Tuesday, September 30, 2008

The point of my story

I was fortunate to spend last Sunday afternoon with my dear friend Susan, and, as expected, the conversation turned to God and politics.

She shared two stories with me:

Last week she found herself walking to work next to a woman – obviously a Democrat – sporting an Obama button on her bag. Seizing what Susan thought was a great opportunity to learn more about a supporter of this candidate, she asked the woman: “Would you mind telling me why you’re supporting Obama?” The woman looked at her coldly, almost angrily, and said: “No, I don’t like sharing my views on politics.”

We agreed that – whether you’re wearing a symbol of your faith or a political button – if you’re going to advertise your beliefs, you ought to at least be willing to talk about them with curious strangers.

The other story involved her son. Apparently he has an Obama bumper sticker on his car. Sitting at a red light last week, a woman in the car next to him – obviously a Republican – started yelling at him about supporting a man she considered a terrorist and/or the Anti-Christ.

The point is, while it was obvious that both of these women held decidedly strong political views, neither of them was doing their chosen candidate any favors by their actions.

Which brings me to the point of my story.

I love this blog. I love what it’s done for me personally. It keeps me writing every day, helps me figure things out, and gives me something to do besides my other hobby, eating.

Most of all, I love how it helps me stay connected with people from all over the world – my oldest friends like Moe and Nelson and DewMama and my newest friends like Susan and Dave and Pos.

But I realized this week that I’m no good at writing about religion and politics.

I’m offensive. A caterwauling shrew.

A caustic bitch, as my dear friend You Know Who lovingly calls me.

The fact is, like those two ladies from Susan’s stories, I’m not doing my politics or my faith any favors by writing about them here.

So I’m not going to talk about that stuff until I can figure out a way to do it without being rude.

I suspect the solution involves story telling. The best stories don’t beat you over the head with a moral – they sneak up on you, surprise you with how you feel, and offer lessons that can transform your life and your views.

Thanks, Susan, for sharing your stories. And thanks to all of you for staying with me for this long story.
I am listening to: Breathe Me - Sia
I am reading: Nothing
And I am: Still learning

Monday, September 29, 2008

Bread and circuses

I went to the Bears game last night and, while I enjoyed it very much, I couldn't help but look out into the crowd of orange and blue and think about bread and circuses.

According to Wikipedia, it is Latin (panem et circenses): An ancient Roman metaphor for people choosing food and fun over freedom. It often appears in commentary that accuses people of giving up their civic duty and following whichever political leader offers to satisfy their decadent desires.

Biggest financial meltdown since the recession and we're screaming at the Eagles.
I am listening to: Off on Your Own - Al B. Sure!
I am reading: Nothing
And I am: Tired

Saturday, September 27, 2008

Attention Dave & Pos

Get this, guys.

We've been censored.

I thought we lived in America. But in the Land of Moe, no dissenting opinions are allowed.

Moe has removed us from his blog roll. I discovered it this morning and sent him the following text message:

"You deleted my blog from your list. Nice."

His reply?

"Until after the election...I don't promote anger and bitterness."

Anger? Bitterness?

This, from the whiner who cries censorship if he has to wait more than five minutes for me to publish his comments?

From the guy who, just yesterday, was ready to sword fight with some nail-clipping schmoe in the sauna?

From a guy who nearly gets his ass kicked on a golf course because some golfer is taking too many practice swings?

Moe invented anger and bitterness.

So it's not surprising that he's also a closet Communist.

But Chairman Mao Moe has spoken. There will be no dissent in the People's Republic of Moe.

So what say you, comrades? Are we deleting him from our blogs, too?

Or are we gonna take the high road, be charitable, and show Moe what true blue Americans are all about?
I am listening to: SNL
I am reading: Nothing
And I am: Censored

Best quote re: Palin

"My cringe reflex is exhausted.”

This, from Kathleen Parker, a conservative syndicated columnist.

Me too, Kathleen. Me too.
I am listening to: Craig Ferguson
I am reading: Not much
And I am: Cringing

Friday, September 26, 2008

A fart in church

I didn't watch the debate.

I know.

I have priorities. And my good friends will always be more important than politics.

