Friday, November 30, 2007

Over a barrel

“If I asked you to help me move a barrel out of my bedroom, what would you say?” asks our friend Steve.

“What took you so long?” says Jim with a smirk.

Of course this elicits a smack from Judy, Steve’s fiancé.

We were talking about the Stacey Peterson case over dinner last night. Even though it’s a Chicago story, I’m sure you’ve heard of it: Stacey is missing and Drew, her fucknut cop of a husband, has been all over the national media.

The latest? Drew’s semi-retarded cousin helped him move a ‘warm to the touch’ barrel out of the couple’s bedroom the day Stacey disappeared. This genius supposedly said the barrel weighed about 120 lbs.
“What’s in the barrel, Drew?”

Wouldn’t that be the first question to ask, if you’re not semi-retarded?
Jim’s second answer: “I’ll help move yours if you help move mine.”

That response elicited the requisite smack from me.

But it also got me thinking.

While the divorce rate has dropped to around 38% in the U.S., that's still pretty high.

I’m guessing there are a good number of husbands (the non-murderous fucknut types) who, if their spouse suddenly disappeared, would be sad but also secretly relieved.

“You mean she’s gone? Really? Hot damn, think of the money I’ll save!”
Maybe Drew Peterson didn’t do it.


If you’re a normal person and your spouse has been missing for weeks, you’re distraught and frantic – not only for yourself, but for your two small children who are confused and desperately missing their mom.

If you somehow find the strength to speak with the media, it’s to plead with everyone including God for information about the case.

You’re not sitting calmly next to Matt Lauer telling the world that your wife probably ran off with another man.
I am listening to: Split Enz – I Got You
I am reading: West of Kabul, East of New York by Tamim Ansary
And I am: Staying away from barrels

Thursday, November 29, 2007


So I’m on the 8:06 train, which left at 8:09 because of ‘police activity’ at the Aurora train station. Not that said police activity had an impact on the train schedule – the conductors held up the train in an attempt to see something exciting.

How do I know this?

Because I watched them watching the train station, waiting for cops to emerge with a suspect or perp or skell or whatever the TV crime shows are calling them these days.
Where ya been, Hed?

Pouting, mostly. Although I did have the flu on Monday and Tuesday which only made matters worse.

Pouting? Yes, pouting.

That’s the best way to describe it. Although today is better.

You mean, pouting, as in ‘I’m a lazy spoiled brat’ pouting?

Eric Clapton. Eric Clapton is why I’m pouting.

A good friend recommended his autobiography and I read it over the weekend.

It’s not a great book.

Mostly because Eric Clapton is not a writer. He’s a musician.

An average musician who wrote a below average book about his way below average life.

Seriously, his autobiography reads like the longest liner note in the history of modern music.
Here’s the Mad Libs version of Clapton’s book:

Then I met [famous musician] and we did [drug] and got piss-drunk while playing [cool concert venue] to [huge number] adoring yet eternally disappointed fans and then did [another drug] and then I broke up the band again because [egomaniacal bullshit reason].

Oh, and I stalked and stole George Harrison’s wife and then he died. Oh, and I had a son with a woman I barely knew and then he died.

The end.
I threw the book down after losing count on how many accidents he had driving one of his many Ferraris (and endangering who knows how many lives) and all he had to say on it was: “I keep thinking about how I could’ve seriously hurt myself.”

No word or concern for anyone else, just really glad he didn’t hurt himself.
So I’ve obviously never been much of a Clapton fan.

After reading the book, though, I diligently downloaded the best of his stuff from iTunes: Bell Bottom Blues (Derek & The Dominos), Layla (both versions), After Midnight, Cocaine, Lay Down Sally, oh, and his two weepy forgettable hits (You Look Wonderful in Heaven).

Layla and She’s Waiting are songs from my childhood. I remember liking She’s Waiting a bit but being extremely irritated at Detroit's 98.7 WLLZ for playing Layla over and over and over again. There’s only so much screamin’ Layla you can take. Although the unplugged version is seriously better.

Clapton's biggest problem - and it's evident throughout the book - is that he thought way too highly of himself. He wanted to be a blues musician but he always ended up just a pop star.

And pretty much all of his hits are pop songs – not classics.

