websites (anonymously, I think) … of course, I’m aware that curiosity killed the cat, but I couldn’t resist my intellectual itch and I’m not a big fan of cats. I’m pretty sure my itch came from the fact that I know nothing about Skinheads beyond the stereotype (which, for the most part, I have now learned, is pretty much accurate just incredibly underestimated). So, what did I learn on this journey?


I learned that Skinheads promote a sense of community and that the normalcy in the way the members approach the world at large is rather unsettling. It appears that the Skinheads love music, sports, and art (in the form of tattoos). They provide each other with tech support, ebay tips and a wide selection of recipes. The topics are harmless & generic; the content, sometimes much less so. The moderators warn against racist “rants” and have an entire section devoted to naughty Skinheads that have been banned from interacting with the “good” Skinheads?


I learned that being a Skinhead is not a hobby; it’s a lifestyle (but nothing like the Adkins diet) from the clothes you wear to the music you listen to … to your politics and your parenting style. It’s an all-encompassing, definition of self, not a checklist of violent acts and extroverted prejudice. I didn’t get that and, to be completely honest, I’m left feeling pretty naïve.


I learned that I just cannot or will not wrap my brain around how a person with compassion and understanding in their hearts for some can also be so full of generalized rage and disdain for others. I was searching for a reason, something other than ethnicity or religion and my conclusion is scarier than the stereotype … Skinheads don’t judge out of hate. They judge by a set of citizenship requirements that truly separate and glorify their specific ideals and values.

I learned that right now, they are judging Barack Obama for a piece of legislation called The Global Poverty Act, as much as he’s judged simply unfit to lead this country. The Skinheads believe that Obama’s (& Lugar) Global Poverty Act ((which was placed in the hands of Joe Biden and the Senate Foreign Relations Committee and is now on the Senate Legislative Calendar under general orders)) in addition to eradicating poverty, commits nations to banning "small arms and light weapons" and ratifying a series of treaties, including the International Criminal Court Treaty, the Kyoto Protocol (global warming treaty), the Convention on Biological Diversity, the Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Discrimination Against Women, and the Convention on the Rights of the Child. Who knew?

I have to say that I’ve learned a lot … a lot I wish I hadn't learned.

I Am Going Straight To Hell

As this election comes to a close, and the campaigns get ramped up like my kids after a breakfast of cotton candy and Snickers bars, I find myself needing a familiar remedy … two xanax and a margarita. Look, I like Obama as much as the next socialist, jungle fever, Muslim hugging, white, soccer mom, right-to-chooser with Marxist tendencies … but I swear to God, somebody from that campaign calls me every three hours. When I see the letters ‘d’, ‘e’, ‘m’ on the caller ID, I pray that it’s a robocall. “YES!!! I still support Obama ~ just like I did three hours ago, yesterday, and last week! Can’t somebody make a note of that? I promise not to change my mind, I have a ride to the polls, and yes, I will pick up an elderly neighbor on my way! STOP CALLING ME OR I WILL VOTE FOR MCCAIN JUST TO SPITE YOU!!!!!” (enter: xanax & margarita.)


I’ve had enough now and so I’ve decided to intervene … to shut down this process early. How do I plan to do that??? I bet you’re asking yourself that very question … right? This is how: I have a secret weapon hidden away under my bed … a secret weapon that is so powerful … so magical … it can bring enemies together, realign the history of the universe, and create a savior so powerful that millions will denounce logic and follow blindly. Sounds AWESOME, doesn’t it?


Are you wondering how I acquired such awesome power? Quite simply, it was a gift … a birthday gift … from someone I adore … a gifted debater, a red-white-and-blue republican, and a born again evangelical. The gift, which was acquired through an auction (fundraiser), was the classic “gag” gift … and I have to admit that I did throw up in my mouth a little when I realized what I had received … Jerry Falwell’s shoes … his size 11 and ½, black, Florsheim shoes.


These are the shoes he wore every day in 2005: when The Preacher un-broke up with The Maverick … just in time to afford McCain some evangelical love before his big re-run for president; that he gleefully donated, to his Creation Museum (which I think Sarah Palin must have visited or read about since she’s down with man riding dinosaurs to temple), which my misguided friend, who apparently has entirely too much money & time on his hands paid $208.39 for; and these are the shoes Dr. Falwell was wearing in 2005 when he coroneted Sean Hannity, savior of the republican party by giving him an honorary degree (and the only one he has) from Liberty University.


