big hubbub

The New Yorker hit it big this week with The Controversial Cover, which I'm sure you know (unless you are living under some sort of rock or something) features Senator and Mrs. Obama, the former dressed in Islamic garb and the latter decked out in her finest terrorist garb (them's some hot pants there, Michelle!), giving the It's Hip To Be A Democrat Fist Bump.

I can understand how both campaigns are rising up, aghast. Because tsk, tsk, it's not nice to depict someone as a terrorist. And time out for you, it's not pleasant to have a cartoon of prejudice slapping us in the face. It's sad to be reminded that for many people in this country, The New Yorker illustration is not satire, it's reality...which makes it satire. Get it?

And that is why David Remnick, the editor of The New Yorker, ran the cover. Because that illustration speaks about our country. He said, What I think it does is hold up a mirror to the prejudice and dark imaginings about Barack Obama’s — both Obamas’ — past, and their politics.

Kristin from Well Read Hostess wrote about this whole kerfuffle the other day, and I think you should read it, because frankly, people, the woman is very clever. She is the Very Clever and Well Read Hostess, and there is an education to be had on her not-a-blog.

People find the cover horrifying. They think it's shocking. And they should. Because it is. But it's shocking in the same way one is startled with the realization that one's hair is entirely grey first thing in the morning. The same way one is horrified to notice how very horrible one's ass looks in a favorite pair of jeans.

No matter how true the truth, it flat-out sucks to hear bad news. And the bad news here is that no matter how civic-minded we applaud ourselves for being, no matter how tolerant we claim to be, we aren't. We are afraid of what we don't know and understand, and unfortunately many of us are okay with that. Apathy is easier. There's a bumper sticker for you.

The issue swirling around The Cover is not Barack Obama's politics, wife, or the life he has lived. It's about narrowminded judgement, and resting comfortably on our prejudiced haunches. Shame on us.

cinco de mayo, part 3

To catch up on the back story, read this, and then this.

There we were, outside of the pub, on Cinco de Mayo, manymany years ago. I was completely sober, because somebody had to be, and The Mister was CLEARLY not that somebody. He was plastered, on purpose, so that he could tolerate the clipping he was about to receive.

Now really, if I were in his shoes, not that they'd fit or anything, I would not choose alcohol and a set of clippers. The buzzing and the buzz and the buzzing and the buzz...I'd have barfed, that's all I'm saying. But it's all hair on the floor now...

I drove his sloppy self back to his parents' house, where he stumbled out of the car, clomped up the stairs to the front door, and made his not-quiet way through the house to where the clippers were stored. Then he made his equally not-quiet way back to the kitchen.

My in-laws must sleep like the dead. I say this with the greatest awe and respect, because a) I respect them deeply, and b) I aspire to sleep like that when I'm all grown-up.

He plugged the darn thing into the wall, and handed me the tool to bring about the demise of his Beloved Facial Hair.

I said to me, Oh shit. He's really serious. I am totally going to have to put his mouth where my mouth is. Why didn't he chicken out? Jerk. I don't even know how to use these things. What happens if I cut his lip off? That will totally suck, and I am not kissing any bloody mouth stump!

I said to him, I bet you scare your mother in the morning.

Not the cleverest things come out of my mouth at 1 a.m., but I'm okay with that. And besides, it didn't much matter, because OBVIOUSLY this boy was playing hardball, and didn't much care what I had to say at that point, because he was plowed, and he just wanted to be kissing on me.

And he wanted to cry. The single tear of mourning shed for his soon-to-depart natty mess gave it away. I am so kidding about that. The Mister didn't actually cry. But he thought about it.

So I buzzered off his beard. And Lip Covering. And let me tell you, people, I am not very good with the clippers. And he wasn't sitting very still. And I was nervous. And not good with the clippers...

But it all turned out alright in the end, you see.

I honestly do not remember what he said after I turned off the clippers. I just remember the kiss. It was a lovely event. I'm not going to say much else, as I'm fairly confident Uncle Benna just plain can't handle it.

