And so it begins…

You would think that with three kids I would have experienced it long before today, but no. Today was my first time. My first time stressing over getting my kid into the right school. Preschool to be exact. 

Wait. Let me back up. 

You see, I wasn’t stressed about getting him into the right preschool because I want him to go to the right elementary school, which will lead to the most competitive high school, which will put him on the path to the right college. No. Nothing like that. 

For me, it was all about proximity and cost and convenience. Oh, and if it is a good school that builds a solid academic foundation, all the better, but honestly, not my priority. Oooh, can I say? Does that revoke my membership in the Good Mommy Club? As if. 

I have never waited in line before to enroll my kids in school. I picked Nature Boy’s Montessori school out of the phone book. It was close. They had openings. I took one. Klepto was next, so she just went where her big brother went. Not rocket science. And now it is Bucket Head’s turn, but in this economy, I am looking for something a lot less expensive than private Montessori school, and also, I’m just not ready to put little Bucket Head, my baby, my last baby, in a 5 morning a week program. I can’t do it. Not yet. 

 

 

So I want a two or three morning a week preschool that is extremely close to home. Oh, and it would be nice if that school doesn’t have a track record for children choking to death on hotdogs or being sexually abused by the staff.

Now, how to pick a preschool… hmmm. There are a handful of preschools near my house. I’ve heard good things about all of them. I need a sign. 

Wish granted! Last week as I was driving to the liquor store, of all places, I passed a local church with a sign that said their preschool registration was February ___ at 8 AM. I remembered hearing some of the über moms at my subdivision pool talking about how they had to literally sleep out over night to get a spot for their kid at this particular preschool… its reputation is that good. I never considered this school before because frankly, I have no desire to work that hard. But, feeling kinda lucky that I had randomly driven past the registration sign, I decided to call the school and find out what the registration process was like. If you know me, you know that I don’t usually call ahead and find stuff like this out. I usually just wing it. So the fact that I made this call was huge… another sign. The stars were aligning. Fate was driving the bus and I was strapped in and enjoying the ride. 

The school politely informed me that there were only two spots available for the 2 year old Mon./Wed./Fri. class, but that there were about 30 spots for the Tues./Thurs. one. They then told me that they no longer allow overnight camping out for getting a spot in the program. Instead, they have a lottery. All I had to do was be there at 8 AM, not one minute later, and they would let whoever was in line at that time pull a number from a basket. The numbers would determine the order for when we could approach the registration table and apply for a spot in their program. Wow – how civilized! 

But, uh-oh. First of all, I’m never on time. Secondly, I never win lotteries or prizes of any kind. I learned to accept this fact long ago and comfort myself in the idea that perhaps God already feels that I am plenty blessed in my life and that it wouldn’t be fair to others to also win random drawings and lotteries. Whatever. It’s less painful than believing I’m just an unlucky bastard. 

So the cards were already stacked against me, in my opinion. However, still feeling the power of “the sign,” and the need to think positively, I decided to go. What did I have to lose?

Naturally I was running late. Being anywhere at 8 AM is a big stretch for me. But I hustled the best I could, cut some corners in the personal hygiene department, got Bucket Head dressed, grabbed a sippy cup of milk and a cereal bar for him to eat while we were in line, and set off to be a part of the preschool lottery.  

Now, have I mentioned that I live in the ‘burbs of Atlanta and that most of the stay-at-home-moms here are crazier than shit house rats? These bitches play to win at everything they do, and preschool registration is no exception. 