That said, I came into it at the point when Biden was offering his assessment of what transpired.

Then -- like a fart in church -- NBC's Brian Williams says: "Although invited, Republican Vice Presidential candidate Sarah Palin declined to comment so we have former mayor of New York City Rudy Giuliani here to give the Republican perspective on tonight's debate."


Palin is sidelined and Giuliani (arguably the most liberal Republican on the planet) steps in? WTF?

Oh. Right. Did you see this? Maybe you didn't. Here it is again:

Honestly, my favorite part is when that wacky bitch says: "Our next door neighbors are foreign countries. They're in the state that I am the executive of."


"They're in the state that I am the executive of."

A heart beat away from president and she's ending sentences with a preposition.

I could cry. Or laugh. I can't decide. Wanna debate?
I am listening to: Post-debate blah blah
I am reading: Nothing
And I am: Confident

Thursday, September 25, 2008

I got me some foreign policy experience, too, dagnabbit

Just watch this moronic bitch and tell me she should be leading anything but maybe the annual Girl Scout cookie sale:

Hmmmm...reminds you of another video, doesn't it? Such as...

Furthermore, I grew up in Mt. Clemens, Michigan -- a town about 30 minutes from Windsor, Canada. I'm no beauty queen, but I guess that makes me an expert on foreign relations.

"You see, the Canadians, are uh, right over there and ya know, uh, sometimes their Canadian coins get mixed in with our U.S. coins, so I'm not only an expert on foreign policy but on international monetary policy, too. Except you can't use their coins in our parking meters, which is a real bummer, ya know? You betcha. Alrighty."

Fuck that. Cookies are too yummy and important to be trusted to this silly twat.
I am listening to: Entourage
I am reading: Nothing
And I am: Disgusted again, sorry

This side of the room

It’s your standard-issue dorm room. One of thousands on this mid-sized, Midwestern college campus.

Snug. Yet functional. With just enough room for two beds, two desks, a fridge, and a TV.

As for its occupants, they will struggle to share this space because they are worlds apart.

On that side of the room, it’s White Sox. And tits. No reading material beyond the required and ridiculously expensive textbooks. There’s a box of Kleenex on the shelf by the bed. It’s bland. Average. Orderly. Nothing at all extraordinary or unexpected.

But on this side of the room, it’s another story.

It’s Tom Wolfe and Hunter S. Thompson. A psychedelic poster graces one wall, a Fear and Loathing poster, the other. Pencil drawings taped above the bed. Empty liquor bottles stuffed behind the bolster. This side is delightfully – almost intentionally – cluttered.

These two kids are freshman. At the dawn of their professional adult lives.

Who are you betting on?
People like us – from this side of the room – don’t take the standard, acceptable path to get where we are.

Some people call us courageous. But following our own path has always been more about instinct than bravery.

Things don’t always go according to plan for us because, quite frankly, there is no plan.

We don’t always follow the rules. Because some of the rules are downright ridiculous.

We don’t learn from the mistakes of others – preferring to stir up our own share of fresh (often silly, always exciting) screw-ups.

What’s ordinary bores us. We’re drawn to everything sophomoric and irreverent and rude because it helps us escape everything that’s expected and typical and normal.

We’ve disappointed our parents and friends, teachers and bosses. But these are the same people who are still around, rejoicing the most when things go well for us, because they knew we had it in us all along.

We’re attractively normal looking (much to our disappointment and undying dismay) but are always more comfortable among the freaks on the fringes.

We’re scarred. But rarely scared because we’ve survived more than our share of self-induced shit.

We’re atypical addicts. Food, sex, drugs, booze – you name it, we’ve got it. But there’s no AA meeting, no counselor, no ‘Higher Power’ that’ll rid us of our demons because we know them so well, they know their place, and we genuinely enjoy having them around.

We know damn well why we do the crazy-ass shit we do – we’re often excruciatingly self-aware – but will rarely change because it’s what keeps us so alive, so lively.

We don’t talk much. When we do, it’s meaningful. It has to be. Our silence, coupled with our innate inability to follow anyone (ever) makes us reluctant leaders. We’re destined to disappoint our followers, too, but they’ll stay with us because we’re the only people honest enough to tell them the really right thing to do.