Okay, maybe…wait...nope. Not one classically good song.
But Hedy!

Eric is Derek! Slowhand! Clapton is God! He’s done some great things. He’s been sober for 20 years. And that Crossroads clinic in Antigua. What about that?

Let’s just say it’s a good start. Eric Clapton is gonna have to live another 200 years to undo all the seriously bad karma he racked up in his early years.

Maybe if he didn’t congratulate himself for doing all that stuff in his book. Maybe if he had apologized for leaving so many hurt, damaged and dead people in his wake.

Maybe if his book didn’t read like so much ego-stroking crap, then Slowhand would deserve a little slack.
So why all the pouting, Hed?

Because if an average pop star can write a below average book about his way below average life, what the fuck am I, the veritable Queen of Average, waiting for?
I am listening to: Eric Clapton – She’s Waiting
I am reading: West of Kabul, East of New York by Tamim Ansary
And I am: Ya know, waiting

Thursday, November 22, 2007


Everything is done. I'm on the couch. Gromit's next to me -- sprawled in the sun streaming through the patio doors. We're both watching Jim at the grill: Charcoal, a dash of lighter fluid, then WOOSH. Fire for the turkey.

It's cold out. Much colder than last year. There'll be a bonfire for when friends and neighbors drop by in the early afternoon before dashing off to family dinners. Later, they'll return for games, movies and further gastrointestinal discomfort brought on by the requisite "Round 2" of turkey, stuffing, etc.

It was a good year; thanks so much for being here.

Blessings to you and your family on this lovely Thanksgiving day.
I am listening to: Parade sounds from the other room
I am reading: The Wonderful Flight to the Mushroom Planet by Eleanor Cameron
And I am: Blessed

Wednesday, November 21, 2007

An honest life

So I’m on the plane to Vegas last Wednesday reading an article in Wired magazine about prioritizing tasks to become more efficient with the ultimate goal of having nothing on your mind.

It’s all very new-age Zen let’s wax each other’s auras stuff and I’m thisclose to bailing when this little tidbit about Ben Franklin catches me: “[He] first identified his governing values, then he made a concerted effort to live his life, day in, day out, according to these values.”

Before you could say ‘nice bifocals it’s a shame about your teeth’ this thought popped into my head: Lead an honest life.

Lead an honest life.

It felt profound. It felt like being re-connected to the Universe.

And it wasn’t the sudden realization that leading an honest life is what I want to do, but that it’s what I’ve been trying to do as far back as I can remember.
C’mon, Hedy. When was the last time you lied? Be honest.

Sunday. Checking out at Mandalay Bay. The woman behind the counter is reviewing the room charges.

“Did you have Pringles?”


“Two cans?”



GODDAMMIT. Why the hell did I just lie about that second can of Pringles? She’s a nice lady, doing her job. What the fuck is the matter with me? It certainly wasn’t the $5 price tag – my willingness to pay any price in snack-related crises is legendary. And what sort of Karmic retribution does the Universe dole out for lying about potato chips?
Terrible. Why did I lie about the second can?

Because I’m feeling really really fat lately and admitting it to a stranger was like shouting “YES, I AM A PATHETIC PIG, RENDERED POWERLESS BY PRE-FORMED POTATO PULP CHIPS!” to the entire lobby.

Odd. Somehow it feels better having told you just now.
I know what you’re thinking.

Jesus, Hedy. If you’re willing to lie about Pringles, what else are you keeping from us?


Tell me you haven’t lied about something equally silly and benign in the past week. If you say you haven't, you're lying.
“Doesn’t it bother her?” asks my good friend Spike via IM a while back.


“Your Mom. When you write things like ‘party hard and f*ck harder’?”

Sure it does. She’s a Mom. She worries.

But for this blog, my one guiding principal is to always tell the truth no matter how ugly or silly or demented it is. To not worry about offending anyone, but to write what I think. And hell, what's the point in writing if you're not 100% honest all the time?

I want my people to know me for what I am, not for what they’d like me to be.

Mom understands that more than anyone.
I know what you’re thinking, part two.


Well, a) they were the small, hotel size half-cans. And b) When you're working a trade show you don't get much opportunity for regular meals. And c) Shaddap.
Here’s a good question: When do you find yourself in situations where you feel you have to be dishonest?

