First, let’s be clear, I’m a Democrat to my toes, but I don’t like how the primaries are going.  I leave most of the railling to A., because political frustration is a bottomless pit and I like to just live my life sometimes, but here we are … the Democratic primaries have become annoying.  There’s a bucket of problems, but the Kennedys tipped it for me so they are where I’ll start.  (And end — this site is adamantly opposed to political discourse!)

Who cares if boring Caroline Kennedy with all her dumb “My Mom’s Favorite Poem” books likes someone for President?  Why does she get an op-ed (don’t read it, it’s painful) to endorse?  She has nothing, at all, to say.  She’s been waving her poor dead parents around for years (when she’s not selling off their stuff) and we’re bored with it. There was this precious line, too, in her cliche-ridden piece: 

“I want a president .. who holds himself, and those around him, to the highest ethical standards … “ 

Sweetie, your father while in office, while married, boinked (among countless other women) your Aunt Lee, your mother’s sister!  Are you trying to be funny?  With the ethical thing?

Ted’s got a problem with Hillary, or Bill, who knows, some sort of chip on his shoulder, so ooooh … he endorses Obama with coded insults.  Passes the “torch”.  Maybe you should be President, Ted.  Oh yeah, I forgot.  You tried that.  Didn’t work out. 

And please help me understand this whole “change” thing.  Yeah, duh, we need a change from Our Friend Flicka, but how does ”change” apply to Hillary?  Hello … no one wanted President Clinton to change.  Remember?  He left office with a 65% approval rating.  No one was asking for change … post-Lewinsky, post-impeachment, no one.  This whole “change” theme the Obamas, and now Irrelevant Kennedys, are trying to sell is cheap bunk.  Nevermind the irony of the Kennedys – ”That 60′s Family” – of all people asking for change and a move away from dynastic politics. Cute, guys. 

I’m not impressed with Obama.  He looks good in a suit and gives a decent speech, but he hasn’t shown anyone much more.  Remember, Bush II was plucked out of nowhere because the Republicans needed a face, a campaign smile, someone they could sell.  Is this what the Democrats are doing?  Backing the tall guy? 

Anyway, there. I said it. 

Tomorrow:  Sex jokes and/or recipes for mango pie. Promise.

[New York Times' endorsement of Hillary Clinton.]

Green again in the Sunday Times, green’s bugging me. Do I need to write another letter? Enough, already, it’s a cliche, it’s now bad writing. They’re going to ruin the whole damn thing, the media. They’re going to ruin green they already have, green sucks.

I’m embarrassed to go to my CSA pickup now, thanks a lot. I wear a hat so no one sees me. Junior slapped an “I Eat Local Vegetables” sticker on the car (thank God, not a hybrid, scrap that plan, A.!) and I cringe every time we get out of it — what people must think of me. It’s annoying, I don’t even want to recycle anymore.

I feel guilty asking for the stupid plastic bags (not paper) at Safeway. I feel the need to explain to them that of course I’d much rather use paper but I just got a new dog and the new dog poops and the kids only pick up the poop if they have a little plastic bag. I keep my mouth shut, though, because I’d probably be led out in handcuffs once someone did the quick math: puppies poop 20 times a day x 20 plastic bags x 365 days, etc.

At least I didn’t just buy a motorcycle. That has to be worse than my white plastic bags. I’ll make up for it, I’ll get hybrid light bulbs.

In other news the wall guys come today, if anyone cares. And, A. I got everything back in the room except the chair because I couldn’t get the second door open.

Go plant a tree.

[Helen, why did you make me read that book! It was horribly depressing.]

I don’t know why it does that, see my Hopper post? All tiny letters and bunched on the right? It makes me mad.

The Friday picture was of a morel-picking spot, from Jake Rockwood‘s plane. You look for clear cuts, that’s the trick. No one won the rootbeer float.

Double or nothing, though, if you fix my stupid formatting. Make it never ever ever happen again, as long as I live.

[Photo courtesy of Chris Chennell.]

First spiders in our ears, now prozac in our water. I’d like to add that there are also ants in the guest house, and I’m not talking about my mother’s sisters. Obviously the world is ending.

(Still, the Times published my letter. But M. was there first.)

Please, please, please … just shut up. You’re embarrassing the whole world, stop! Mommys don’t read “mommy books” because they’re boring, we don’t care. We make our choices and don’t care to read yours or anyone else’s $24.95 (hardcover) book to find out whether they’re right. That is why they don’t sell. Sex sells, comedy sells, long dull condescending yawns about what we should or should not do with our lives/kids/husbands/jobs don’t sell.

And by the way, your book at “number 26 on the extended bestseller list” is not selling. Number 26 on the extended bestseller list, after all the coverage you’ve gotten, is almost technically zilch.

(For those who entertain the quaint notion that writers make money, the #26 spot can be nabbed by selling about 2,000 books. Whee. My dog could move more books. And he’s working on one right now about the merits of pooping at home vs. the park.)

Some Go-to-Work Daddy’s wish you’d save your breath, too.

I may never work again now, out of spite.