We’re happy to play The Fool – keenly, often uncouthly stating the truth when everyone else remains silently satisfied with lies.

We are also capable of great foolishness. But don’t be mistaken – we rarely suffer fools.

It could be intelligence. A bit of creativity. However, we believe it’s mostly some cosmic quirk that allows us to experience a little more success than most. We also know we’re quite capable of losing everything at any moment, so we tend to be more grateful than most, too.

We’re the kids from this side of the room. Bet on us.
I am listening to: Dissident – Pearl Jam
I am reading: The Pleasures of the Damned: Poems, 1951 - 1993 by Charles Bukowski
And I am: From this side of the room

Wednesday, September 24, 2008

Traveling with Balzac

A few years before we were married, I met Jim in Paris for a long weekend.

It was a great trip -- he was in Europe for work and I got there a day early, visiting the Palace of Versailles by myself.

Once he arrived, we made a beeline to the Eiffel Tower. The next day, the Louvre. And a very memorable evening in Montmartre.

But the best part of the trip was an ages old cemetery called Pere-Lachaise. It was fascinating. Tons of famous people are buried there. Moliere. Proust. Gertrude Stein. Jim Morrison.

And the famous French novelist and playwright Honore de Balzac.

Speaking of Balzac, I sat across from this guy on the train yesterday.


Yep. You bet I snagged a shot.

They were so impressive I felt like a tourist all over again.
I am listening to: Purple Haze - The Cure
I am reading: Nothing
And I am: Traveling with Balzac

Sunday, September 21, 2008

The Fictional President

If you were ever a fan of West Wing, read this amusing column from Maureen Dowd at the New York Times: Seeking a President Who Gives Goose Bumps? So's Obama.

"You were raised by a single mother on food stamps — where does a guy with eight houses who was legacied into Annapolis get off calling you an elitist?"

I sure miss Jed Barlet.
I am listening to: Sunday house sounds
I am reading: Everything
And I am: Voting for Aaron Sorkin

Wednesday, September 17, 2008

How you know

Someone asked me this question the other day:

‘How do you know that you're in love?’

Great question.

I told her if she’d asked me 20 years ago, my answer would’ve been way different than today, but beyond that I’d have to think about it.

It’s been a few days and here’s my answer:

Beyond all the flowery crap, being in love comes down to two things: How you feel about what the two of you have in common and how you feel about the things you don’t have in common.
It's September. Nineteen years ago. And I'm deeply in love (the first time) with Jim.

It's a lazy Saturday afternoon and we're making out on the couch at a condo I share with two roommates. I can’t recall why we weren’t upstairs naked and abusing each other in all sorts of amusing ways, but anyhow.

“Look at that,” I say, coming up for air. “You have three moles in a triangle on your arm.”

“Yep,” he says.

“Look. So do I.”

This odd coincidence gets added to the short but growing list of things we were discovering that we had in common – right after a love of fast cars and out-of-the-way beer gardens and the raw, sinfully sarcastic humor of Sam Kinison.

The point is, back then we were looking for things that we had in common to reinforce the rather uncontrollable and irrational feelings we had for each other.

It was fucking hot. It was love.
At some point in the relationship, however, you begin to notice the differences again.

It happens right about the time the guy you love and share the odd polygonal birthmark with says he’s going to come over after a golf outing but decides to stay out partying with his buddies then shows up at your door at midnight wielding his whiskey dick.

The fact is, it happens.

You begin to come out of that initial euphoria and throttle back on noticing the things you have in common and start noticing the differences again.

If you’re self aware and not needy and/or co-dependant, you quickly realize either a) There are too many things that you don’t have in common for the relationship to survive or, hopefully, b) There are just enough things that you don’t have in common to keep things interesting for a whole lifetime.

That’s the extremely cool moment when you and your partner go from arguing about your differences, to laughing about them. It's when you go from loving all the things you have in common to loving all the things you don't have in common.

Then you’re in love all over again, only better.