My first hurdle would be to make it there on time, and miracle of all miracles, we did. I found a rock star parking spot with no problems, found the correct entrance to this enormous church/preschool right away, and walked in the door holding Bucket Head in one arm, my giant purse slung over my other shoulder, and in my two hands: the sippy cup of milk, a 12″ stuffed Big Bird toy, and my keys. We walked into the multipurpose room where the registration lottery would take place and immediately every eye in the place turned and focused right on us as if so judge and say, “We’ve been here for hours! Who do you think you are walking in just under the wire?” It was 7:59 AM. There were about 40 parents in line. You could tell immediately where the front of the line was because there were about 8 chairs lined up and the women sitting in them were the most smug and obnoxious passel of professional pissy-faces I had ever seen. At that moment I was SO glad I had called ahead and learned that it didn’t matter how early I got there as long as I wasn’t there later than 8 AM! Ha! So there, early birds! Take that worm and suck it! 

A couple of minutes later, the administrators were ready to begin the lottery. The head of the school got out her microphone, I kid you not, and said: “If you are here with another adult… a spouse or a friend, you may only draw one number for your team.”

Oh. My. God. People cheat at this! I never even thought of that! These people are sick, sick fucks. What a shitty thing to do… bring a partner, pull two numbers, and then use the lower number to go up and register so you improve your chances of getting a spot in the program. Holy shit. This is the major leagues. I hope President Obama doesn’t ask any of them to be in his cabinet. Hear me now kiddies…. cheaters never win. 

The Head Cheese started down the line with the basket. A majority of the people ahead of me were actively peering into the basket and looking at the folded slips of paper as they drew their numbers. MORE CHEATING! Jesus! When it got to me, I just closed my eyes and reached in and grabbed the first thing that grazed my fingers. I was going to let fate be in charge. It was fate that drove me past that registration sign on my way to buy booze, it is fate that is going to determine if I get my child into this program. There is no cheating fate.

8:05 AM. A harried mother comes running into the room. “I’m sorry Ma’am. We’ve already conducted the lottery. You are too late. You are welcome to stay and be the last one to register, if there are any spaces left (which there definitely won’t be), but you can’t draw a number.” GULP! Oh, praise Jesus that that wasn’t me. Yowza. 

With that little spectacle out of the way, it was time to see what number I drew. Deep breath. I slowly unfolded my slip of paper, feeling like Charlie carefully peeling the wrapper off his Wonka Bar. Would I find the last Golden Ticket?! I took another deep breath and looked at my number. 

4

Holy Shit! That is my lucky number! And, it is low enough that I might actually get a spot in the highly coveted MWF 2 year old class!!! Oh, wouldn’t that be wonderful if Bucket Head could go to preschool three mornings a week instead of just two? It would be perfect! Three mornings a week for him to learn and grow and play with kids, and three mornings a week of freedom for me! Oh, it’s too good! Wait, don’t get ahead of yourself girl. Just be grateful you’ll probably get into the school at all. 

“One and Two – please come to the registration table.” The process was quick. The first two women enrolled their kids within minutes and then they called my number.  I gathered up my child, his sippy cup, the remains of his cereal bar, his Big Bird, my purse, and my Golden Ticket, and approached the table. 

“How old is your child?” the registrar asked. 

“He’ll be two next month.” I replied.

“There is one spot left in the MWF class. Would you like it?”

Oh. 

My. 

God. 

I got it. I got the spot. The one of two spots that people have slept out on the sidewalk in previous years to get. And I got it. 

“YES!” I blurted, feeling like she had just asked me if I would like to continue breathing… as in, der. 

That was it. Easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy. I filled out the enrollment form, wrote my registration check, and left… walking on air and totally in shock that I, the most unlucky, most unprepared, least punctual person I know would walk in and out of that room in fifteen minutes holding a Golden Ticket for next Fall. All is right with the world today.

Hopefully it is a good school. Oh who cares?! I’m in! It’s close. It’s way cheaper than Montessori school. And I have one more item on my To-Do List done. And all because I drove to the liquor store and saw a sign. Shoot… like I need any more motivation to shop there.  

Until we meet again!

