"Why, what big teeth you have, Mr. President!"

Any comments on the ridiculous anti-Kerry, terrorists-as-wolves, Bush-approved ad?

I, for one, am a bit miffed. Not only does the Bush camp rehash the stupid idea that Kerry would never dream of inconveniencing the terrorists, but it also rehashes the generations-old myth that wolves are bad, bad, bad. Was Bush playing to the fears of 7-year-olds, thus trying to get out the vote of the traditionally lackluster Elementary School Kid voting block? Or, or...I can't even comprehend the stupidity of what he was trying to do.

Oh--you haven't seen it? Fade in: Shots of a shadowy wolf on the prowl in a forest. Audio: A scary-voiced announcer says scary things over scary music about how Kerry invited the terrorists to an elitist country club golf outing, or something like that. More shots of forest/wolves. Climactic Moment: A pack of wolves, some sitting, look straight at the camera--at YOU. Scary-voiced announcer says that Kerry won't protect us from those who want to harm us. Wolves attack us while we sit, helplessly, in mauve recliners. Return to "CSI: Miami."

This ad was very enlightening to me and cut a sharp line between those of us who are voting for Kerry and those of us who are voting for a return to The Past That Never Existed. It effectively illustrates the hostility to nature that Bush and his ilk possess. To me, the scenes of the wolves and of the scary (?) green forest were very pretty. To someone like Bush, they represent darkness and evil--he's linking them to the freakin' terrorists! And it shows in his policies towards them.

The first white people that settled this continent were afraid of "wilderness"--it was a dark, scary place full of vicious animals, trees (real progress-killers, those trees), witches, pagans, evil. The Bible shaped the philosophy that nature is ours to do with as we please--that God created the world for us to trash, if we want to. People like Bush carry on this backward-ass tradition with great flourish, and this ad reminded me of that primitive mindset--and that primitive mindset is what really kills.

Makin' a Diff

This blog entry accomplishes two things. First, it informs the voters. Second, it uses up one of the titles that I carefully crafted all the way back in August. Enjoy, informed reader!

Apparently, this Swing State doesn't include a candidate's party affiliation on the ballot. So, because we've been absolutely fucking bombarded by presidential ads and info--I mean, they are completely dominant--many of us may find ourselves in a voting booth lurch when faced with two un-affiliated candidates up for Clerk of Court of Common Pleas. Honestly, I don't know who is running for this position in my county, and I certainly don't want to vote for the Republican out of pure ignorance, and who has time to look all of this up? I'm telling you, if news about the election and, in particular, the candidates, were condensed into a 24-hour period (in dreams, I walk, with youuuuuuu...), news about the prez candidates would suck up a full 23.75 hours (but their speeches during their many visits are always so new! so fresh!), with the other 15 minutes going to the senators. News about county officials and other not-so-glitterati has been officially relegated to yard signs.

Soooooo, you could go to the official web site of the party you like and get a list of their candidates (it's there). OR you could wait for the information to come in the mail (somewhere, somehow, we've made it onto some Republican list and occasionally get cheesy pictures of the prez telling us to keep America safe and strong). But here's the funnest way:

If you are a Democrat, and you really should be, go to the nearest Republican Party headquarters. Wear something appropriately conservative--shirt and tie for the men, burkhas for the ladies. Plaster a big, fake smile on your face and ask "Hi! Do you have a list of all of the Republican candidates for state and local office in {insert your fine county}? I want to make sure I vote for all of the right people, if you know what I mean! Laugh a little, maybe throw in a little wink. After all, you are being devious and having a good time. Of course, you are going to use the list as a voting booth 'photo negative'--the people on the list are the people to avoid, not the liberal commie gays you are actually going to vote for! But the saps working in the Death Star don't know that--they think you're a swell Christian man/gal.

After the niceties are over and the list is in hand, AND after you've sized up the Stormtroopers and ascertained that you can run faster (I can't emphasize this enough), jauntily walk to the door, open it, turn towards the enemy and say, in a jolly way...

"Thanks, Fuckers!"

Run.

Flipflop, flip flop, flip...flop,........flip..............flop

Yes, I'm ready for the voting to end and the recounts to begin! The other night I had two dreams about election night. In the first, which was fuzzier, vaguer, the talking heads were announcing which candidate had won My Midwestern Swing State--yikes, it was Bush. In my dream, I was crushed. Hideously disappointed.

