i'm into chicks

I've been wondering, amidst the flurry of excitement surrounding my recent engagement to Barack Obama, what on earth I would write about next. What could possibly distract me from our courtship?

You're thinking, tender reflections of motherhood, perhaps?

Think again.

It's these:



That's right. Brach's Chicks and Rabbits. I have been obsessed with these since I was six years old, and my grandmother made sure my Easter basket was bursting with them, as well as their obese, FAS cousins, Peeps, whose blank stare never changes, even as you bite their stomachs off. Creepy. But delicious. Still though, it's the Chicks and Rabbits that transport me straight to my grandma's house 24 years ago, where I would find a corner, and hork out until my hippie mama came to offer something sensible like sprouts or the dreaded falafel. I couldn't tell you why this queer confection has won my heart over such obvious contenders as Lindt chocolate and Reese's peanut butter eggs. After all, they're just a shriveled old circus peanut dressed up for Easter. But I love them. I do.

Most of you know that yadda yadd yadda, we don't celebrate Easter with the kids. This isn't particularly difficult for any of us. That is, until I find myself unexpectedly roaming the candy aisle like a lioness, waiting to devour the weakest specimen. Believe it or not, I always hold strong, resisting jelly beans, chocolate carrots, even Peeps. But then I spot the Chicks and Rabbits. They're always in the ghetto of the aisle, far away from Reese's, Lindt, Hershey's, and Cadbury, and there are seldom more than five bags, because I am, apparently, the only wretch alive who wants to eat them. Every year I weave some bullshit story in my mind about how it is an homage to my grandma to consume them, and every goddamned year I get so sick on them that I pray, with my head in the toilet, to join her in the afterlife. I should mention I have always had really bad luck with Easter candy. I have eaten crates of Peeps until I threw them up out of my nose, and become so sick thinking that the inside of a Cadbury creme egg was like mucus, it makes me gag to this day. But somehow I will always find it in my heart to give the Chicks and Rabbits another chance. I'm nothing if not a good glutton.

Cut to tonight. I spent some time fondling the 50% off candy at Fred Meyer today, texting B furiously, begging for justification to buy a bag. No, she lovingly reminded me, we're fat, and trying to do something about it. Have fruit. Obviously that answer sucked really bad. I tried bribery, bringing her down with me, everything, to get her endorsement, but she wasn't budging. I had even inspected the bags to see which had the most yellows, in case she relented, but she ordered me out of the store, and I slumped out, knowing she was right. Then tonight, when she picked me up to go to the gym, what did I behold on the car seat? This:


She and Adam had conspired to bring me some! I squeezed the bag like it was a long lost relative, and decided to eat them after our work out. They were all I could think about during our mile hike, weight training, sauna, and showers, and when we got back in the car I ripped them open like the lioness I am and began mangling their carcasses.

But it didn't stop there. I kept eating them long after they stopped tasting good, which is only ever the first one, until they were a knotted cluster in my mouth. I couldn't get enough saliva going to break the mass down, so I started to choke. B asked if I was okay and I managed to gulp it down the way a python eats a rabbit. When she suggested she take the bag, I snatched it away like Gollum, and immediately ate more. She dropped me off feeling disbelief, pity, and disgust, but I didn't care. I staggered inside, on the brink of a coma, and sat down to answer email. At one point I started to cry because I felt so sick. The next thing I knew, Reilly had spirited away the bag and hid them in recesses unknown. I begged her for them, and she just smiled. Later, when my head is in the toilet, she will bring me a washcloth and remind me that this has happened every year of her life. I will moan some flimsy excuse between heaves, and thank her for being there, like a heroin addict in withdrawal. Then she will tuck me into bed, and heat up my rice bag-thing, and kiss me goodnight. Quinn will kiss me too, and refrain from asking what the fuck is wrong with me, lol.

Then I will drift off, and dream of Barack Obama, serving me Chicks and Rabbits on a silver platter.

(Followed by Michelle Obama kicking my ass. Yeah, I'm a realist.)

stretching it to 16 minutes...

