MO's Political Royalty Descend on Kit Bond's Senate Seat

If you’re looking for political drama, may I suggest the 2010 Missouri Senate Race to replace retiring senior senator, Kit Bond.

The Players:

Sarah Steelman - Missouri State Treasurer (R) - recently lost the republican primary for Governor of Missouri to Kenny Hulshof (R), who went on to run against Jay Nixon (D). Nixon won the election to replace Matt Blunt (R), son of Representative Roy Blunt (R). Her husband is David Steelman, republican leader in the Missouri House and his father is Dorman Steelman, former chairman of the Missouri Republican Party. Steelman was highly endorsed by talking head and blowhard, Glen Beck (pre-FOX) for standing out against her own party. This video is quite good, in spite of the host.

Robin Carnahan – Missouri Secreatary of State (D) – daughter of Mel Carnahan (2 term Governor of Missouri), who ran for Senate against John Ashcroft in 2000. He died in a tragic plane crash with his son just weeks before the election. For the first time in Senate history, Carnahan won the seat after his death. His wife, Jean Carnahan, was appointed to his seat and served until 2002 when she was defeated in a special election by Jim Talent (who was recently replaced by Claire McCaskill). In recent news, Carnahan just went after investment advisors who give ill advice to senior citizens and has returned with reimbursement orders and substantial fines for offenders. http://www.bizjournals.com/stlouis/stories/2009/02/16/daily35.html?ana=from_rss

Roy Blunt – Missouri Congressman (R); Re-elected 6 times since 1996. Roy is the son of Leroy Blunt, former Missouri State Representative and the man (most) sick of being John Boehner’s bitch after losing out to him for the position of House Majority Leader in 2006 after replacing DeLay as interim. Blunt has made unsuccessful runs at both Governor and Lt. Governor in the state of Missouri and now serves as Minority Whip and grumbling mouthpiece for the Republicans, but has (recently) been quite absent from their televised outrage.
You can twitter Roy at https://twitter.com/RoyBlunt (That is irrelevant, but I found it hilarious!!! Who wants to twitter with Roy Blunt??? I don't need to twitter him because I can visit his satellite office anytime I want ~ it's in the mall right up from TJ Maxx ... )

* There was recently a rumor that Matt Blunt had planned to run for Bond's seat, but that unresolved personal property tax issues raised during McCaskill's candidacy, made that impossible.

In recent elections, Missouri has sent Claire McCaskill (D) to the Senate and Jay Nixon (D) to the Governor’s Mansion. During the presidential election, Missouri was the very last state to confirm its votes. Missouri’s 11 electoral votes eventually went to John McCain who received 49.43% of the votes, while Barack Obama received 49.29% of the votes – a very, very tight race by any standards.

Biden & Nixon in Springfield, MO ~ Oct. 2008

Losing Blunt in the House is not big news to Democrats and it won’t make or break their majority, however, the election of Robin Carnahan to Kit Bond’s Senate seat is a definite advantage.

All three candidates are very well connected and well funded. This promises to play out like a political cage match … stay tuned.

Chuck E. Cheese: Caesar's Palace for Kids

Yesterday, we hosted our very first Chuck E. Cheese Birthday Party. It will go down in the birthday history book as a success, everyone had a nice time and was well behaved, but I was left with a bad feeling in my gut …

Immediately, I realized why they call the mascot, Chuck. It’s in honor of the hundreds of tokens my kids “chucked” into their machines. On top of the 20 tokens included in the “Emperor’s” Package of birthday parties, the dozen little risk-takers managed to go through two hundred more. Actual cost of 200 extra tokens - $30.00 **with coupon.

The image of my young son depositing coins like a madman and chewing on a Twizzler was tantamount to watching my Mother, pulling slots and smoking a cigarette on a trip to Atlantic City. They both had the same wild-eyed look … only his payout would be tickets while hers would be a comp’d weekend, airfare included, and a plastic bucket full of shiny, new quarters.

The cherry coke flowed like whiskey sours and the tokens disappeared like dollar bills at a strip club. Tickets were bulging out of pockets and hanging around their necks as they ran from machine to machine, getting another digital-beeping-fix. Skee balls roared and tears were shed as the machine’s ticket-spewing mechanism jammed time after time. Unlike a real pit boss, the arcade attendant was quick to shove the scrunched and torn tickets removed from the machines into the greedy and sticky little hands of his eager clientele.