I don't know if my brain was trying to make me feel better, if I'm on to something, or if the incessant campaign talk, ads, signs are taking their toll, but I had a second dream about the exact same thing later that same night. This time, which was sparkier, clearer, I found myself watching the news on election night (again) and the tv news hacks, for kicks and big! excitement!, presented the news of who won which state thus: The camera would hone in on the Big Board. States that definitively went to one major candidate or the other showed up blue (Dems) or red (GOP). Those, like my particular swing state, that were close, close, close, changed from blue to red and back again, casino Wheel-of-Fortune style (building the exquisite tension), fast at first and then slowing, slowing, redblueredblue red blue red blue red blue red blue.

BLUE! Thank the lord, Kerry won My Swing State! Lying there on my slightly deflated Select Comfort mattress, sound asleep, relief and jubilation washed over me.

Yes, besieged reader, this election is a major source of anxiety for me. I don't have a lot of confidence that it's going to turn out the way I want it to and, if it doesn't, I'm just hardly going to believe it. Wake up! Wake up! Wake up! I'll yell from my so-liberal-that-I-flip-flop-in-my-dreams beleaguered soul.

WAKE UP!

All right, this is a bunch of crap.

I can't believe what I have to do, dear, dear, sweet patient reader. I have to admit that I am, indeed, an idiot. Once just isn't enough for me. No, I have to screw up twice.

Remember the brilliant "menstruating administrators"? Well, put it out of your mind--forget you ever saw it! It's a LIE! I misspelled again.

I dropped the "r" and, in so doing, came up with the faux hit. The real menstruating administrators gets hundreds of hits.

But! There's a twist!

The hit that I received when I misspelled menstruating administrators linked me to spec's blogging universe! So the first time I messed up, I got a hit linked to a blogspotter, the second time, a link to livejournal! Weird, huh? I'm hoping all of this will distract you from the real issue here, which is the refugee crisis in Sudan.

Oh. And that I'm an idiot.

But a sorta funny idiot.

And FULL of integrity!

Redemption, Part II (if i was into that kind of thing)

When I was a sophomore in high school, I was living The Great American High School Dream. I was a varsity cheerleader who won the first "spirit award," my boyfriend (also a sophomore) was a varsity football player and a rising star on the team, I had two wonderful girlfriends (also cheerleaders), my grades were up, and my hair was pretty good, for the 80s.

I was really into my boyfriend. He was tall, kinda quiet, his clothes smelled great--so much so that I have a vivid sensory memory whenever I smell a similar detergent (and I've searched for years for the elusive detergent). We used to go to cheesy school dances and pep rallies, get pizza after the game, and make out in his parent's rec room. Get the picture?

But, over the course of a few days, Jack (names have been changed, not sure why) turned rather cold. Anxiety washed over me, and I wrote him a simple note in science class--"Why aren't you talking to me? What's wrong?"

The reply was passed from his seat at the back table to mine in the front. There, in simple boy scrawl, were the words, "I like Diane." Did I mention that Diane was one of my two wonderful girlfriends? And did I mention that she was skinnier than me, with more natural hair?

In a moment that far exceeds anything on "Saved By the Bell" or "Square Pegs"--because it was real, man--I actually bolted out of the room, barely containing my tears, even eliciting the clueless "Lulu!?" from my teacher, Mr. Science Teacher/Track Coach, who thankfully left me to myself.

Diane's locker was right beside mine, and I remember how they, like, immediately hooked up after Jack's admission, and how I had to endure jerking my books out of the teeny locker while they nuzzled right next to me. One dark day, I squatted down to get something from the bottom of the locker, blacked out for a moment, and fell on my butt. Right in front of them. Around this time is when I told my mother "I'll never get over this."

So what is the point of rehashing this humilating yet very typical tale from The Hell Years? Well...Jack and Diane went out all through high school. I went to my 10-year reunion and found out that they had never broken up! They got married, had three kids, and had never left Smallbury. She was a housewife--still pretty, still thin, with very natural hair. He had put on a significant amount of weight, was a cop in Smallbury, and had experienced very natural hair loss. It was fate! They really were Jack and Diane! They were a John Mellencamp song. My life, I was happy to fully realize after seeing all those jackasses that I went to high school with, was more like a Rolling Stones song. Totally rockin', totally fun, with lots of vice. And I had a totally cute 19-year-old lover waiting for me back in Rocky Mountain State. And I was at peace. I took a picture with them and we had a good time remembering the dark ages.

But even that, dear reader, is not why I wrote this. No, this story has a twist.

I just received an email from my mom. She went to the wedding of one of her friend's sons who is my age. Jack was there. When it came time to toss the bride's garter, he was among the single men on the floor and, believe me, probably would still display said garter on his rear-view mirror if he had caught it.