Make sense?
I am listening to: Bad Things – Jace Everett
I am reading: Neil Steinberg at the Sun-Times
I am: Still here

Tuesday, September 16, 2008


Oh. Hey. That’s not good. He/she’s really struggling in that wheelchair. It’ll take hours to get anywhere. Should I go over? Wait. See if there’s someone. Nope. Nobody to help. What would Susan do? She’d definitely help. Don’t hesitate. Just do it. Okay. I’m doing it. Wait. Some disabled people don’t want help. Asking them is offensive. But he/she’s really having a hard time. Hey, if asking causes offense, at least you asked. You’ll regret it if you don’t. Remember: What would Susan do? Okay. Here goes.

“Wanna push?”

“Oh? Yes. That would be great,” replies the somewhat bedraggled and unshaven yet obviously grateful he.

“I live right there,” he says, pointing a gnarled finger at the poshy entrance of a high-rise condo building less than 20 feet away.

Disabled. Loaded. Yet no one to help.


Then, a rush of words as I wheel him towards home:

“I try to do this on my own but it’s hard and I’m not even supposed to be in this thing anymore thank you so much for stopping I really appreciate it.”

“Are you in physical therapy?” I ask.

“Yes, that’s where I’m coming from.”

“They sure beat you up, don’t they?”

“YES and they don’t give you any breaks, either, I was really sweated up today.”

“I’ve been there,” I say. “Were you in an accident?”

“Sorta. I had a heart attack and they gave me the wrong medication and I had a bad reaction to it and it put me in a coma for a while.”

I’m rescued from having to say ‘That’s terrible’ or ‘What a shame’ or some other inane comment because we’re at the entrance where a tall, impeccably dressed black man hustles around the security desk to open the door.

“Could you take me upstairs?”

“I can’t leave the desk,” says the security man.

“No, I was asking her,” says the man in the chair, thumbing his shoulder.

Silence of the Lambs. The creepy pupa dude asks the chubby chick to help him load a chair into the van. I’m the chubby chick. He’s not really disabled. It’s a scam and he’s gonna get me upstairs and starve me and make a swimsuit outta my skin and no one will ever see me again. Nobody even knows where I am right now, just walking back from lunch. But he's old and lives in this ritzy-titzy condo and the security guard saw me and he obviously needs help and oh what the hell, Heather, have a little faith in the universe for once.


He’s Mike. I’m Heather. He’s on floor 9 please. The hallway is all polished hardwood and much darker than I thought it would be.

“Right over here,” he says.

My heart is in my throat as he struggles to put the key in the door.

Now. Now. NOW. If this is one of those scary Stephen King stories from your childhood, NOW would be the time when he leaps up out of the wheelchair -- transforming from a weak old geezer into a crazed psychopath with Super Human Strength -- and shoves you into his lair.

Serial killers have lairs.

Rich old cripples have condos.

I roll him through the doorway, careful not to cross the threshold.

“Thanks again for your help today,” he says.

“You’re welcome. Take care.”

And thank you for not being Ed Gein.


Incredibly stupid? Or just every day kindness to strangers?

What would you have done?
I am listening to: If I Ever Feel Better - Phoenix
I am reading: Salesforce.com stuff
And I am: Chubby and helpful

Saturday, September 13, 2008

The Washington Post does your homework

In case you're wondering which of our fine presidential candidates is going to raise your taxes, the Washington Post has created an excellent graphic that should clear things up.

Start on the left with 'Family Income in 2008 dollars' and locate your household's annual income below. Then slide your eyes across the grid to see what the two candidates have in store for your tax bracket. McCain is in red for Republican. Obama is in blue for Democrat.

Surprised? Me too.

McCain is running ads claiming that Obama will raise taxes on the middle class.

Of course the Republican candidate believes 'wealthy' begins at $5 million, so it's easy to see how he'd think folks making more than $2.87 million per year are middle class.
"But Hedy, you can't trust the liberal media. They made up this graph to make Obama look good."

Actually, the Washington Post is known for its more conservative views.
Yes, McCain's plan lowers taxes for everyone.

But here's what bothers me about this graphic: under McCain's plan, the percent decrease in taxes gets higher towards the top of the graph and goes down to practically nothing for people at or near poverty level.

I'm not a math person, but it sure seems like it ought to be the other way around. Do you know what I'm getting at?