I started to wonder about the lesson of Chuck E. Cheese … what it’s teaching our babies, but there wasn’t much time … it was time for the “show”. Not Celine or Barry … just more Chuckie. Accompanied by our “hostess”, they sang half a dozen off-key songs. (I wondered if this was included in the package or if it was an add-on???) They kids were spinning and clapping … I was just waiting for one of the girls to rip off her undershirt and throw it at Chuckie with the understanding that he would inhale it deeply and shove it down his pants a la Tom Jones. Thank God, that didn’t happen.

After the gifts were opened and the cake was eaten, it was finally time to get the hell out of there and I was thrilled, until I was handed the bill. I folded it into a tight little square and sent the Hubs to pay at the register awaiting the scream of, “Somebody Call 911”. He managed to avoid a stroke, but I heard him on the phone as he walked back over to our party booth. I believe the exact quote goes something like this, “I just got screwed by Chuck E. Cheese and I didn’t even get kissed.”

We cashed in our chips … er, tickets, and proceeded to pick out tiny, plastic treasures destined to break or be lost before exiting the establishment. As they checked our fluorescent numbered hands, my son asked, “Can we come back tomorrow?”

I guess what they said in The Color of Money applies, “tickets won are twice as sweet as tickets earned” … umm, money … I mean money won.

Mary Martha Landsberger Strikes Again!

I mentioned recently that I was working on a hypothetical cookbook titled “Hypothetical Cookbook”. I’m sure I told you that this project is temporarily stalled and taking up an entire walk-in closet as I pursue other interests like a magpie in jewelry store.

Last night, I had another breakthrough … a new concept that will surely rock the foundation of crafting forever!

Let me warn you, this idea is incredible and so cutting edge that Martha & Mary will have no choice but to offer me ostentatious credits in their glossy magazines and pay me outrageous fees for my consulting services. Far better than that unadulterated hero-worship will be the outcry of gratitude from parents all over America and beyond.

They will chant my name at the kitchen table, card table, and coffee table … “Annie, Annie, Annie”! Vince, the ShamWOW dude will sell my wares on late night television and every mother, father, and child will, indeed, be saying, “WOW!” every time.

So without further ado, please let me introduce my newest creation:

The All-In-One, Total & Complete, Extra Large, NASA approved, Congressional Medal of Awesomeness winner ~ SOCIAL STUDIES PROJECT IN A BOX!!!

As I sat there, painstakingly applying glitter to the scales of justice, after two trips to the Hobby Lobby, it dawned on me that there had to be a better way. ~ Ann, Mother of 5, MO

Original offerings will include:

The Roman Republic: Complete with pre-pasted, glittery, golden scales of justice, a hand-carved, floral foam Pantheon, and a dozen, acid and lignin free, cotton bond scrolls in a plastic pot labeled “The Twelve Tables”

Life in Charles Dickens’ England: Comes with cardboard, pop-up, factory setting, complete with tuna can smokestacks and tragically injured doll holding a sign that says “For sale: baby shoes, never worn”. You will also receive, as a bonus, a copy of “The Great Stink … Corruption and Murder Beneath the Victorian Streets of London”, by Clare Clark.

The American Presidency: This is a double kit for families Republican or Democrat. Contains heavy-duty card stock masks of each president's likeness that tie in the back with 2-inch red, white, and blue grosgrain ribbon. Also included is a full script of either prolific quotes or scandalous gaffes. Oral reports will never be the same. (May also be used as Halloween costume or fun, party game.)

Suggestions for future kits should be made in the comments section below.

You’re Welcome, America.

"We Need To Talk"

My dissatisfaction with you has begun to take on proportions I could have never imagined.

You roll out of bed like the world owes you something for simply … waking. Please, put on your satin robe and realize that it does not. In fact, it’s you that owes the world something, you owe me something, and perhaps it’s time you figured out a productive form of recompense that doesn’t include disappearing into the damask with your face and your mind lost in someone else’s pages. Perhaps you could put a little heart into it … give it the old college try, click your heels together, flap your wings, I-think-I-can, I-think-I-can … or just pretend, I’ll settle for that, for now.