My mother asked someone sitting nearby, "Why is Jack out there with the single guys--isn't he married?"

It turns out that Diane, Midwestern Small Town Wife and mother of at least three . . . with presumably one lover her entire adult life. . .

. . . had left Jack . . .

. . . for Jill.

At last, redemption.

"Menstruating administrators."

One try. One hit. One modicum of happiness.

Does anybody really care? about time?

My mother cut out a newspaper article for me about "googlewhacking." Googlewhacking is the newest trend!--yet another in the grand tradition of useless things to do on a computer to kill time at work. The object of this "game" (according to Large Midwestern's City's Only Major Newspaper) is to "Put two words--no numbers or punctuation--into Google and attempt to return a single hit." No quotations and no proper names. A hit doesn't count if it's a list, "such as a dictionary."

It took the geniuses (plural) at said paper "almost an entire afternoon" to come up with with one (taupe salubriousness). Go to googlewhack.com for winners such as "suckfish sandwiches," "parboiling trombonist," and "discoing chihuahua."

Here are my attempts at greatness, the numbers they pulled, and the shocking! cosmic! link! And it only took me, working alone, about 5 minutes--and without using a dictionary!* Which leaves many more minutes to kill (divide and conquer the day!).

• Sauntering Jew (so I didn't read the instructions carefully! Knock off, you shmuck!) 779
• Sauntering punk (spec?) 830
• captivating neuron 525
• Machiavellian oboe 132 (First of all..132?! Secondly, so I didn't read the instructions! Knock off, you shmuck!)
• Fillmore trout 14,600 (Aarrrrggghhhh! Instructions! Turns out there's a Fillmore Hatchery. Damn!)
• Machiavellian nickle 35 (Some guy named Nickle WROTE A BOOK about Malthus!! What are the odds, huh, reader? When I tried "nickel," I got 3,270 hits!)
• rambunctious polyester 1,670
• political mouthwash (forgot to record number, but it was more than one--here's your chance for excitement, lonely reader! Check it out!)
• reveling sausages 392 (with links to world leaders!)
• rural fetish 44,400 (of course, if I was on there, it was past 44,399 porn entries)
• troublesome daisies 2,110 (My most obnoxious coupling. Troubling.)
• anxious sprout 4,600
• nervewracked hippies 1!!!!!! But "nervewracked" is really two words...70 hits
• hustler missionaries 606 (possible band name, though...)
• melliflous mouthwash 2! Getting closer! Sticking with "melliflous," which I thought of on my own, *though I did use a dictionary to check the spelling. I would like to be straight with the American people and go on record as saying that using a dictionary to come up with words that you have never heard of should not be allowed. It cheapens the sport.)
• Melliflous shale 2!! (DAMNIT!)
• Melliflous election 38 ?!
• Melliflous trousers...12 (Ah, I'm on to something. And then I think of a little word that one of Millard Fillmore's Japanese friends really hates...)

THE WINNER: "Melliflous slacks" 1

And here's the superfreaky part--the link was to a fellow blogger, but not just some random blogger...but a fellow blogspot blogger. www.versuswords.blogspot.com

And now, the final shock. The twist so surprising, so sneaky, that I challenge the kudos given to that hack, M. Night Shamalyan. Come, Mr. Shamalyan, Shamal ME banana. Fuckhead. You see, simple (or disarmingly bright, even elitist) reader, "melliflous" is actually spelled "melliflUous," which I confirmed by checking the dictionary. . . and ended up spelling it wrong anyway. And I'm in educational publishing, reader, which means that I am the reason why the youth of America are so damned stupid.

So. . . when I use the correct spelling, I got nothing. Or, rather 212 hits for "mellifluous slacks." And 613 for "mellifluous banana." Even "terrorist mallifluousness" garnered 25 hits! Mellifluous kneecap, bulldozer, pomogranate, helicopter, bark, earmuffs and carburetor all hit at least 15 times! "Muffled mellifluousness," "corduroy mellifluousness..." no better than 2 hits.

So, it seems I'm not smart at all. Or that there are way too many people trying to look like friggin geniuses by (over)using the word "mellifluous." My irritation flows. . . well. . . mellifluously.

OK, I'm not Rosie O'Donnell, but I interviewed a 4-year-old

Along with the short bio that I completed for Kevin's cousin (see "All About Wonderful Me" below), I also interviewed my son for the same project. I'm going to drop the name hiding thing, especially since I already blew it in a previous entry. My husband's name is Kevin, he HATES the imposed nickname of "Offered," and insists that his nickname, if necessary, be "Lizard."

Anyhoo, Stevie took this interview very seriously and I scribbled fast to get down every precious, just precious, word.