-Iris

© 2009 The Bearded Iris

Democracy in Action

My husband and I had a hot, hot date today, ya’ll.  He played hooky from work so we could spend some kid-free time together.  We ditched Bucket Head at his Grandparents’ house last night for a sleep over, and once the two big’uns got on the school bus this morning at 6:51 AM, we got busy.  And by busy, I mean me on the computer writing, and him on the can reading the paper.  

But once all our morning ablutions were behind us, we decided to actually spend some time together.  We went out for a big ol’ Southern breakfast (with grits and sausage gravy), and actually talked about more than how we were going to get the kids to and from their various activities.  It was wonderful.  We got to talk about us.  Not kids. And it was daytime and we were in public, so I wasn’t passed out on the couch snoring while he maniacally flips between 12 different TV shows. Sigh.   

After breakfast we drove around for about 20 minutes looking for a service station with gas.  Nada.  We tried 12 different places and they were all tapped out.  Very scary.  I have about half a tank, so I’ll try again first thing in the morning, but still.  

While we were out tooling around in my tricked out minivan looking for gas, we decided to swing by the local Democratic Headquarters to volunteer for the Obama campaign.  It was not very easy to find…set back off a barricaded road under construction in a shabby old office park. I wonder if that is a safety issue…less chance of a Molotov cocktail being thrown in the window if the Bubbas can’t find it, or if they had trouble finding anyone who would lease them a better space.  Once we found it, the sun-faded signs in the window were a little disheartening.  I am imagining that the Republican HQ in my county is more of a sight to behold.    

But we walked in and met the sole volunteer there.  His name was John and he has put his life on hold to do nothing but manage the Obama campaign here in North Georgia until after the election.  He seemed very excited and passionate and grateful for our help.  I told him I was afraid to put an Obama sign in my yard or on my car because of the rampant racism and right wing conservatism here, and he told me:

“Be brave.”  

And honest to God, I got choked up.  

I looked down at my arms and they were all goose pimply.  See for yourself.  

I thought about the fact that less than 100 years ago, women weren’t even allowed to vote in this country. And about the fact that blacks had even fewer rights than women.  And that here is a black man, who was raised by a single mother, and worked his way through college.  A man who has made history by being the first African American to be nominated by a major party for the President of the United States of America. A man who shares the same values that my family and I share: accountability, self reliance, love of country, and treating your neighbor as you’d like to be treated. And I am moved. Moved to action. We signed up to make phone calls and go canvassing this week and we left. 

Feeling inspired and alive, we drove straight to the County Adminstration building and WE VOTED FOR BARACK OBAMA.  Early voting is the way to go, people.  It feels so good to get it out of the way.  Knowing me, I’ll wake up on November 4th to a severe thunder storm, with three sick kids, a hole in my roof, no gas in my car, and a wicked hangover.  Yeah, there is no way I’m going to let my penchant for procrastination prevent me from casting my vote.  So we did it.  And it was HOT.

 

So hot, in fact, that we left the polls, went straight home, and made sweet democratic love.  And the birds were chirping and the sun was shining and all was right with the world.  And that was just the first time. Lord have mercy!

So my friends, if you are looking to rev up your love life and do something for the greater good.  Go vote with your lover.  But make sure you vote for Obama, because otherwise, the aphrodisiac effect is null and void. In fact, I recently heard that voting republican actually diminishes sexual prowess. Just thought I’d pass that along.

Clock Punchin’

Workin’ 9 to 5
What a way to make a livin’
Barely gettin’ by 
It’s all takin’ and no givin’. 
They just use your mind
And they never give you credit
It’s enough to drive you
Crazy if you let it…

“9 to 5″  Music and Lyrics by Dolly Parton.

Can you believe it was 28 years ago that the movie Nine to Five was released?  Gawd, I love that movie. Here’s how Netflix.com summarizes it:

A troika of female employees (Jane Fonda, Lily Tomlin and Dolly Parton) fed up with their “sexist, egotistical, lying, hypocritical bigot” of a boss (Dabney Coleman) entertains fantasies about evening the score. But fantasy turns into reality when the women think they’ve inadvertently poisoned his coffee. To cover their tracks, they concoct an intricate scheme that will turn the tables on the chief and shred the patriarchal old boys’ network. 