0.2% of $18,000 amounts to dick. And 4% of $2.87 million is, well -- like I said, I'm not a math person -- but it's a veritable ass-load of money.

Call me crazy, but don't people with lower incomes need the higher percentages than people making millions of dollars per year?

Better still, why can't the tax cuts just be equal across all income levels?

"But Hedy, Obama is worse! He's raising taxes disproportionately on the wealthy and that's not fair, either!"

Agreed. Obama's plan isn't fair, either.

But I think we can agree that Obama's plan provides more significant tax relief for more of the people who need it most.
Of course, if you care about big issues like abortion or the environment or the war in Iraq, the Washington Post graph won't help you make a more informed decision.

But if you're willing to pay more taxes because your candidate can effect change on issues that matter more to you than money, then that's pretty cool.
"But Hedy, both of these plans are essentially bullshit -- no one really knows what'll happen once either candidate is in office. Remember Daddy Bush's promise about read my lips?"


Put the numbers aside then. And look at the core of each tax plan -- which one provides more help to more people? What does that say about the candidate's intentions - whether the tax plan gets implemented or not?

What does it say about Obama that he wants to help regular working Americans keep more of their paychecks? And what will it do for our economy if a majority of people have a little more money to spend?
"Blah blah blah, Hedy. I'm so fucking tired of this crap. I just want the new season of Heroes to start."

I know. It's exhausting. I'm tired, too.

But we gotta do this, people.

We gotta care enough about our country to make an informed decision on November 4. Now more than ever, your vote matters.
I am listening to: Sex and Candy - Marcy Playground
I am reading: Nothing
And I am: Tired

Thursday, September 11, 2008

And he's a patriot, too

You know how I feel about Craig Ferguson.

Well, he took it to the next level Wednesday night with this monologue on 'our sacred right as an American' to vote.

Watch it. Register. Vote.

He doesn't care who you vote for and neither do I. Just do it.

And Craig? If you're reading this, CALL ME.
I am listening to: Silly evening news
I am reading: Nothing
And I am: Enamored

Perhaps crazy

“You know you’re flying on 9/11,” I say to Jim this morning.

“Yeah, kinda weird,” he says. “But I’ve done it before.”

“I know, but isn’t it odd that there wasn’t any news about terrorist threats in the U.S. all summer? Not a peep. It would be just like the Republicans to lull us into a false sense of security and then BAM! There’s an attack on the anniversary of 9/11 and McCain wins in a landslide.”

“Yes, it would be just like them, wouldn’t it? Because you know George Bush was the one who actually ordered the 9/11 attacks.”

“I KNOW! See? So be careful today.”
What does it say about the state of affairs here when someone like me – arguably liberal, but hardly a nut-job – is speculating on a government orchestrated terrorist attack in order to screw with the presidential election?

Well, you are kind of a nut-job, Hedy.

Right. Kinda.

But seriously, with the economy, the war, oil prices, and scandal after financial scandal, would you be all that surprised if Bush & Co. figured out a way to mess with the election?

Be honest.
“Clear skies across the country today,” said the weatherman on WGN. “A quiet day, weather-wise.”

When I think about that day back in 2001, the morning weather report is always the first thing that pops into my head.

A quiet day. Right.

Then I remember what happened the night before.

I’ve never told anyone this until now.

It was a normal night. I went to bed before Jim, like usual. I’m lying there, all cuddled in, when all of a sudden this overwhelming feeling of horror and grief came over me.

I couldn’t breathe, I was crying, and completely terrified. For no reason.

I understand now that it was a panic attack.

I’d never had one before. Or since.

There was no stress in my life, no reason for it to happen right then, and I guess that’s the reason why I remember it so vividly – because it was very, very out of the ordinary.

Now I’m not saying that I had a premonition or anything – of course no one could predict what happened that screwy, scary day.

But if it ever happens again, I’m hiding in the basement all day.
An attack on the anniversary of 9/11?

Too obvious. People might expect that. Plus, it could reflect badly on the current administration and given enough time, people could blame McCain.

I know: Let 9/11 pass quietly and lull our clueless citizenry into an even greater sense of false security. Then BAM! Stage a Super Secret Strategery U.S. government-sponsored terrorist attack two weeks before the election.

