The Backseat of My Car: Liberal Breeding Grounds

I am beginning to pride myself on my magical ability to create dirty-sounding titles and phrases that really aren't, all as part of a shameless, marketing-savvy scheme to draw in the best kinds of people to "peruse my blog." See? There's another one.

Anyway, disillusioned reader, this essay isn't what it reads like. No, it's not erotica (read "The thinking person's porn"). It's more a tale of my successful liberal-breeding project, which I casually and affectionately refer to as "motherhood."

A few weeks ago, my nine-year-old nephew was visiting, and he, Spawnasaurus, and I were on our way back to my house. As usual, I was listening to the publicly-funded version of the elite media and, as usual, they were talking about the war in Iraq. My nephew tuned into the story, and said something along the lines of, 'America is the greatest country because we have the biggest military.'

For all of you liberals out there who bemoan the fact that more and more people are shifting to the right or, as I call it, "The New Middle," there IS a solution! Become an Organic Liberal Breeder. Or, at least, "redirect" any young children that you have access to, such as relatives, babysittees, or even those that you mentor through programs like Big Brothers/Big Sisters. (Apt title, in this context. But it's all for good, so it's ok.)

Anyhoo, I proceeded to inform him, correctly, that a big military didn't make us more badass than other countries, and while it might help, it didn't guarantee our "safety." The conversation proceeded from there, and his responses and questions were remarkably thoughtful. Spawnasaurus was there, too, in his booster seat, apparently absorbed in his "Pixter" electronic device and oblivious to the elevated level of discourse that was taking place between my nephew and me.

So you can imagine my surprise when, out of the blue, Spawnasaurus declares with a great deal of volume, breathless enthusiam, and the youthful exuberance that comes from really figuring something out...

"If we had a big porcupine, we wouldn't need a big miwitary!"

I can already hear the sarcastic snorts of you conservatives out there. No doubt you'll use Spawnasaurus's peaceful, innocent solution to our military-crazed culture as a "good" example of liberal "pragmatism," but, then, you don't really like children, do you?

Titillating Titles

That's right, dear reader, I'm creating a blog of nothing but titles for future blogs. I am simply too busy (read: "Too important--much more so than you") to write a full-on blog entry. So the following are titles of future blogs to keep my throngs of fans happy and coming back for more:

1. Makin' a Diff
2. Everyone Assumes the Worst About Me, Damnit!
3. Why Are You People Annoying Me So?
4. Lulu's Random Thoughts On...Commuting!
5. What happens in the Quilting Bee, Stays in the Quilting Bee (thanks Flip!)
6. "Daddy, What Did YOU Do During the Sudanese Refugee Crisis?
7. On the Highway to Hell . . . And Lovin' It!

Keep on truckin', gentle reader.

Two Great Things that Go Great Together--Encounters with Swingers

My husband and I did the unthinkable the other night. That's right, suddenly-interested reader, we went out to see a concert. My husband asked if I wanted anything to drink, as he was heading to the bar. I ordered an amaretto sour, only because I like to ask men to ask for amaretto sours when there are no females around. It's funny!

Anyway, he came back, like, 20 minutes later! When I asked him what he was doing that took so long, he said, "It was crowded at the bar, and then some swingers were coming on to me." I believed the first part, but immediately dismissed the second part--his mouth is mealy with lies!--and took a sip of my simply delightful little girly drink.

A little while later, this little couple squeezes past us to get a closer look at the marquee performer. They were very European-mall like: He was maybe, maybe, 5'6' with some sort of stylin' button-down shirt, expensive jeans, and very dark hair that fell in perfect designer flaps around his Italianate face. She was gymnist short, with longish blond hair and very tight hiphuggers. All in all, they were a very cute little pair, though all those jokes about couples "needing a room" apparently never registered with them.