In spite of you, everyone gets out of here, morning after morning, on time, feeling loved, adored. You realize that that is what they deserve, but it’s no thanks to you. Too much, you take their love for granted, thinking it will always be there like the deepness of the Grand Canyon or the colors of the sunrise. Trust me when I say that it will not. They are growing and changing as fast as shadows and clouds and soon they’ll too big and too far away to touch, like kites on a strong wind, and that will be a very sad day for you … and for them. Sunrise will fade to sunset and you’ll have only whispers and regrets.

Regret is funny that way, you know, its long-term and short-term realities. I wonder how many regrets you accumulate on any one, given day. Is it possible to regret the mundane … heaps of laundry, the remnants of a good meal, the pillows askew? Do you even notice and if you do, do you even care? Oscar Wilde may have said, “Man is made for something better than disturbing dirt”, but I like to believe he wouldn’t have disapproved of pooling the taffeta just-so from time to time.

Is this ego perhaps, teetering at the pinnacle of something far worse? This is your home and the life you created and nurtured and every day we swim together in the inspired, blue-green waters of the gulf, sunbeams pouring in on us from every direction. We do this together, or we don’t do it at all and I need you.

The time for childish things has passed, you must clean up your toys and tidy your ruffles, make yourself back into yourself without anger or frustration or tears. Just fix it. Fix it now. Find your gratitude and your sensibility. Unfold your arms, positioned for burial, and let them fall freely and fully alive by your sides. Place your hands, so sweetly, over your heart and find yourself in your own rhythm. Remember who you are. Remember who you are.

And so, without further row, this little tête-à-tête must be put to bed. I’m setting this mirror down and I’m walking back out into the sunlight. Don’t follow me or do, but if you choose to, do it with all your heart. Nothing less is acceptable.

OMG!!! The BEST Valentine EVAH!!!

::Sigh ... Dreams do come true::

... I don't think the name is supposed to look like that ... is this a trick??? ... Who cares!!!

A Valentine's Striptease

Ooh la la

10 Signs That You're Watching Too Much Television

You know who Joshua and Tanyalee are
You can sing these words: Price Line Negotiator
You are a fan of Vince The ShamWOW! Dude on Facebook
You know when SharkWeek is
You know the 800 number for QVC by heart
You are dedicated to finding instances of irony between the crawl and the images on CNN
You’ve watched Bromance and/or Momma’s Boys more than once
You know which hotels Jim Cantore stays at when he’s on east coast hurricane duty
You call characters by the names of other characters they’ve played on other shows
You've considered ordering something from the Video Professor

That's My Dad

The night they put you in the ambulance, I pretended not to be scared. I had almost convinced myself that everything was going to be fine, that you were just overheated and dehydrated, but when they veered off the road, halfway there, dust almost consuming you, that became impossible. I sat there, under that railroad trestle on the side of 501 watching them work on you. The lights were on inside and I could see them pounding on your chest, a frenzy of arms and heads trying to perform a miracle in a tin can. I could see Mom trying to look back from the front seat, reaching to touch you. Behind you, there in the car alone, I prayed to God to save you, I offered everything I had to him in exchange for you that night, my Daddy.

I sat there thinking about you and me. When I was born, you were an Air Force man, by choice, not by lottery. You were on duty the night I was born in the Vandenberg base hospital and you always told me that the nurse turned to you and said, “You’ve got yourself a Rose Bowl Queen”. I may not have achieved that royal status, but you did make me a “Sweet Briar Girl”, one of many precious gifts I could never repay. Knowledge … understanding was the thing with you. I thought about you stretched out on the floor, your favorite place, reading The Invisible Man. I thought about your fascination with Mark Twain and Ernest Hemmingway. You probably thought I never noticed what you were reading, but I did. I always did.

When the lights went off inside and they pulled slowly back onto the highway, I felt so cold inside, icy and brittle. I knew that I would shatter into a million pieces if I blinked, if my eyelashes so much as grazed each other, so I refused. I refused to allow one tear to slide past those black iron gates drawn to protect me, to save my heart. We traveled exactly 13.3 miles to the back of the hospital, the emergency entrance, without breaking the speed limit once. No sirens announced our arrival. I was fixed, steady, and prepared to take charge, knowing I was going to have to be the strong one. I let the window down and the spring breeze lifted my hair.