I was only ten years old when this film was released, and I bet I haven’t seen it in 15 years or so, but I’ll be damned it I couldn’t do the entire screen play off the top of my head right this very minute.  As a young girl growing up in the 80s, this film heavily shaped my pre-teen understanding of working women, female friendship, gender inequality in the workplace, comedy, vengeance, and S&M (“M&Ms).  It was an instant classic in my home and to this day I can’t look at Snow White, an electric garage door opener, or a woman wielding a firearm, without thinking about this benchmark film.  And I am fairly certain that listening to Dolly Parton’s deliciously funny and sexy southern drawl in her Nine to Five movie debut is the very reason why, to this day, I write like a potty mouthed southern belle even though I am originally from Pittsburgh, PA.  (“Ya’ll” is sexier than “Yinz” any day of the week, in my humble opinion.)  

And even though it is almost 30 years old, the story is timeless.  Everyone can relate to an oppressive asshole boss like Mr. Hart or the need to break out and do things your own way.  Who hasn’t fantasized about getting revenge on an enemy or two?  And that song…the catchy Grammy winning one Dolly Parton took all the way to number one back in 1980!  Just listen to it.  I’ve got three bucks and a Huggies coupon that says your feet will be tappin’, honey.  And Lord have mercy – the “I’m gonna change you from a rooster to a hen, in one shot” monologue…it just doesn’t get any better than that.        

So imagine my excitement to hear this morning on NPR that this classic, beloved film about female empowerment and friendship has been turned into a full fledged MUSICAL!  And get this, the one and only Dolly Parton wrote the score her own damn self.  And Allison “West Wing” Janney is starring as Violet Newstead (Lily Tomlin in the movie). How freakin’ perfect is THAT?!  Can you feel it, ya’ll?

But oh, whoa is me.  This musical opens tonight in Los Angeles and then next March, just a few days after my birthday, it will open on Broadway!  And here I am, a suburban POW, sitting here with my unbrushed teeth on my third cup of black coffee, nursing my little one’s DOUBLE GOD DAMNED EAR INFECTION.  Oh that poor little baby.  But enough about him.  Back to pathetic little ol’ ME, stuck here, with not even a snowball’s chance in hell of ever seeing that musical.  Shoot, I bet I couldn’t even get to that show if it came to the local high school and there were special half price tickets for auto club members on sale at the Piggly Wiggly.  Just the other day I asked my gatekeeper husband if I could go to a Moveon.org “calling party” tomorrow to recruit swing state Obama supporters and you know what that punk ass bitch said?  ”Geez Hon.  Sunday is like my only day to relax.”  To which I replied, in my most loving tone of voice, “Well that is true, sweetie pie, and I sure appreciate the need to relax after a long week.  But you know what, sugar?  I think it will be a whole lot easier for everyone in the free world to relax over the course of the next four years if we can get Obama elected and end this crazy Bush legacy of terror.  And if you would please just watch the babies for a few hours on Sunday afternoon so I could go and make some phone calls with my free nights and weekends cell phone plan, you could probably rest a whole lot easier knowing that you did your part for the greater good.  Just think about that, OK honey buns?”  ACK!  Yeah, those single working gals on Nine to Five were totally on to something.  Where is that rat poisoning when I need it?

Or maybe I’ll just head on over to the Ace Hardware and pick up some chains.  I do have an electric garage door opener, and I’m not afraid to use it.  Moveon.org Calling Party Members, I’ll see you all tomorrow.  

Oh, and my email address is imbearded@gmail.com, just on the off chance that you want to send me, oh I don’t know, two free tickets to the Broadway opening for my birthday? And not to be all Mrs. Fussy Britches or nothin’, but I’m kinda nearsighted, so if those tickets could be up close and personal, that would probably be best.  Thanks sugar.