If you haven't been kissed in such a way that makes the rest of your life melt into nothing, and that makes you melt into a puddle of goo, and causes fireworks, the bigbigbig ones, to erupt around you, and makes your heart stop beating long enough to shut your brain off... If you haven't been kissed like that then you are kissing the wrong people.

I can say that, because I kissed plenty of the wrong kind of person. And let me tell you, I was not looking back.

I will also tell you that me not looking back was a good thing, because unbeknownst to me, The Mister had taken my left-hand ring finger measurement that evening whilst I visited the loo.

how to seduce your wife

I've been really tired lately. Like, can't sign my name correctly on checks. Will fall over if the slightest breeze kicks up. Completely unable to prepare meals. Misplacing the short people.

The Mister has noticed. And that guy is concerned. In fact, as I was coming down the stairs today, he met me at the bottom landing and wrapped his arms around me.

Big. Comfy. Hug.

And just as I was dozing off, he whispered in my ear, Are you okay?

I nodded.

Just tired? he asked lovingly.

Yeah. Exhausted. On a cellular level. Seriously, even my mitrochondria are tired.

He kissed me softly, and said, Maybe you should let me screw you royal so you sleep real good.

some things to think about, part deux

1. Once upon a time, The Mister, Uncle Benna and I were standing in our driveway having a normal conversation. We were seriously disrupting the natural order of things, apparantly, and we were on the very last nerve of a squirrel up in the maple tree that shades said driveway. The squirrel threw a corn cob out of the tree and hit Uncle Benna squarely in the head.


2. I have an abnormal hatred of blue jays. I really, truly hate those birds. Every day during what should have been Blue Jay Season when I was growing up, an effing blue jay would sit in the tree outside my bedroom window and scream until my head exploded. Every. Stinking. Day. I was recently reminded of my undelightful feelings, as that verysame blue jay has discovered where I live. And it sits. On. The. Garage. Roof. Flipping me off. Every day. And screaming. And I hate that damn bird. Even more than this bird.




3. The annual Town Carnival would have been this weekend, except it seems that the fire department has taken to shunning the carnies. Why the discrimination? A gang of carnies nearly slit the throat of our good friend, Brother Snipes, a few years ago, and WE don't hate the carnies. Brother Snipes and his Cousin Benny (not to be confused with Uncle Benna) thought it would be fun to get the carnies all riled up. So Brother Snipes bodyslammed one of their trailers, a little thing the size of a pop-up camper. As it happened, there were 654311687135796873 carnies sleeping in the trailer, and they were a) slightly rankled at the wake-up call, and b) drunk. So, naturally, they wanted to kill Brother Snipes and Cousin Benny have a strained but pleasant conversation detailing the proper etiquette for waking refined gentlemen such as themselves. Insults, punches, knives, blah, blah, blah. All I'm saying is that we don't hate the carnies. (Oh, and Mama of Brother Snipes, I reallyreallyreally hope this isn't the first time you heard that story.)



4. The Town Carnival people cancelled the carnival, but kept the beer tent and the bad entertainment, and The Tractor Pull. Because that's where the money is. Tractor. Pull. It's a bunch of tractors pulling a bunch of heavy stuff to see whose tractor can pull the farthest. Furthest. Whatever. Let's pause a moment and guess which set of chromosomes thought that up...Right. XY.



5. The local Lions Club or some public-service oriented organization puts up flags for all the Flag Holidays. I like to fancy myself an intelligent, well-educated, well-read, classy lady, but I found myself scratching my head today, when I noticed that the flags were up. So of course I googled it. And as it turns out, today is Different Colored Eyes Day. It is also the day that the United States invaded Canada at Windsor, Ontario, during the War of 1812. Umm, yeah, in 1812. I thought maybe, just maybe, we were rubbing Canada's nose in it, you know, all Your dollar might be worth the same as ours, but we totally invaded you 196 years ago and didn't kick your crown-loving asses all over North America. But on second thought, maybe not. I salute you, people with two differently colored eyes! And so does my town.