Involuntarily, my hand went to the radio, pushing awkwardly through the presets. Maybe I was looking for a sign from you; music had always been our thing. I fast-forwarded through your soundtrack in my mind: The Atlanta Rhythm Section, B.B. King, Al Green, Earth Wind and Fire. You loved blues and funk but enjoyed everything else as well … hell, I thought James Taylor was black until I was twelve or so. You never minded going my way though … together we had seen Rick Springfield, Bon Jovi, and so many others. I laughed a little thinking of you with tissues stuck in your ears that time you took us to see Quiet Riot. I quickly came back to the present when I saw Mom coming towards the back of the ambulance. We didn’t know that she had cancer that night and we didn’t know that she would die just a little more than a year later, but we knew she was sick, even though both of you refused to admit it.

The doors opened and I pushed my back against the seat, my arms stiff, pushing the steering wheel away like the pain I didn’t want to feel. I looked down, not wanting to see them pull you out of the ambulance, teeth clenched and trying to catch my breath. It was at that very moment that I thought I heard your voice. That voice that could be loving, welcoming, stern, or flat-out pissed off ... a man of emotion. "Don't you people have a home?" ... you'd scream from your bedroom door when we got too rowdy with our friends late at night. Or standing by the old rotary phone with your eyes closed, still half asleep, shouting orders and pointing at the piano. Without thought, my head jerked up and there you were … propped up on the gurney … oxygen mask pulled up telling everyone what to do.

“That’s my Dad”, I thought.

That night was a whirlwind of doctors and surgery, of so many friends that the hospital opened a hospitality room just for us. I wonder sometimes if you could have ever expected all those kids to be there, praying and hugging and loving each other through your terrifying ordeal. You were more than father to Brian & me … you were a father to all of them … to each one who ever needed a kind word or some sound advice. You always gave your heart to anyone who needed it, and now it was just worn out. Do you remember what you said when they wheeled you out of your surgery doped up on morphine and resurrected twice? You looked right at your son-in-law and said, “Happy Birthday, Son.”

“That’s my Dad”, I said.

That was more than a decade ago and you’re still going strong. Since then you’ve become a grandfather 5 times, seen your son return from duty overseas and discover love and his own family, and find us another mother ~ an amazing woman who loves you unconditionally and keeps you in line. You are healthy and happy and busy LIVING in your own cat-like fashion and teaching us how to live, not just to be. Keep in mind that you’ve used up several of your lives, and try to keep your sailor habit in check.

Though you’re a man of few words, the only one I know who can write an entire email on the ‘subject’ line, I know exactly where we stand, exactly who you are, but even now I’m still learning, too. I asked you last week where you were “the day the music died” and this was your reply: “Feb 3, 1959 I spent 8 hours of that day in the 7th grade at Gladys Elementary School with Vesta Walker, my teacher. That is the first woman I ever saw put a pencil under her middle finger and over the others, and squeeze until the pencil broke when she got upset. After my daily school trip, the rest of my day comprised of doing chores, studying school assignments, having dinner and sleeping. I knew very little about the music dying at that time. My Mom would watch American Bandstand and Dick Clark each afternoon so we knew a little about rock and roll. I guess it took a few more years in life to understand who Buddy Holly, Richie Valens and the Big Bopper were and the influence that had on the music world. So Hello Baby, this is the Daddy Bopper speaking. Have a great day. Love you.” Exactly fifty years later, you have a granddaughter, my daughter, sitting in the exact same grade, as you were that day. Ain’t life something?



Happy Birthday Daddy.
I love you.

Creative Juice and Vodka

I find being a woman absolutely exhausting. Of course, as a female, I’m faced with the obvious, myriad of stereotypical, gender-specific responsibilities such as cleaning, cooking, and raising children, and I’m good enough at all that, but then there’s also the being a woman part.

Let me be clear, I’m not talking about my girl parts … I’m talking about my brain parts ~ the parts that require mental, physical, and emotional upkeep and implementation. This requires far more attention and intention than I am usually willing to commit.