For me (aside from the occasional snack food slip-up) it’s always always always to avoid hurting someone’s feelings.

And not in the “Does this dress make my ass look like a gas can?” sense, because friends will always tell you the truth when it comes to clothing choices.

I lie when I'm in those uncomfortable, surreal situations where someone else isn't being honest about themselves or whatever and they've asked you to join them in their version of the world.

It sucks.

I did it to that woman behind the counter at the hotel and she knew it.
So why all the honesty talk here?

Because someone I don't know well has put me in a situation where it would be best to lie.

I don’t want to.

I want to tell this person that her request is not only unreasonable, it is quite ridiculous. But I can’t.

And it bothers me.

So you can lie about potato chips to a stranger to protect yourself from embarrassment, but you can’t lie to a family member to protect her feelings? What’s that all about?

To be perfectly honest, I don’t want to lie to this person because I am frustrated for being put in this situation by someone with limited social skills. Telling the truth in this case would make her feel worse while making me feel better.

But the karmic fallout from making her feel bad will be greater than if I just suck it up and lie.

This leading an honest life shit sure sucks sometimes. I guess it's a good thing I'm not very good at it.
I am listening to: The man next to me on the train horking snot
I am reading: Trade show lead spreadsheet
And I am: A liar

Tuesday, November 20, 2007

Honesty Part I

“Did I meet you yesterday while you were setting up your booth?” asks the man standing next to me at the hotel business center.

“Yes, that was me,” I say.

WOW! You REALLY clean up nice,” he says. “I mean your hair looks GREAT and everything. I don’t mean to offend you but you just look SO MUCH BETTER today.”

Wanted to say: “Hmm, that’s funny. Because you look just the same as yesterday, you fat, follically-challenged little fart-knocker.”

Said: “Thanks.”
Of course I looked better.

I wasn’t a sorry little sack of smelly sweat from lugging booth shit for a trade show all morning.

And I wasn’t offended by what he said so much – because it was true, remember?

I was offended by the fact that the officious little fart-knocker stood smack-dab in the center of our booth space supervising my set-up without once offering to lift a finger for 40 minutes.

There’s honesty. And then there’s being a complete ass-hat.

More re: honesty tomorrow.
I am listening to: Modest Mouse – Missed the Boat
I am reading: Wired magazine
And I am: Trying

Monday, November 19, 2007



It's a parallel universe where Celine Dion and Barry Manilow and that puppet dude from America's Got Talent are Superstars.

Everything is a caricature of real life - bigger and brighter and shinier. And that's just the boobs.

It's a city without a soul. A karmic black hole.

I'm no gambler. The handful of times I've been to a casino, I always left feeling like my soul had shrunk just a little.

The only up side to Vegas is that it makes you appreciate the real world a little more.
I am listening to: Sara Hickman - Mad World
I am reading: AfterMath, Inc. by Gil Reavill
And I am: Grateful to be home

Friday, November 16, 2007

The Bible vs. the mini bar

There’s a Bible in the nightstand next to the big comfy bed.

Like everything else at this hotel, it’s nice and new.

Of course it could be that the Good Book just doesn’t get much use here in the City of Sin.
Who knew? Here’s an interesting fact from

“Annually, The Gideons International is placing and distributing more than 63,000,000 Scriptures worldwide. To God be the glory! This averages one million copies of the Word of God placed every six days, or 120 per minute!”


That's a whole lotta Bible there, guys. I'm guessing the real trick is getting people to read it, eh?
Here's a shocking confession: It's been a while since I've looked at a Bible.

It sure is preachy.

And rather than being inspired or shamed or smote or whathaveyou by Job and Proverbs and Psalms, all I can think is "Goddamn, God needs an editor."
Of course, who edits Him?

"Um, God?"

"Yes, Peter?"

"I think you've got just one too many begats here in Matthew, whaddaya say we cut a few?"


"Right. Leave in the begats. Gotcha."
Here’s the thing.

If I’m in a hotel in Vegas and feeling LONELINESS or SORROW or WEARINESS or TEMPTATION, I sure as shit ain’t lookin’ in the nightstand for help from Gideon’s minions.

I’m heading straight for the mini bar.