It’s like wearing Superman’s cape or Wonder Woman’s bracelets … just not as cool, but obviously more powerful and I’m going to exploit that power … The shoes giveth and now the shoes will taketh away … (insert: wicked, evil laughter!)



So tonight, under the cloak of darkness, I am going to commit an act so unimaginable, a sacrilege so heinous that my teenage daughter will have to join the witness protection program and Sean Hannity may, once and for all, go completely stark-raving mad. Tonight I will seal the deal for Obama with God … just imagine me, standing inside a giant sidewalk chalk ‘O’ in the middle of my driveway, chanting, “YES! We Can; Yes! We Can” … wearing nothing but Jerry Falwell’s shoes and a smile.

Sarah Palin: If It Sounds Too Good To Be True

SARAH PALIN'S FIRST POLICY SPEECH ~ SPECIAL EDUCATION
Sarah Palin just promised parents of special needs children that there would be a law allowing parents school choice, public or private, for their children. REALLY??? Having worked in the field of special education for more than a decade as a teacher and as a private-practice advocate, I can assure you that she has NO IDEA what she is talking about. She may have a special needs child, but she has never written an IEP or attempted to keep up with the laws, paperwork, and bureaucratic red tape. I would bet my dwindling 401K that there are school board officials all over the United States running out to get some Obama yard signs right now. School budgets already have more stretch marks than I do ~ not pretty!!!!!
Palin just asserted that she is going to pay for this school choice initiative with earmark money. It's been determined that about 18 million dollars is spent on earmarks each year ~ keep in mind that all of those earmarks aren't frivilous ~ most of it is spent on infrastructure (which is good thing). Even if the whole 18 million was to be pushed into special education, that wouldn't put a dent into a school choice plan for special needs children.
She's also stated that all 50 states would have to play a role in this initiative. HELLLLOOOO!!!! The school's have no extra money to put into a billion dollar school choice plan for special needs kids because they are spending about half of their budgets on required and useless testing for No Child Left Behind.
4-6 out of every 1,000 children in the United States are diagnosed with an autism spectrum disorder. Private school's that specialize in treating children with autism cost $40,000 - $60,000 dollars per year. Let's say there are 10,000 students and children diagnosed that could attend an autism school - that's $400,000,000 right off the bat. It goes without saying that there aren't enough of those schools in existence that could even handle those population numbers. That's one disorder. Under IDEA, disability includes: mental retardation, hearing impariments (including deafness), speech or language impairments, visual impairments (including blindness), serious emotional disturbance, orthopedic impairments, autism, traumatic brain injury, other health impairments (like ADHD) and specific learning disabilities (like dyslexia). Are you doing the math?????
It's also good to know that being diagnosed with a disorder does NOT mean eligibility for special education and related services and does NOT mean that your child has the right to an Individual Education Plan under the Individuals with Disabilities Education Act. What your child is elibigle for is a FREE AND APPROPRIATE education ... not the BEST education - so thanks to that "loophole", you can cut whatever number of special needs kids that you believe exists in half.
Listen up - I think her plans are INCREDIBLE and truly the RIGHT thing for our government to do ... but that's the whole problem with that plan ... the government. The National Education Association reports that the federal government is meeting about 20% of its 40% commitment - so they were short about 10 billion dollars to begin with and now McCain/Palin promises additional funding. Remember that earmark money? 100% of it might cover what is already promised and not provided. I hate to be a party pooper but take a minute to remember that the government already gave a trillion of our tax dollars to the treasury and we are billion of dollars in debt to China and our wars cost about 10 billion per month.
I know I sould a little frantic ... but this is a big one to me. Pandering to the families of special needs individuals is the lowest and the most dispicable thing I've seen yet in this election ~ and I think we've all seen a lot! I think having a real advocate in the White House would be awesome and I believe that Sarah Palin has the absolute best intentions, but ... as Joe The Plumber might say, "It ain't gonna happen."