On a scale of one to ten, with one being ~ “capable of spending twelve hours on the couch watching an entire season of America’s Next Top Model”, and ten being ~ “totally capable of a creative-bat-shit-flip-out”, I’m anywhere from one to ten at any given point of any given day. I spend more time running up and down that scale than Rocky at the Philadelphia Museum of Art, though I find, more and more, that I’m happy resting at about a two and just thinking about what I would be doing at about a nine. I’m becoming convinced that my thinking parts are going to be my undoing.

As soon as my eyes open, I start thinking and planning my day. First I plan to jump right into the shower, do my hair, and apply a thick coat of beautification. Then I’ll get the kids up and ready for school … we call this The Nightmare Before Breakfast. Some of them are up before me and some of them require interrogation lights and the scream of a coach’s whistle. I did learn not to rip the blankets off the bed while my oldest son is still asleep in the morning though … that experience sent me promptly to the kitchen to hit my orange juice with a couple shots of Stoli … let’s just say I learned that lesson the hard way.

So, I feed ‘em, dress ‘em, and send ‘em on their way. Then I clean up their mess. Then what? By the way, I still have on my pajamas … I have not showered, fixed my hair, or put on a heavy coat of beauty. Maybe I should do that … but nooooooooooooooo, not me. My inner butterfly takes over and I flutter from this to that, read a few blogs, throw in some laundry, start emptying the dishwasher, ponder my existence beyond the perimeter of my property. Get an idea, talk on the phone, take a walk around the block, put out the dog … I might even think about writing something. I could work on the projects I’ve already started, but they are wrought with issues I don’t care to face before noon.

First of all, there are the problems I’m facing with my hypothetical cookbook (working title: Hypothetical Cookbook). Currently, it consists of five Foodie Tuesday blog posts and an index card recipe for brownies that I picked up at a cookie swap, but have never made. The concept is cutting edge … it’s a pre-made scrapbook/cookbook that makes Martha Stewart look like a check out girl at the Hobby Lobby. There are some problems with the cost though … according to my receipt collection from various trips to the craft store, each cookbook that will take roughly 6 weeks to make will cost about seven hundred dollars each. This cost analysis is extremely troubling to my primary investor/husband. He might come around though, after I finish the first one and he sees for himself how spectacular it is.

Then there’s the problem of completing my historical fiction screenplay, Girlz Nite Out!!!. It’s loosely based on the cultural and political contributions of Margaret Thatcher and Golda Meir. Right now, I’m working on the part where the girls are on the run from a federal agent (Ronald Reagan) after a night of too many margaritas and something of a crime spree. They pick up a sexy hitchhiker along the way, which gets Golda very generous with the flirting. To that the stranger says, “I’m married and I’m a preacher. Do you want to give me a ride or get in my pants?” Then Golda says, “You’re a preacher? Really? Well, slap my ass and call me sunshine! Hit it, Iron Lady!” … then Margaret puts the pedal to the metal and they disappear into a cloud of dust, swallowed up by the Texas plains. I think I know how it’s going to end, but I still have to work out some of the technical details.

If only I could buy an over-the-counter, creative control supplement, perhaps I could produce something worthy of all the time I spend thinking of things I might or might not create.

Damn, I need to cut this short … I absolutely have to go take a shower … after I make these brownies ... and find the screwdriver.

Rotten Eggs and Ham

That Tim, That Tom
That Tim, That Tom
I do not like
that Tim, that Tom

I do not like them
Now or later
I think I heard
They’re tax evaders

I do not like them
Up or down
They make Obama
Look like a clown

I do not like them
Bud, nor root
They’re revving up
Both Karl and Newt

Go home, Tim
Go home, Tom
Before you are
The death of Rahm.

Ohhh ... Rafa

She shimmers in unmatched
sunlight … the obsession of men.
Between oceans, two arise, opponents
with purpose, one to be the victor, the other
misplaced in the rival encounter. The blood, and
sweat, the tears building, their passionate grunts, groans
illustrating their desire to possess her, to be known as hers.
One has had her. The thinker. The unruffled one … flawless under
pressure, he has taken her before … with authority. The other
lives on possibility … on confidence and with time, on the
beauty of his youth. She is cold and coveted. Soulless
and without choice in the matter, another jewel
for his crown, a notch in his belt. They will
fight to the death for her, countries at war,
love surely recorded by the history
books. Voyeurs delight.