Because there’s nothing that a $12 bag of cashews and an $8 shot of Jack can’t cure.
I am listening to: Colbie Caillat - Bubbly
I am reading: The Book of Jack
And I am: Tired but satisfied

Thursday, November 15, 2007

Back to elsewhere

“We have a very full flight folks and the plane cannot pull away from the gate until everyone is seated so blah de blah de blah.”

I’m in 23D. An aisle seat.

Aisle seats offer as much control as you can possibly have on commercial flights. I can get up if I need to. And I’m not relying on some fat gambling gramma to get outta my way should the plane decide to drop outta the sky like Dorothy’s domicile.
Of course it’s all self-delusional doo-doo. Who am I kidding?

Should the plane crash, my triumphant and powerful aisle seat will be filled with shit followed by my sad sinful remains and that’ s about it.
So the flight is full. A steady stream of travelers trek down the aisle, shuffling to their designated spots.

And I wait. Sans seat belt. For the folks in 23E and F to appear.

As a seasoned denizen of the aisle seat, you learn to not lock in too early. You get settled and strap in too soon and someone invariably arrives with a sheepish smile, pointing at the seat next to you.

The huge dude in white socks and Crocs mercifully plops down in 21C. The gray-haired angry-faced grandma with bad breath takes 22D (I know she has bad breath because she stands in front of her seat scowling at me until the last possible moment before we take off.)

The flight attendant comes through after the “cross check doors for take-off” whatever the hell that means and we’re off.

I’m the only person on the flight sitting in an otherwise empty row. I notice other passengers scowling in my direction now.

I move the backpack over to the space under the center seat ahead.

A luxurious stretch. A smile.

Once again I am heading elsewhere. Life is good.
I am listening to: Sheryl Crow - Leaving Las Vegas
I am reading: Wired Magazine
And I am: Sleepy

Wednesday, November 14, 2007

Editorial note

I will be at a trade show so posts will be sporadic throughout the week with patches of sunshine and varying degrees of stupidity.

In the mean time, here's a classic Denny Crane quote to ponder today: "It is better to want what you don't have than have what you don't want."

I say it's all a matter of perspective.

Of course he's right, though. He's Denny Crane.
I am listening to: Tracy Chapman - Give Me One Reason
I am reading: Wired Magazine
And I am: Anxious

Sunday, November 11, 2007

Maybe I'm getting old

I was offended about five minutes ago.

With a choice between the inexplicable Amazing Race 12, loud and boring Sunday Night Football, or the overwrought and weepy Extreme Makeover, I switch to The Simpsons.

I'm not big into TV.

If it ain't Boston Legal or Dexter, it's pretty much a waste of time.

But I know Jim will be home soon and we'll be emptying the DVR of all the shows he missed in Greece, so I leave the TV on as background noise.
Plot summary: Milhouse's parents remarry and go on a cruise. They fall overboard. In what we can only assume was meant to be a parody of a Saving Private Ryan moment, two men dressed in uniforms from the cruise line (to melancholy music) come to the door and inform Milhouse his parents are believed dead.
Not funny.
I'm not easily offended, but c'mon. We're at war, people.

On Veteran's day, nonetheless.

I suppose it isn't enough that our military spouses and parents have endured the lies about WMDs and the shameless war profiteering. And for some - 3,860 families to be exact - the very real and unimaginable day when, without a soundtrack and certainly not a laugh track, they're notified by strangers in uniforms of their loved one's ultimate sacrifice.

Not funny. Not at all.
I am listening to: Dexter
I am reading: Real Simple magazine
And I am: Disgusted

Friday, November 09, 2007


Fabulous. It's my word. I use it for everything. Everything that's fabulous, of course.

My fabulous friend Susie knows this. And even though we talk just 2-3 times a year (excluding her annual summer visit), I think of her often and smile.

So it was fabulous coming home late last night after a long, hard day at work to a card from Susie with this keychain inside.
"Just wanted to let you know it's so good having a friend like you."
What a fabulous friend.
I am listening to: Barry White - Can't Get Enough of Your Love
I am reading: Trade show cheat sheet
I am: You know it

Wednesday, November 07, 2007

The Pretty Woman mistake

Jim and I are slobs most of the time. We’re sweatshirt/t-shirt/jeans/sweats people. And if we’re not going out for dinner or whathaveyou later in the day, I’m all about the ponytail/baseball hat on the weekends.