Perhaps at this point, I should inform you that my husband, nicknamed "Offered," is very cute, but with a decidedly low-key personal style that consists of whatever T-shirt is on the top of the pile, cargo shorts (but not the expensive frat-boy kind. No, these are the kind that are on sale at Target. I know because I have assumed the role of his mommy and buy them for him, lest he walk around in clothes that give the appearance of a person who has recently scuffled with a brown bear over a bag of Fritos. You know you're really not supposed to leave food where bears can get them, and you're definitely not supposed to allow food smells to linger too close to camp. In fact, failing to secure food properly in national (and even some state) parks will get you a ticket and even a fine), white athletic socks, tennis shoes, and a plaster-splattered John Deere hat. Also, he shaves all of his hair (his head hair) off every once in a while and however it grows in, well, that's his style. He also has a beard.

Anyway...he leans over and says, "Those are the swingers!"

"What?" I said, as it was very loud.

"That's the couple who came on to me at the bar."

"No way!" I said, exposing my keen intellect.

I asked him to elaborate, which I always have to do because he's such a guy. He told me that they were standing behind him in line, got his attention with some funny little comment about the line, and then asked, "Are you here with anyone?" When he said yeah, I'm here with my wife, they said, "Hey, we're married, too. We'd like to have some fun."

At this point in the recounting, my eyes and jaws are growing wider as I come to the bizarre realization that Offered is not bullcrapping me.

This next part is funnier if you know my husband and understand that Offered has the aura of a tall, thin, fuzzy child that's always up for a good time, preferably something involving nature and beer. So with his faux-dumb hick demeanor and smartass grin, he said, "Welllllll...whadja have in mind?"

They proceeded to tell him that they had wife-swappin' in mind, and hey, man, where's your wife? We'd like to meet her! (!!!)

After then telling me that he had, indeed, set a time and place to meet them, har har, he told me the truth--that he had respectfully turned down their kind offer. I asked him why, and he said, laughingly, that he knew that there was no chance in all creation that I would've agreed to do it, so to speak. Well, dear reader, this brings up the inevitable and potentially marriage-endangering question of "Hey! Would you have actually done it? Do you want to swing?"

Pause here, reader, and think about your answer to that question.

His reply went far beyond the Appease Spouse reply: Oh No, Honey, You're All I Need. It even went beyond the consideration of Dread Diseases: And Wear a Condom Again??

Instead, Offered went straight for the jugular, replying in a wise, world-weary tone, "Nah...You don't want to get mixed up with swinger types."

Count me lucky, reader--my husband is the sturdy shepherd to my little naive, don't-know-much-about-anything bleating lamb.

Things that make you go "GEESH!! Enough already!!"

I've noticed something, gentle reader. I've noticed that, in these presumably enlightened but beneath the surface painfully stifling times, people can't stand to describe a woman as "strong" or otherwise capable without throwing in the inherent weakness that they all possess--their vulnerability. I've been noticing it for years, and it shows no sign of going away. The most recent was in reference to everyone's favorite (boobs) train wreck, Halle (boobs) Berry, in the incredibly informative and well-researched Special Edition of People magazine--30 Stupid Years of (boobs) Celebrities.

A google search this very morning turned up 642 hits for "strong yet vulnerable." To be fair, some of those were in reference to men, but come on--let's not fool ourselves here. It's about the chicks. I've seen this used to describe scores of actresses, athletes (of course! A 6'3" female volleyball player just has to be vulnerable, or else the world would stop frickin' spinning), and even crazy-powerful politicians.

It gets even worse when you consider the actual definition of "vulnerable." Web 10 (a dictionary to all of you who just aren't strong enough to work here) defines it as: Capable of being physically wounded; open to attack or damage; (and, most telling) liable to increased penalties but entitled to increased bonuses after winning a game in contract bridge.

It's time to delete this extremely tired and insulting phrase from the languages of the world. But that's just my opinion. Please don't question it--I'm feeling very vulnerable right now. Thanks! : )

Trading Wetnaps for Votes

Today Dr. Actually related that, at the big State Fair this past week, he visited the Kerry and the Bush booths and they were "manned by stereotypes. The Bushies were all young Republican college kids, clean cut with jacket and ties and polished shoes." The Dems, on the other hand, were attempting the look of an Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere-era Neil Young after a weekend of shroomin' in an cornfield. Typical.