9 to 5: The Musical (LA Opening info)

9 to 5: The Musical (Official Site)

ApocaLIPS

I apologize in advance, but it appears to be Vagina Week here at The Bearded Iris.  Maybe it is because I’ve gone off my meds and my libido is inching its way back up to sea level, or perhaps it is a result of watching Senator McCain be interviewed by those pussies on The View that has put va-jay-jays on my brain. (Joy Behar and Whoopie Goldberg…shame on you!  You were way too easy on that loose cannon.)  If you are just joining us and want to get caught up on all the shop talk, check out my recent vagi-centric posts:

Shiny (9/17/08) – all about my Brazilian Bikini Wax from hell

Show Me the Money (9/16/08) – a sexy money saving primer

Sweaty Bitch (9/14/08) – my adventure with Bikram Yoga, in spite of my frequently noisy hoo-hoo

Sticky Situation (9/8/08) – a detailed account of my five year old daughter’s riveting journey into the land of “I have gum stuck to my vagina” land. 

Are you up to speed then?  OK, good.  Moving on.  

Truly, I’m not obsessed with my va-jay-jay, all evidence to the contrary.  But just when I thought I knew everything there was to know about my anatomy, I discover that there is a whole (hole) ‘nother world of muffin maintenance that I know nothing about.  Ya’ll are never gonna believe this.  Did you know there is a new thing called the Wonder Woman Makeover™?  No kidding. It is not what you think, though.  If you go to a plastic surgeon and ask for a Wonder Woman, you will not walk out looking like Linda Carter. In fact, you probably won’t be able to walk at all for a while.  ’Cause get this: the Wonder Woman Makeover™ is a makeover for your goodie basket!  And by goodie basket, I mean ALL the fun parts immediately above and below where you hang your Lasso of Truth.  And by Makeover, I don’t mean makeup and a fashion update, although that is always nice.  No, we are talking Nip/Tuck, people. Apparently you can get your tuna noodle casserole tightened back up as if you never even popped out a puppy or two.  My good friend Cassie believes this disturbing trend is surely a sign of the apocalypse.  When women spend this much time, money, and energy on their vaginas, especially given the current state of the world, it is probably a good time for all of us to get right with God and prepare for the hereafter.  

So let’s talk specifics.  Here is the basic definition of the Wonder Woman Makeover™: multiple consecutive surgeries that include laser vaginal rejuvenation, laser reduction labioplasty, liposculpturing with Brazilian Butt Augmentation, and breast augmentation. “Huh,” you say?  Let me say it in American for ya, honey: this is a tuna-tightening, rear-raising, cellulite-sucking, boob-building smorgasbord.  Everything from your pits to your knees will be made “good as new” with this dealy.  Just don’t expect it to be covered by health insurance…this kind of thing is rarely deemed medically necessary.  Of course, if men requested this sort of work, doctors would be offering it at the drive thru window, with nary a co-pay, but that is a different story.    

Now, for my female readers who are either not mothers or who have had the benefit of a scheduled C-Section and are still as tight as a drum down there, you might be wondering, what’s all this emphasis on vaginal rejuvenation?  I can answer this best with a Haiku:

My babies were big,

and now so is my pussy.

Is it in yet, Hon? 

Sigh….so tragic.  Look, here is my point.  My husband is not complaining.  Even if sex with me is like tossing a baseball bat into the garage, The Mister is usually just grateful that he’s getting a chance to put the recreational equipment away once in a while, if you know what I mean.  But truth be told, sure, it could be better.  A study conducted by the famous Masters and Johnson research team revealed that sexual pleasure is heightened by an increase in friction.  Well, that can be a bit of a problem for us natural Wonder Women. Once you’ve pushed out three nearly-ten-pound babies the old fashioned way, sex feels more like a Teflon-coated Olympic luge event than squeezing a camel through the eye of a needle. (man, is it ever fun to quote from the Bible when I’m talking about sex!) 