And that’s pretty much how we looked for furniture shopping one Saturday several weeks ago.

You should know that after nine years of marriage, I am still trying to rid our house of the what-the-hell-were-they-thinking furniture Jim bought with his lovely starter wife back in the late 80’s.

With another Thanksgiving full house on the horizon, it was time for the swingin’ modern pseudo-oak dining room set to go.
“We want something that’s gonna last 50 years,” I say to the dour-looking woman at Dow Furniture in North Aurora.

It's a pretty snazzy place. We'd shopped there before - in fact, we bought our First Piece of Furniture as a Married Couple there: Our all-time favoritest, comfiest couch that was immediately chewed up by Gromit the Danger Puppy, He Who Shall Not Be Left Alone.

But we've also done our time with the falls-apart-in-two-years furniture – a kitchen table that looked great but has wobbled since the day it was delivered and an entertainment center that chips if you look at it the wrong way.

No more. We worked hard and saved up for something that will really last this time.

But the snooty-falutey woman at Dow Furniture doesn’t know this. All she sees is two ragamuffins in her pristine store wasting her time.

She takes us around to a set that looks like it was sold and then returned after three years of use.

I give Jim the nose crinkle and he tells her no, that’s not quite what we’re after.

The next set is probably a step down from our existing pseudo-oak shit.

She’s not getting it, so I say it again.

“We really want something solid that’s going to last and not be out of style 10 years from now.”

She frowns, looks us up and down and proceeds to the next room.

That’s when we spot it: A table that could be The One.
As with most couples, Jim and I have wildly different taste.

He has Lost in Space taste. If it looks like it coulda been used by the Robinsons and that dastardly Dr. Smith on the Jupiter 2, he wants it. Someday I'll tell ya about the robot situation.

Me, I tend to go the more classic, traditional route, but not too formal/antique-y.

So when we finally find something that we both like it is a veritable Furniture Miracle.
“What about this one?” Jim says, pointing to The One.

“Well, that set is more expensive,” she says, frowning.

It was at that point we both felt like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman.

I pictured us walking in there a few weeks later with a dining room set on both arms to ask her if she works on commission.

"Big mistake," we'll say triumphantly, dressed as beautiful, intelligent, kind-hearted prostitutes. "BIG. HUGE. We have to go shopping now."
I am listening to: City sounds
I am reading: Nothing
And I am: Lost in space

Tuesday, November 06, 2007

There's devastating and then there's Oprah

It was "one of most devastating experiences of my life."

That’s Oprah. Talking about the sex abuse allegations at her school in South Africa.

An amazing woman, isn’t she?

She can turn the utter tragedy of more than a dozen girls being sexually assaulted into her own personal devastation.

I know. It is her personal tragedy. It’s no secret that she was sexually abused as a child.

Which somehow makes it even worse, this evil thing happening in her school.

Here’s a quote from the story: “because of the high rates of rape and sexual abuse in South Africa, she had worked to ensure outsiders would not be able to reach students at the school.”

Given Oprah's personal history, given what she went through when she was a little girl, and knowing what she knew about sex abuse in South Africa, doesn't it seem like she should've done a better job screening her employees?
I probably should cut Oprah a little slack.

She made a huge difference in my life a long, long time ago.

In fact, her show was the catalyst for a real turning point in my life – a story for another time.

But I can’t help feeling that all the good she’s done is somewhat diminished by her overbearing ego – her penchant for injecting Oprah in Great Big Capital Letters into everything she does.

Acts of charity are by their nature supposed to be selfless. Not selfish opportunities to boost your own ego.
More from the story: On Oct. 20, Winfrey said Monday, she flew to South Africa again to meet with parents: "I apologized for the unfortunate circumstance and promised changes."

Unfortunate circumstances?

Hey Oprah, here's what you should've said:

“This is a terrible, heartbreaking tragedy for these girls. I am personally responsible for not taking better care in screening my school’s staff. I will do everything in my power to ensure that the individuals responsible for this abuse are punished and that this never, ever happens again.”

This isn’t about you. It’s about those girls. It’s their tragedy. Their devastation.