The ultimate October surprise.

That close to the election, it’ll scare the crap outta everyone. Folks will be too busy mourning and praying and vigilizing that they’ll elect that great patriot and war hero John McCain in a landslide.

Yep. That’s it.
Hedy, you're officially crazy.


Add that to the catalog of damage that Bush & Co. have done to this country. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Crazy – Patsy Cline
I am reading: An explanation of the Fannie/Freddie bailout by Steve Chapman at the Trib
And I am: A nut-job, kinda

Wednesday, September 10, 2008

Lips and assholes

Straight outta the shoot:

"So have you ever put lipstick on a pig?" asks David Letterman.

"No," says Obama. "But it might be fun to try."

"The McCain camp has demanded an apology. They say you called Sarah Palin a pig."

"Technically, she would be the lipstick. The failed policies of John McCain would be the pig, following the logic of this illogical situation."
I am listening to: Another infernal Viagra commercial
I am reading: This guy
And I am: Craving hotdogs

On My Own

He’s away again this week.

He thought hiding the Bag of Eternal Gloom in the closet would keep me from figuring it out, but He was mistaken.

Because I am Gromit, Genius Dog.

I conducted a full investigation while He was showering and, upon discovering said B.E.G, proceeded directly to the middle of the floor in order to affect my very best Woe is Dog pose.

I’ve perfected it over the years. It starts with the eyes. Always the eyes.

It’s a withering glare, quickly followed by a brief, hopeful ‘You’re Not Really Leaving Me Alone with She Again’ glimpse.

Then, when I know I have He’s full attention: unimaginable, soul-penetrating Peepers of Grief.

If it’s allergy season, I can actually work up a few tears.

Of course in my life, there’ve been few exceedingly sad moments, so I try to imagine not being able to lick my wiener ever again. It works pretty well.

Then I flop down on the bed, carefully positioning my hindquarters so that’s all He will see upon exiting the bathroom. As soon as He is within earshot, I let fly The Whole-Body Sigh. In truth, it’s more of a groan than a sigh and often can be heard in the next room.

It’s highly effective.
“It’s Wednesday, Gromit,” She says with more enthusiasm than ought be allowed before 7 a.m.

“He’s coming home tomorrow. And Grandma is coming to visit you today.”

I respond with one of my more advanced maneuvers: The Sigh, quickly followed by a Roll Over and Face the Wall combo.

Don’t get me wrong, Nobody’s better than She when it comes to leg massages and ear scratches. And She is the Queen of the Butt Rub.

But my whole standard of living goes down when He’s away.

For example, upon returning from my morning constitutional, I expect breakfast accompanied by fresh water in my bowl.

He knows this. I suspect it is because He is a man, although He doesn’t lick his wiener ever, which is unsettling, since wiener-licking is without question the greatest joy of being a member of the male species.


He knows the schedule. He sticks to it. After eight years, He ought to.

She, on the other hand, is always fiddling around cleaning things and doesn’t get to my food before I’m at the door, with my Terse Bark, demanding to be let in.

And that’s another thing. I never have to break out the Terse Bark with He. He is always at the door, waiting to let me in. Better than a garage door opener, He is.

“Sorry Grom, let me get that for you,” She says, as if sorry makes up for having my entire day ruined because of a flagrant schedule violation.

Then, with nothing more than a Bye Grom, Love You Dog, Be a Good Boy, She leaves.

Be a Good Boy. As if I have a choice. As if I could be anything else.

And it’s only Wednesday.
I am listening to: Those damn morning doves on the chimney
I am reading: Nothing, She never brings the paper in, either
And I am: Dog of Woe

Thursday, September 04, 2008

Waffles, anyone?

Okay, Sarah Palin is a lying little bitch. With a stinky crotch.

Well, maybe not that last part. But she's no good with the facts, that's for sure.

Please read this. And this. Oh, and this.

This is why we should never rely on our 'feelings' when it comes to political candidates. We need to investigate their background, their accomplishments, their ethics.

I broke my own rule. Never again.