According to the surgeons who specialize in it, Laser Vaginal Rejuvenation® (LVR®) enhances vaginal muscle tone, strength, and control.  It decreases the internal and external vaginal diameters as well as builds up and strengthens the perineal body (the area immediately outside the vagina and above the anus). Well, isn’t that nice.  So something like this could help me stop peeing when I laugh? Hmmm. Very interesting. Go on.  

Yes, vaginal rejuvenation can improve bodily functions.  But for some women, going this route is purely an aesthetic thing.  They simply want a pretty one.  Well, excuse me for saying, but that sounds a little oxymoronic to me.  Like Jumbo Shrimp. Nondairy Creamer. Holy War. Wireless Cable. The Patriot Act.  Since I’ve never spent a lot of time gazing longingly at this part of my body, I wasn’t quite sure what a “pretty one” looks like.  But yowza!  Look what I found!  Thank you Al Gore for inventing the Internet. 

Ladies, feel free to print this diagram out and use it as a teaching tool for those men in your life who don’t quite grasp the traffic patterns down there. Never pleasant. So anyhooo, THAT is a pretty one, eh?  Shoot. My poor husband!  He could SO do better than me.  What?  Don’t believe me? Here is what MY hot pocket looks like:

 

And in certain light:

 

And when I’m not shouting from the rooftops to remind the American public that
McCain was a member of the infamous Keating Five in the nefarious savings and loan scandal that cost taxpayers hundreds of billions of dollars, 
my pussy looks exactly like this:

 

 

Hey, don’t judge.  Remember, I’ve had three, count them THREE, very large babies.  My SMALLEST one was 8 lbs. 5 ounces and 22 inches long.  And I had an episiotomy with the first sack of potatoes that somewhat resembled the gutting of a fish.  Bygones.

OK, I get it.  This is a free country.  Whatever floats your boat, people.  Fine. Maybe you are all Loosey-Goosey and afraid your man is going to leave you for greener (tighter) pastures.  Fair enough.  But instead of going under the knife, I’m just suggesting you consider all the options.  How about asking HIM to get a penis enlargement instead?  Why not?  THAT is probably covered by insurance.  Or, if you are self conscious about the fact that your knockers hang to your knees and your stomach looks more like a Shar-Pei, then do what I do and simply turn off the lights…save your dignity AND electricity!   

My girlfriends and I joke around all the time about what stretched out old hags we are.  Good times.  I have one friend who swears she can tie a bow with her labia. Now that, I would like to see.  But if we all ran out and got vaginoplasty and tummy tucks and boob jobs and butt lifts, what in the world would we have to joke about?  

Oh, I suspect we’d find something….

Show Me the Money

If yesterday’s Wall Street blood bath has your panties all in a wad, don’t panic.  This does is not a “run on the Savings and Loan.”  Please leave George Bailey and his new bride alone.  They deserve that honeymoon and should not be harangued by you and your general anxiety disorder.  Just sit back and relax, honey. Iris has some unconventional financial tips that can bring your blood pressure down and please your partner all in one fell swoop.  

1.  Take it from me (and Suze Orman) that a coffee can is NOT the place to stick your money.  Yes, it is always a good idea to have a wad of small bills around in case of emergencies, or for playing “stripper” with your man on special occasions…like Tuesdays, but the majority of your money should remain in FDIC insured accounts.  Don’t be a Chicken Little.  This is not the time to lose your head and do stupid things.  In fact…I’m no expert on this, but I’m thinking now would probably be a good time to BUY BUY BUY.  It is like a fire sale on Wall Street today.  Have at it!

2.  Quit your gym membership.  Have more sex.  It is fun and mostly free.  If you do it correctly and often enough, you can improve flexibility and burn lots of fat.  Plus, you can do it in the privacy of your own home (although outside of the home can be fun too) and you don’t need any special apparatus or matchy-matchy outfits.  Wait, I take that last part back.