My experience at the "biggest little" rural township fair near my home was quite different. There, both booths were staffed by white, mostly 40-something Midwesterners in L.L. Bean (or, more likely, J.C. Penney) weekend clothes, which was appropriate for the location. They appeared clean, with very non-controversial hairstyles. One of the Bushies--younger than the others--was wearing a shirt with the scathing symbol of the moment (flip-flops) on it. I didn't stoop in for a closer look at the wording, but I'm sure it was an attempt at "humor." Strange...I didn't realize they were programmed for that!

The Kerry booth was Kerrycteristically non-descript, and I had just passed it when my cell phone rang. It was my mother. I should explain at this point that I was walking to the far side of the fair to meet up with my mom, my son Spawnasaurus, and various other relatives. She instructed me to go to the Kerry booth (which I had just passed!) as they were giving away free wetnaps, and my contribution to the future was encrusted with blue cotton candy. I turned around--against the main flow of fair traffic, mind you--and went to the booth. Once there, I began to go for the wetnap when one of the smiling, 40-something, casually-dressed Kerry supporters asked "Can I help you with something?"

I said, "Yes. I'll vote for Kerry if you give me a wetnap."

She replied, laughingly, "Oh! Well then get her several!"

To which I reminded this lawless, maggot-infested (thanks, Rush!), full-of-hate agitator, "Hey! One wetnap, one vote."

I then walked away, laughing at her ignorance. I was going to vote for Kerry anyway! Coup!

I found my mom and son, wiped the sugary detritus from his mouth, cheeks, eyeballs, hands, forearms (carefully avoiding the fresh Spiderman tattoo that covered an entire half of his arm) and clothing, and proceeded to blow $33 on Skee-ball and any game that involved using guns.

The point of my story? The Democrats are vying to stuff the ballot boxes by plying a filthy, fair-food covered populace with wetnaps. Yes, your innocent request for a premoistened towelette unlocks the door to a festering bathhouse of vote-stuffing depravity.

It's all there, people! Wake up!

Non-Olympics coverage

I actually went to the NBC Olympics web site today. This is a big deal for me as I don't usually look up information about one of my least favorite things to do (watch TV) on one of my least favorite things (computers). But I want to watch the finals in the women's shot put and all I know is that it's on sometime today from noon to 4.

Why am I interested in such an obscure wrinkle in the track and field panoply? Thanks for asking! It's because I was a shot-putter in high school for one glorious year and coached that same event for 3 years. And I was pretty good, too.

Anyway, while I was looking, I noticed that when NBC is NOT broadcasting the Olympics, they don't list the individual shows. Rather, they lump them into one big blank chunk labelled "Non-Olympic programming." That about sums up my TV viewing (and entertainment prospects) for the next two weeks--except for the Lucinda Williams concert the middle of this week. Oh who will tape the Olympics for me???

All life is a blur of republicans and meat

Good morning, gentle reader, and welcome to my insufferable blog. I must admit that I have created this site merely to honk off my coworker, DTM, who proudly paraded his spanking new blog to the masses yesterday while I was taking a well-deserved personal day. Still, it's probably some kind of blog faux pas to NOT mention his blog, which you can find under whywontyougrow. So if you're not too upset about the lack of naked Daisy Duke lookalikes rolling in fresh hay, you might want to check it out.

By the way, the title of this blog has to do with my obsession with quilting and chickens. Also, the title of this essay, (brought to you with Olympics-like fervor and international comradery) all life is a blur of republicans and meat, is ripped off from an old Zippy the Pinhead postcard, much like Quincy Carter was ripped off the Dallas Cowboys for, well, isn't he just too human? 1, Let those without sin cast the first stone into Hurricane Alex, I say, and 2, bring on your doom, 3, I thought Ralph Fiennes was pretty hot in that one movie.

Because I haven't entered my personal information, some of you might be wondering what I look like, and what kind of personality I possess. I have the springiness of Anastasia Myskina, the brute strength of Mary Kay Letourneau, the ligaments of Lindsay Lohan, and the polished subtlety of Rick James, though I lack his mega millions. Did I mention that I will be in NYC for the Republican National Convention? I will, dear reader, I will.

Good day!