6. And finally, have you met my new boyfriend? Mister Yuengling Porter? If you haven't, do not fear or dismay. There will be an interview with him tomorrow. I would say Hands off, sister, but we are totally cool like that.

i'm huge in colorado springs?

Not that I'm all into blowing people in for things, but a certain someone who may or may not actually reside in Colorado Springs mentioned that word of The Dayton Time has spread like wildfire. Or the chicken pox. Memory's a little fuzzy today.

And that certain someone also told me that some of you CS Stalkers, and I use that term with lotsandlotsandlots of affection, it's like you're my pretend friends, and I like you, I really do, and I'm so psyched that you are reading me. You like me, you really, really do! (name that totally unscripted moment in cinematic history).

Wow. The grammar in the preceding paragraph is atrocious, and I ask y'alls's forgiveness.

Anyway, this person may have said some of you think I may have concocted the stories I share with you.

Dearest of all possible stalkers, I want to assure you that whilst I am able to retell a story with flair and panache and zinging sarcasm, I am completely not clever enough to make this stuff up. SweartoGod,nothopingtodie,sticknoneedlesinmyeyes.

If there's anything else you'd like to ask me, feel free. I will tell you anything you want to know. Well, almost.

P.S. If you'd like to check out somebody who routinely assists his stories with a healthy dose of fun, check out Black Hockey Jesus.

an affirmation

HB was sitting on my lap today, having some morning nursings. He paused, leaned back a little, and stared at my right breast.

HB: Mook.

Mama: You like the milk?

HB: Yee-aaahhhw.

HB gives Righty a poke.

Mama: Not for fingers.

HB, glaring, samples Lefty. Still glaring, but with a wicked glint of naughty, pokes Lefty.

Mama: Dude. Seriously. Nurse or get off me.

HB, pointing at Righty: Broken.

Mama: What!?!?!?!?

HB: Broken. (Points at Lefty.) Broken. Ahdone. (Climbs off my lap and runs away laughing.)

Nice. The child is barely over the 18 month mark and is telling me my girls are broken. With perfect enunciation and pronounciation and speeching skills. Well let me tell you something. And I know you are experiencing a full-on cringe here, from your forehead down to your toes, because you sense that I am about to Cross The Line, and to be honest, I am, too. So I will just skip to the punchline and say: THEY AREN'T BLOODY BROKEN, FOR CRYING OUT LOUD. So there.

Mook.

one more for the resume'

I lived with a blessing for two weeks. It wasn't a surprise blessing, it was eagerly anticipated. I had something I wanted, and it was just starting to sink in, the whole bliss of getting that which I was hoping for.

And now it's gone.

Therein lies the surprise. It's not often that things go awry for me; you know I have ranted and raved about the ridiculous daily events that are my life, and there are certainly portions of this life that could go better. I have reason to believe that if something in my life is going a certain way, it will continue down that path until fruition or completion, and I'll achieve the desired outcome.

I am used to that, the whole Achieving The Desired Outcome thing.

So now that The Desired Outcome is no longer The Actual Outcome, I am not sure. What to think about this whole deal, how to wrap my brain around it, what I feel about The Desired Outcome vs. The Actual Outcome. I want to pull the cotton balls out of my brain so the big fuzzy goes away, so that I can think, and it's just not happening. (Just another example of Not Achieving The Desired Outcome.)

Surrealism is not my thing. I'm way better with the black and white, the clear-cut, the rational, the obvious. And it's just plain bizarre that in a situation that is so very black and white, clear-cut and obvious, I can't get past the surreal feeling that has invaded me.

It will fade, I hope. I'd like to say I'm sure that I will be able to see my way clear of the surreal, but maybe this is just one of those things that is going to be weird forever.

Weird forever. How's that for a promising tagline? I could put it on my business cards, supposing I ever find myself in a situation where I would be using the things.

Pamela, Boss of Things Over Here. Permanent Case of Weird Due To One Time When The Actual Outcome Was A Major Disappointment. Call any time.