3.  Stop buying and wearing panties.  You’ll never have those pesky VPLs (Visible Panty Lines) and you’ll cut down on your laundry, which is also a very hip and “green” thing right now.  Let it breathe…it will thank you later.  See also: tip # 2 above.  No panties = easy access.  

4.  Don’t eat so much.  Think of all the cashola you’ll save at the grocery store!  Plus, you’ll have fewer calories to burn so you won’t need to work out so much.  Once you lose some weight, you’ll feel better about yourself too and can stop spending all that money on therapy and antidepressants.  And you’ll feel sexier, which will make you want to shag even more.  It is a self-perpetuating cycle of thriftiness.  This is a win-win-win solution, people, and it goes hand in hand with tip # 2.  Try it.  

5.  Save money on prescription drugs by stealing them from your friends.  

6.  Set up as many automatic payments as possible with your online banking service.  You’ll save oodles of green on late payment fees and imagine all the extra time you’ll have for things like, oh I don’t know, sex and illegally obtained prescription drugs.  

7.  Don’t pay for things you can get for free like movies, music, cable TV, and sex.  Be creative.    

8.  Get rid of your phones.  Everyone has a cell phone these days…just borrow one from a friend when you need it.  Borrowing a phone today is the equivalent to asking for the time, or bumming a smoke, or using someone else’s toothbrush on a one night stand…no big deal.  People really don’t mind.  

9.  Cut back on the number of extra-curricular activities you force on your over-scheduled children.  In addition to the monthly tuition payments you won’t have to shell out for music lessons, sports teams, tutoring, foreign language immersion classes, and horseback riding clinics, you’ll save on gas and the future psychiatric treatment that your children are most certainly going to require.  

10.  Quit contributing when they pass the basket at church.  If you are embarrassed, do what I do and just stick an empty envelope in there every week.  That way, the judgmental holy rollers in your pew will still think you’re a big spender, but you can use that money toward something more practical, like organic milk or push up bras.  

11.  Be open minded.  A box of wine is economical and better for the environment.  And after the first couple of glasses, the taste really grows on you.  

In conclusion, you don’t have to be a financial wizard to save a little money, just a teensy bit of creativity and a pathological lack of shame.  Oh, and don’t forget to vote Obama.  Who do you think got us into this mess?  Hmmm, let’s see, could it be?  The Republicans?  Oh yes, that is ringing a bell.  Just say no to 4 more years of this shit.  Please.  I beg of you.  Now put your computer away and go shag someone.  Listen to Iris, sugar, and make love, not war.

 

Thrift is not an affair of the pocket, but an affair of character. ~S.W. Straus

Asset or Liability?

I have read Senator John McCain’s first person account of his harrowing five and a half years in captivity as a POW in North Vietnam (U.S. News & World Report, May 14, 1973).  He is definitely a survivor, a war hero, and a loyal American citizen.  He has served his country in ways that most of us can’t even imagine.  

What intrigues me most about this, however, is the fact that his experience as a POW is lauded by the Republicans as such a major asset in his bag of proposed presidential qualities.  

Here’s the scoop: John McCain was a Navy flier whose Skyhawk dive bomber was shot down over Hanoi in 1967.  Having sustained numerous broken bones in the crash, he was captured, beaten, and systematically tortured by the North Vietnamese in blatant disregard to the Geneva Convention of 1949.  The medical care for his life threatening injuries was minimal at best and he spent a good deal of his captivity in squalid solitary confinement, replaying favorite books in his head to survive the extreme loneliness and desperation.  Anyone who has watched a single prison movie knows that life “in the hole” for any amount of time is HELL ON EARTH.  A month of this kind of isolation can break the strongest of souls, let alone several years.  