Not yours.
I am listening to: Love Actually
I am reading: Nothing
And I am: Hed-achey

Monday, November 05, 2007

Troubling news

Yes, Musharraf has imposed emergency rule, suspended the Constitution, and arrested hundreds of Pakistani protesters.

Oil is heading for $100 a barrel.

But let’s take a moment to talk about troubling news from the wondrous world of snack cakes: The death of the Ding Dong.

Yes, folks, the Hostess Ding Dong is dead.

It’s dead to me anyway. Dead, I say.

Ever since Saturday and the discovery that they’re no longer wrapped in foil.
Here’s the deal: When Jim is outta town I’m like a combination of Tom Cruise in Risky Business, that irritating child from Home Alone, and your worst college roommate.

Without the prostitutes.

I basically dance around in my underwear and eat really bad food the whole time he's gone.
Ding Dongs, Hedy? Why Ding Dongs?

I can’t remember why – it was two or three weeks ago – Ding Dongs came up at lunch with a friend.

Since then, I’ve had Ding Dongs on the brain.

Ding Dongs used to be called King Dongs. I remember this.

Then someone with a very dirty mind decided dong sounded too much like dick. So they re-named that delicious flat orb of chocolaty goodness King Don.

I remember thinking Who the Hell is King Don? And where did his Dong go?

So then they switched over to Ding Dong, which is fairly innocuous and only occasionally confused with Ding-a-Ling.

Still, it’s all very confusing because the Ding Dong is shaped like a hockey puck.

Twinkies. Twinkies – those diminutive yellow phallic cakes – shoulda been Ding Dongs.

I open the box. Slowly.

Like Charlie Bucket in Willy Wonka (the original, not the creepy Johnny Depp as Michael Jackson pedophile remake), expecting to see a friendly and familiar flash of silver.

I’m met with nothing but travesty. Little white plastic-wrapped travesties.

This makes me sad. Who knows what’s in that puffed out white plastic? It could be anything. And they look just like these.

I am traumatized and seriously consider boycotting the box, leaving it in the cupboard Forever.
"Ding Dongs?! What are you going to do with them?" Jim asks all the way from Greece.

"Not much - they're no longer wrapped in foil," I say, trying not to cry.

"Well I was always a Hostess Cupcake fan myself. You'd pull the frosting off and eat that first..."

Yep. He's on the other side of the world and we're talking snack cakes. This is what love does.
Ding Dongs are wrapped in foil so you can eat two or three of them – enough to create a large ball of foil to flick at your younger brother’s forehead.

That’s the only reason they’re wrapped in foil.

You can’t crinkle up a white plastic wrapper and flick it at your younger brother’s forehead.

First of all, it won’t flick. It will just fall to the floor. Or if the wind is right, it might glance his shoulder without doing any serious damage.
Confession: I consider unwrapping the Ding Dong and re-wrapping it in foil for nostalgia’s sake. Of course Reynolds "Quality Aluminum Foil" Wrap is a completely different grade of foil altogether and simply will not work.
After a few hours of pouting, I succumb to the Ding Dong.

“You always do.”


It was curiosity more than anything – a burning need to know if foil-free Ding Dongs taste different. Like Coke in plastic versus glass bottles.

Since I haven’t had a Ding Dong in Forever (obviously, since I was oblivious to the missing foil situation), I can only go on memory.

I take a semi-reluctant bite. It’s the same chocolaty hard frosted outside I remember from my childhood. The same creamy, cakey inside.

But it just doesn’t taste as good without the foil.

It tasted . . .flat. And un-fun.
Yes, I realize the world is in some serious shit right now and devoting an entire entry to Ding Dongs borders on insanity.

But we can’t depend on much in this ever-changing world. And after all we’ve been through since 9/11 I don’t think it’s too much, goddammit, too much to ask for a fucking foil-wrapped Ding Dong.
I am listening to: King Harvest – Dancing in the Moonlight
I am reading: Nothing
And I am: Traumatized

Friday, November 02, 2007

The Libertarian conundrum, bongs, etc.

“Good morning, I’m Joe S_____ and I’m running for State Representative, do you have a minute?”

Happily, I have more than a minute due to being dropped at the train station so I proceed to grill this clean-cut and clipboard carrying candidate.