Also: Here's a huge, heartfelt apology for Taxman. I'm sorry, sir. Feel better.
I am listening to: The rain
I am reading: Mists of Avalon by M.Z. Bradley
And I am: Feeling much better now

Wednesday, September 03, 2008

Big Red Boners, Laying Pipe: A Special HedyBlog RNC Update

I like Rudy Giuliani. I once thought he could be the next president.

But his speech at the Republican National Convention sucked.

He talked about terrorism. Because it's the only thing he's capable of talking about.

Sadly, somebody forgot to tell him that nobody cares about that stuff anymore.

It's 2008 -- not 2001 -- and I'm sorry to bring out this tired old Clinton-era phrase, but it's about the ECONOMY, stupid.

I don't know anyone who's worried about terrorists. But I know plenty of folks scared shitless about the economy.

It's not "Boy I sure hope Al Qaeda doesn't come back."

It's "Boy I sure hope I can make my mortgage payment this month."

We're not afraid of terrorists attacking our buildings, we're afraid of a very real, imminent threat: The shit-ass economy attacking our way of life.
On the other hand, Sarah Palin was great.

She talked about laying pipe and drilling. And white, gun-toting men across America saluted her with a collective Big Red Boner.

Seriously, I didn't want to like her.

But she's genuine and tough and interesting. And, God bless her, she's capable of giving a roiling political speech without sounding like a caterwauling shrew.

She confronted the issue of experience head-on and in some respects, kicked 'community organizer' Obama to the curb.

Sure, she was a little disingenuous talking about the 'pride' involved with her 17-year-old daughter's unplanned pregnancy, but what the hell.

Oh, and then there's this: With a new special needs baby and an unplanned grandbaby on the way, was it right for her to accept the nomination for VP? What about her family? How will she manage all of this?

"Nobody's asking Barack Obama how he's managing his family while running for office, so it's not fair for us to question her decision to take on the role as VP, Hedy. It's sexist."


Asking the question isn't sexist, it's honest. Because let's face it: Moms do everything. Dads are great, but Moms think of - and do - practically everything. It's what they do.

And that is precisely why I think Sarah Palin would make an excellent vice president.

She reminds me of the amazing, dedicated, where-the-hell-do-they-get-the-energy moms I know. There are a bazillion unsung Sarah Palins out there right now who care enough to get involved in the PTA and on school boards and in local governments to make a difference not only for their own kids, but all kids.

We need more strong, dedicated people like her getting involved in government so they can do the same kick-ass job for our country that they do for their families and their local communities.

Plus, she talked about laying pipe. Which is sexy.
I am listening to: I Am Woman - Helen Reddy
I am reading: Mists of Avalon by M. Z. Bradley
And I am: Probably not voting for McCain, but this new chick has made it really fun to think about

You wanna know

"You wanna know why I like you?" says my chiropractor this morning.

"MMMmmm?" I reply, face down on the table.

"Damn, that's it? I was really hoping you'd help me answer that question."
I am listening to: Bad 70's music
I am reading: The Mists of Avalon by M. Z. Bradley
And I am: Damn fuck shit hell hurty again

Tuesday, September 02, 2008


"Please fuck me this is not a joke"

It's rare that spam gets my attention anymore, but this subject line prompted me to open the e-mail Right Away.

My mind was racing during the Michael Phelps millisecond it took to click, then load. Could it be...Craig Ferguson? Someone with a yet to be identified life or death medical condition? Moe?


Turns out it was someone named Melodyxkon2 inviting me to chat via Yahoo messenger.

Hmmm. Melody. xkon. 2.

Ever get a spam e-mail you just HAD to open? Are you still getting spam?

The only reason I even see spam anymore is because of Yahoo - it was the first personal e-mail account I ever opened and is only used now for placing orders on-line or for signing up for news sites that require a login.
So what'd you do with the e-mail, Hedy?

Sadly, I had to forgo a humorless roll in the hay with the tuneful two-time felon.

But I know just the guy who would LOVE that sort of thing.

Click. Forward. Send to: MoeWanchuk@ElitistHornyPigs.com.
I am listening to: Gromit breathing
I am reading: The Mists of Avalon by Marion Zimmer Bradley
And I am: Not falling for it again