(You were so much more interesting asking Teri Hatcher why George Clooney dumped her.  There’s a book we’ll buy.)

The ants came back, A. They’re on the floor and I’ve had it. I can’t run around shooting up Anthony and his friends all morning at laser tag (nice timing) and be expected to trot home at night to mop up ants.

I’m going on the treadmill right now then we’re off to Night at the Museum at 3rd Street Pizza. I simply don’t have time for the ants. Or the mop. Or any sort of cleaning tool, or even dinner, while we’re at it. Your best bet is drive-through on the way home. I’m taking time off.  I’m taking a sabbatical.

Meanwhile, Hey, everyone else!  Julie Nipp starts playing Fridays at Nottingham’s Bistro tomorrow. In Sherwood. Don’t miss!

I’m still annoyed with Leslie Bennett and I don’t think, last week, I said it right. I have no problem with her opinions or her book, “The Feminine Mistake.” What I wanted her to shut up was her soggy monotonous whine about people (stay-at-home moms, actually, a fortunate opportunity to draw this stupid irrelevant line deeper in the sand) calling her names, primarily in chat forums and on blogs.

Uh, Hello, Leslie? Don’t read them. It’s like you’ve never walked out the door before.

Btw, someone called me a name last week and you don’t see me whining about it. G. and I were eating lunch and two guys at the table next to us kept saying “fuck.” I let a whole bunch go before I walked over and asked them to stop saying “fuck” so loud in front of my 5-year-old daughter. So then one guy said, “Okay, fucking smartass,” and the other guy said, “bitch.”

And I haven’t even published my book yet!

La de da. Eat a quarter cup of Goji berries and call me in the morning.

For very articulately telling Leslie Bennetts to “shut up, already!”

Put a book out, do the press, go home and check your Amazon rank, Leslie, but for goodness sake STOP WHINING about the mean things people say, in of all places … [GASP!] … Blogs! Whine. Whine. Whiney-whine.

Mommy wars, schommy wars, salami and ham, anyway. Who cares? Who cares about any of it? I have no ball in the game, other than being a stay-at-home mom who works. Doesn’t matter. There’s nothing enlightening about contemporary writing on the subject. Friedan let bored moms offload some guilt, but no one has written much that’s interesting since. It’s hard to be a mom, it’s hard to be a Dad. It’s hard to be a mom and go to work, or stay home, it’s hard to be a Dad and do those things, too. La di da.

The only interesting thing I’ve read on the “wars” since becoming a mom was Sandra Tsing Loh’s (sorry Sandra, for the mean things I said that day!) take in The Atlantic (link TK). “Miss Gretchen” does a good job of revisiting Loh’s points in her comment on Powells.

All of these arguments (why are there arguments again?) are tired, stale, boring — who are they talking to? I’d rather clean the oven with my college diploma, while barefoot and breastfeeding, than hear any of them.

[By the way, when my book comes out I'll be completely incensed if you don't say mean things about me and buy it.]

Crikey.

This Imus thing is ridiculous. Damn those Rutgers girls, and moreso their coach. They had the chance to impress the hell out of us by blowing it all off. He’s a stupid old man, they might have simply pointed that out.  They’re young, strong winners, who cares about him. Sticks and stones can’t hurt remember? Drawn-out nothing sagas and melodramatic press conferences, however … that’s another story.

Now the logical next step is to shill the whole stupid business to the Queen of Tragedy — the self-appointed arbiter of contemporary mores, the mighty exploiter of feeble minds, herself! Whee!

Grow up everyone. You too, NBC. The man makes you money by being outrageous. He went too far, he gets the point, move on.

Sigh. And then, Kurt Vonnegut. Some people shouldn’t get to die until they have appointed suitable replacements. He did leave me a little story.

Worms jump in my pool when it rains. The bottom is lousy with them and all their lost hopes and dreams.

I have pink eye, it won’t go away, and a really crummy cold. Send your best chicken soup recipe here, then go call people names.

Update:  M. argues that the good from all of this is getting types like Imus off the air.  He argued it more elegantly than that, and with curse words.  I’ll post his case right away when I find the email.

… That apt quote is from Nancy Cunard who is laid out in biographical fashion this month at your local bookstores, courtesy Caroline Weber.

She’s damn right, Cunard. It’s not 10am yet and I couldn’t have more indignation. Forgot the homework, then no-showed popcorn Friday (a huge screwup I’m right now sending flowers for), had lousy wireless kick out on me so already lost two posts. The car broke, G. had an “episode” which landed me 40 minutes in Lutheran Kindergarten where we learned that Jesus died for our sins, Corinithians something.

Remember that crap I wrote about “wonderful life” A.? I rescind. To quote your brilliant father, “it’s all bullshit.” It’s a big pain in the nether region is what life is. I have to write a cheery letter now to the people buying our house. What the hell for? Where’s my letter? Where’s my cheer? I’m going to tell them, “Say ‘Hi’ to the giant hairy spiders! And to Sidewalk Blocker! And to every whacked out religious nut that lives to the right of you! Wheee!”