“You’re a Democrat?” I ask.

“Yes, what are you?” he fires back.

“I’m agnostic,” I say. “Well, Libertarian.”

“I’d be a Libertarian, too, if it would get me elected.”

And that’s the trouble with Libertarians.

Practically every person I know says they’d be Libertarian if they thought it would make a difference.

Hello, people.

If all of us voted Libertarian, then. . .oh Jesus tits.

It's way too early in the morning and way too late in life for a civics lesson from the likes of me.
“Pro-choice?” I ask.

“Yes,” he replies.

“Where are you on taxes?”

He knows where I sit on that so he pulls out the rather tiresome 'fiscal conservative' line.

Joe's pandering is impressive. Then he pops out this zinger:

“You won’t hear me talking about this during the campaign because it would be the kiss of death in my district,” he says, his voice just above a whisper.

Intriguing. I lean in.

“I’m for the legalization of marijuana.”

Yikes. Slow down, it’s not even 7:30 a.m.

Way too early to be pulling out your bong, dude.
“I’m for the legalization of marijuana.”

What I thought: "Do I look like a total stoner? Where the hell is this coming from?"

What I wanted to say: "Dude! You holding? 'Cause I could make the next train if you wanna fire that shit up."

What I said: "Your secret is safe with me."
Libertarians. We're the real silent majority. We're a fairly self sufficient bunch. We work hard. We know how to have fun. We don't expect anyone to pay for our mistakes and we don't expect to pay for yours. We want to be left alone most of the time. And treated like adults all of the time.

Where's our candidate?
I'm sure Joe is sincere. Not well-informed enough on certain issues but a nice person overall. And for that reason I signed his little petition.

But he is the personification of the problem with politics and politicians today - pandering to the last person they meet and saying whatever they assume you wanna hear to win your vote.
I am listening to: Kid Rock – Half Your Age
I am reading: Atlas Shrugged – Ayn Rand
And I am: A card-carrying Libertarian

Thursday, November 01, 2007

Try this muff

Bears noon Sunday :(

That was the text message I sent to Jim after realizing we’d committed to taking his mom to lunch followed by the Sycamore High School Craft & Treasure Bonanza Hoo-Ha during the Bears-Lions game on Sunday.

A craft fair, Hedy?

I know. But it was her birthday. And she loves the crap fairs.
“Nobody’s here,” says the mother-in-law as we pull into a parking spot Right Out Front. “The economy is so bad nobody’s buying anything.”

Sure things are bad.

But I’m guessing people are spending what’s left of their hard-earned paychecks on cool stuff like iPhones or Halo 3000 or Leopard OS X Hoo-Ha and not on crocheted toilet paper covers or homemade potpourri that smells like your grandma’s 82-year old asshole.
“Try this muff.”


“Try this muff,” says Jim, pointing to a small sign sitting amidst a pile of fake fur.

“Don’t mind if I do!”

As if sidling through a gymnasium full of shit during the Bears game weren’t enough, I had to endure the decidedly unpleasant mental image of Jim ‘trying out’ the muff of the round, sour-faced woman sitting behind the table playing Sudoku.

“Worth the price of admission,” says Jim still laughing.

$2? Indeed.
The majority of vendors at craft fairs are people with too much time and too little taste trying to sell stuff that no one, anywhere on the planet will ever want let alone need.

Don’t get me wrong. I love supporting local artists.

During what I consider the Craft Fair Heyday (mid to late 90’s) you could find a few nice things - a piece of handmade pottery or jewelry or folk art.

Unfortunately the really good local artists don’t go to craft fairs any more. They go to juried art fairs.

So all that’s left are the crafters – untalented postmenopausal matrons wearing ‘fun’ appliquéd sweatshirts and driving mini-vans with 'Crafty Lady' bumper stickers.

Remember my definition of hell? We’re adding crap fairs to that mix.
Do tell, Hedy.

What does my grandma’s 82-year old asshole smell like, exactly?

I’m guessing a snazzy combination of lavender, pine and Preparation H.

Unless her husband’s still alive, in which case we’re going with 80-something grandpa sack and PolyGrip.
I am listening to: Black Snake Moan soundtrack
I am reading: Atlas Shrugged – Ayn Rand
And I am: Full of crap