The fact that McCain survived this ordeal tells me a great deal about his character.  But it also tells me that there is no way in hell that this man does not have some form of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). We’ve all heard the buzz about his quick temper.  We know he is touted as “a Maverick.”  But come on.  Do we really want a man with that kind of baggage hovering over the button?  I’m thinking this guy has to have the itchiest trigger finger in the West.  To me, his time as a POW and the unavoidable emotional scars that must accompany that experience make him more of a liability than an asset.  I want a president who will calmly consider all the options before he/she makes a decision.  I want a president who will surround him/herself with various experts who can provide sound counsel and strategy.  I want a president who won’t thrust us into battle based on incomplete or falsified information just to settle an old score.  And call me a romantic, but I want a president who doesn’t use the word “gook.”  (McCain Criticized for Slur, SF Gate 2/18/2000.)  

I know this is not very politically correct.  But hey, I’m not the one running for public office here.  I’m not questioning John McCain’s bravery or loyalty or patriotism.  What I’m questioning is his mental stability. And given that, in addition to his advanced age of 72 (he is currently the oldest candidate to ever run for their first term of president) and his myriad physical challenges due to his POW experience, I am particularly fearful of his ability to lead our country.  Case in point: I think his choice of Sarah Palin as a running mate is a prime example of the kind of poor judgement and rash decision making that we would see in him as a president. My advice is to “just say no” to loose canons posing as “Mavericks.”  I choose brains, not brawn.  I choose even-keeled, not hot-headed. I choose Barack Obama, not John McCain.

He who is slow to anger has great understanding,

But he who is quick-tempered exalts folly. - Proverbs 14:29

RNC (Republican National Cockfight)

Watched the RNC last night.  Fascinating stuff.  A few general observations:

1.) The sea of white sparkly people: I have to ask myself, why aren’t there any people of color at the convention?  Little baby Trig Palin was the most diverse member of the audience.  (And good for you guys for going after the retard vote.  No child left behind!)  Although I did see one black person….oh wait, that was one of the reporters from the public television station.  And what is the correlation between republicans and extremely overweight people with cowboy hats?  Are they so fat because of all the pork in the bills?  Or maybe they are the manifestation of ketchup as a veggie and scaled back school physical education programs.

2.)  Mitt Romney.  Yikes!  That guy is scary.  How could he stand up there and denigrate so many facets of our nation after 8 years of Bush/Cheney leadership? How do you think it got this way, bub?  Why are these people taking no responsibility for the state of our country right now?  And as for family values…are you kidding me?  Please don’t parade the Palins and their knocked-up teenage daughter as an example of good family values. I’m not buying it. Clearly having a Mom and a Dad around isn’t the fail safe recipe for keeping a child on the straight and narrow. 

3.)  Sarah “The Pit Bull” Palin.  You go girl!  Look, any woman with five kids who has survived living in Alaska and a stint in the PTA is clearly one helluva contender.  You had me at lipstick.  But come on, all the low blows about Obama just reinforce for me that you don’t have better things to say.  Couldn’t you have risen above and showcased your own strengths and ideas instead of undercutting the competition?  Luckily for my team, you don’t have any foreign policy experience and/or basic understanding of the role of the Vice President, because you are one confident, articulate lady. But it is clear that you are just a pawn.  I mean really, how does the Republican ticket compete with the star-powered history making Obama nomination and Joe Biden’s 36 year track record?  Fight fire with fire.  Bring on a woman.  But not just any woman. A young, feisty, attractive, gun toting, pro-life woman!  Wow. You guys are good.  All she needs is an “Obama Bin Laden” t-shirt, and you guys will hit all the bases.

So, let’s see what big John McCain has to say tonight.  I’d like to see less cockfighting and more concrete ideas for how we can get our nation out of this big fucking Republican mess.  And by the way, did you notice how Barack Obama declared the Palin’s family situation “off limits”?  THAT is how you take the high road, Sarah.  Iris out, yo.