Try As They Might, My Ovaries Can't Open the Voting Booth Curtain

I never get political on my blog. Mostly, because I don't care.

Since 2001, I've just resigned myself to the fact that I live in an evil parallel universe.

I was watching something on TV the other day where Ben Cohen (of Ben & Jerry's) was visiting Congress with a bill proposal to take 15% of the military budget and rechannel it to education. Right here in our own country! Because wouldn't it be nice to use that 85% to bend the rest of the planet to our will, but be (as my friend Carrie likes to say) smarterer? I think the figure they used as 15% of the military budget was 60 million dollars. I don't know much about nuffin', but from my crumbly little single-mom doorstep, I have great difficulty understanding why we continue to throw trillions of dollars towards the middle east while the neighborhoods around me are becoming poorer, (and dumberer!) and crime rates edge upwards. Perhaps our own poverty is tough to see over the walls of gated communities. Maybe we should put the foreclosure signs on taller sticks. But it seems to be the same logic where they put "Please put on your own oxygen mask before assisting children or the elderly" in the plane crash instructions. I mean, if you're not breathing, how are you going to help anyone else?

Then, when I saw McCain chose Palin as his running mate, I got all excited. He's a lumberjack and he's ok - he sleeps all night and he works all day... he wears high heels, suspendies and a bra... Oh, Sarah Palin? No, I have no idea who that is. I read a little. She seems like a good ol' girl. Governor. No national or international experience, but she's got charisma, which seems to be the same complaint about Obama. Seemed a little stunned when they called her name... Anti-abortion. NRA member. (Hey, have we medically confirmed that she has a vagina? I'm just askin'.) Just had her last baby 4 months ago. Special needs. As a mom, I just have to wonder, and again, please bear with me, I'm just an ignorant and uneducated single mother, but what kind of life are you saving your fetus for if you take off and run for VP when the kid is 4 months old? I mean, when Malena was 4 months old, I sort of felt like she... needed me.

And it's not like Americans can't be swayed by charisma. I have a total girl crush on Michelle Obama. I don't know how many other people shrug at the whole electoral process knowing that the entire thing is manipulated, strategized, positioned, and just trying to get into your pants, but I'm just sick of the whole damned thing. You wouldn't hit a man in glasses, would you? Or a 72 year old man shielding himself with a mother of a child with Down Syndrome? At least Pappy and the womenfolk are stepping up to the plate now that they've sent all the able-bodied men to battle.

But stop teasing her for being pretty. Like we're only interested in candidates who look like George Washington. She can't help it, she's just drawn that way. I can't help it either.

PTA, here I come. Next stop, total world domination.

A Sad Conversation With My Almost-Four-Year-Old

Arms loaded with folded towels to put away, I headed for the bedroom. The door was blocked by one of the cats, trying to score a good spot on the pillow. I nudged her with my foot.

"Out of the way, cat".

(from downstairs) Malena: "WHAT?"

Me (struggling to get the door open): "Nothing!"

Malena: "WHAAT?"

Me: "NOTHING!!"

I put the towels away in my bathroom, and my kid is coming up the stairs.

Malena: "Mom, what? I didn't hear you."

Me: "Nothing, I was talking to the cat".

The child stares at me.

Malena: "Mom, you know the cat can't talk, right?"

Me: "Thank you for that valuable information".

Two minutes later, from the kitchen, the sound of a very necessary cocktail being made is heard.

Yeah, baby... Wait. My what?

New Guy and I were having a chit-chat the other day. You know, just about this, that, and the other thing, and somehow, don't ask me because I don't remember, my undergarments wandered into the conversation.

New Guy is an angel, albeit a little more reserved than I. And when I say "a little more reserved", he's Tom Hanks and I'm Amy Winehouse. So when he gets brave enough to mention my unmentionables, I try my durndest not to make any sudden movements or otherwise startle him.

In my house, if it has Elmo, rainbows, or days of the week, they belong to the kid and we call them underpants. None of the above? Panties. Unless my dad comes over. Then they're "drawers". As in "Put on some clean drawers, we're going out to dinner". He doesn't care if you're three or thirty-seven. He doesn't even care if you're wrapping up a call with the boss. He's got stuff to do, so put yer pants on.

New Guy was raised speaking the Queen's English. I was raised speaking the Jamaica Queens English. He says things like "ahsk" and "petrol", and I say "cawfee" in a husky voice with a cigarette hanging out of the side of my mouth and an inch-long dangling ash. So New Guy is being all sweet and gooey, and starts getting all romantical on me and then... says something about my knickers. (needle scratching across record)

Whothewhatthehey?

Knickers are something boys wore in the 1800's, made out of itchy wool. Panties are delicate things. Men say the word "panties" with respect.

Knickers.

OK.

Sexy time over.

Happy House

Yesterday, my child who was home due to school closings for an official Tropical Drizzle Watch, ran out of her bedroom wearing a giant pointy hat and brandishing a plastic sword, yelling "I'm a Pirate Witch!".

Nothing gives me a greater sense of peace than wandering around and listening to her giggle and talk crazy talk to herself while I admire my green, thriving houseplants, or my content cats who love to snuggle down into a warm patch of sunlight on my bed and sleep for 22 hours. It seriously is the little things that make me so incredibly happy -- like the simple fact that other living things are content and thriving in my house.

And my vacuum lines in the carpet. I loves me some vacuum lines.

Aaaahhh.

'S all good.

:)

Hurricane Preparedness

Ready and reporting for duty.

"Today's post" rock's

I spend a lot of my life proofreading. When I'm not getting paid for it, I'm scrunching up my eyebrows at menus and road signs, wondering why the universe doesn't give me the job of Global Proofreader. I could angrily stomp around the earth with a spray can and hand out tickets for Punctuation Misuse.

I'm undecided on the possessive apostrophe for proper names ending in -s. I asked the two Thomases in my life which apostrophe choice was correct: "Thomas's sock" or "Thomas' sock" . Both chose number two, as number one "looked dumb".

This is my new favorite blog.

UPDATED TO ADD: I'm FAMOUS!!! Or, errr... "famous".

The Name is Amager. Thomas Amager.

He's quiet and unassuming. He spends most of his days in a hole, dusting off pottery shards. And yet, he manages to put smiles on female faces across the globe.

London, Paris, Tokyo, Fort Lauderdale... his raw power knows no boundaries.

Thanks, Thomas. We love you.

SEXY! Or just sad.

The highlight of my evening tonight, after putting together my daughter's bed, hanging up curtains, and installing shelves in her room with the help of a pocket laser level that has goopy stuff on the back that lets you stick it to the wall, was crawling into the deep recesses of my freezer with a hair dryer and defrosting the water line next to the mold & heater assembly of the ice machine and watching the drive gear start rolling, all on its own.

YEAAAAAAAAHHHH!!!!! SUCK IT, TIM ALLEN!!!!!!

Nothin' says "Friday night" like a hair dryer and a defrosted water line, does it.