My interview with Stevie
September 20, 2004
by Lulu

What are the three things you like to do the most?
Play with dinosaurs
Eat dinosaur egg oatmeal (an actual product)
Play with my dinosaur set
(When I pressed him for a third thing that wasn’t so like the first…)
Dig for dinosaur bones

What are three things you don’t like?
I don’t know three things I don’t like.

Do you have any pets?
(Points to Dottie): Pet right there!

Any others? What about the chickens?
Those are the extra pets.

What do you mean, “extra?”
In case Dottie dies.

What are your three favorite places?
School
Large Midwestern Science Center
Home

What are your three least favorite places?
(Long pause) I don’t.

What’s your favorite color?
Blue!

If you were meeting someone for the first time and they wanted to get to know you better, what would you tell them about yourself?
I’d tell them my name.

Is that it?
That’s all I’d tell them.

If you could only take one thing on a trip, what would it be?
I might dry off my dinosaur set. (His dinosaurs were in the bathtub.)

If you could go to anyplace in the world, where would you go?
Large Midwestern Science Center

What’s your favorite thing about daddy?
Daddy’s so funny.

What does he do that’s funny?
He does lots of things that’s funny.

Like what?
Like he juggles two balls.

What’s your favorite thing about me?
That you’re a little bit funny.

What’s your favorite kind of music?
Dinosaur music. Dinosaurs make music with their mouths. They go ‘rar rar rar rar, rar rar rar rar, rar rar rar rar, rar rar rar.’ (Sung to the tune of “The Days of the Week Song.” It’s a lot like “Clementine.”)

Do you like to jitterbug?
Ya-oh—that’s pretty fun.

What are your three favorite foods?
Dinosaur egg oatmeal
Dinosaur soup
Dinosaur egg soup

What are your three least favorite foods?
Oranges
Apples
Pears

What do you love?
The only thing I love is dinosaurs.

Do you love daddy and me?
I like you, but the only thing I love is dinosaurs.

What else can I ask to get to know you better?
That’s all you can ask me.

Postscript

Later, Stevie told me that when he lines up to go outside with his classmates in the purple classroom, he sometimes stands on a girl. I asked him to clarify, and he admitted that he stood by her. Her name is M-----n. When I asked him why he liked her, he said, “I like the smell of her hair.”

Stevie also volunteered, during an earlier conversation, that the best alternative to a big military was a big porcupine.

About the Interviewee

Stevie is 4. He attends Expensive Preschool in Midwestern Suburb, where he is pursuing a Scrapbook Item certificate. At school, he ‘chooses’ to spend free time on the computer, and enjoys the Expensive Gymnastics! elective program. He lives in Rural Midwesterntown with his parents, dog, 16 chickens, and many, many dinosaurs.

It's not easy being green

That's right, eager reader, this is my political talk swan song.

After a particularly contentious email string among Millard Fillmore's Japanese Friends yesterday, and, more narrowly, between Dr. Actually and myself, I've decided to silence my political voice, save for a scant 10 words on issues of my choosing.

Why? ask the alternately disappointed and delighted readers.

Because it just doesn't matter. All we spew about is opinions backed by murky, pliable "facts." If facts are the tectonic plates, teeny little things, constantly shifting; then our world view--voiced by our opinions--are the solid core. And cores are more difficult to move. One of us trusts the government's motives when it comes to foreign policy and applies something like the 3/5 rule when it comes to dead foreigners--they just don't mean as much as dead Americans. Another sees everything through a religious lens, failing to see that being born again does not equal compassion, but it's a great excuse for denying civil rights to those who don't live up to a particular moral code. Some disagree, but don't stand up, or defer to another's opinion, or create a diversion to avoid uncomfy conflict. Others just sit and watch.

Meanwhile, my anxiety level goes through the roof.

In the end, views may change, but--like the tectonic plates again--too imperceptibly for us to really notice. Honestly, I don't give a shit about the opinions of others anymore. But I'm not some kind of assholey rock, dear reader--I don't give a shit about my OWN opinions, either. What matters to me now are actions.

It's fine to send out the results of political polls to the entire office. That's an action with, I'm assuming, a positive motivation. My problem with it is that it is sent in the guise of scholarly objectivity, but is neither. If the Bush administration throws out the roadless rule, funding for family planning clinics, and invades a country. . . those are actions. And I'll take a stand. But I'm not going to discuss opinions anymore--especially at work. I am too tempted to bust open the dam and really attack.

So unless you back up your opinions with some sort of action, and especially an action that makes a positive difference, I am really trying hard to really not care.