My friend Devarshi was kind enough to direct me here, to relive my sputtering-beached-whale-about-to-die routine again, and my mom sent this link, which I must admit, was a nice salve for that wound inflicted by the Whoregonian yesterday. (Look at the seventh paragraph down or so.) Lastly, my hero Mike sent me this page, certain that a phone call from Barack Obama would soon be forthcoming.

Knowing that people saw merit in the question really helps console me when I can't shake the image of me up there, sinking like the Titanic (only bigger).

misquoted

Perhaps I should just shut up and enjoy the moment, but, um, have we met?

This is what the Oregonian printed this morning:

Cheyenne Fitzpatrick, who called herself a stay-at-home mom, said she and her friends are "torn" between Obama and Clinton and wanted him to outline their differences.

What a crock of shit.

My exact words were: "I am a 30 year old stay-at-home homeschooling mom of two who is so proud to be here, and immensely proud to be supporting you. I have a few friends who are good Democrats, but who are genuinely on the fence between you and Senator Clinton because there are so many similarities on key issues. I was hoping you could distinguish yourself, in a nutshell, from Senator Clinton, for the sake of my friends on the fence."

Even with two reporters putting their empty heads together, they couldn't get my quote even in the vicinity of the truth. They made me out to be some lazy-ass know-nothing who feels "torn" between the jowly, snarling Clinton, and His Majesty Barack Obama. As if. And it also sounds like my friends don't know their asses from their elbows either. (SCREAM!)

And I thought the Statesman Journal was a rag...

Go-Bama

Yeah, this pretty much sums up my electrifying dalliance with Barack Obama today: (Please excuse the fact that I look like the undead.)



(I would also like to point out that he looked at and spoke to me directly while answering. Ask B.)

In case you have something really wrong with you, and couldn't tell, I was so nervous speaking in front of 4,000 people I almost passed out. Instead, I just stuttered and trailed off like a simp. And what you could not possibly know is that the senator called on Brandy and me, since were both waving our hands, and it was only because she selflessly bestowed the floor on me that I was able to mutter what little I did get out. I owe her big, and B, at about 4:19 into that video, you will recognize a beautiful familiar face smiling brightly. Thank you so much.

B and I waited in the freeeeezing-ass cold (in t-shirts) in a line that snaked from the armory to Timbuktu, along with what appeared to be half the state, just to get a glimpse of this man Obama. It was a good couple hours until we finally inched our way inside, past the windy vortex at the entrance, past the 10 ft. x 10 ft. protest posters of mutilated babies, through various turn styles, and a few metal detectors. Once inside, where I was determined to get floor seats, we were told the floor was full. This didn't deter me in the least, and I proceeded to lie and say that our party of four already had seats. I have exceptionally good rally karma, and spied exactly four empty chairs in the last row. Our enthusiasm gave way to full-blown adrenaline as it became clear that our man was close, and we were standing on our chairs screaming our fool heads right off.

And then it happened. This man, this almost mythical figure, this embodiment of hope and change, appeared before our very eyes, and I honestly started to weep. I must clarify that I am not as concerned with his celebrity as I am with his message, his movement, if you will, and seeing him before us brought the dream very close to home. He spoke with comfort, ease, authority, and vigor about everything from how to strengthen Oregon, to how to restore America's luster, and finally, how to bring our men and women home from Iraq. The crowd responded with deafening applause, so many times. There was no one highlight for me, as I was just awestruck by his vision, and his execution. Having my own little conversation with him, amidst the sea of people, still has me swooning, but B and I go to heighten our experience by rushing the stage (is that what it's called?) at the end, and getting up close and personal. In addition to photographic proof of our miraculous proximity, we both shook/held hands with him, and we both got to speak with him briefly. I looked him squarely in the eye and said, "I cannot wait to call you my president," to which he replied, while leaning waaay in, "thank you." Several people told me later it looked like he kissed me, which I like to think was his intention, lol. B took her moment to thank him, and he replied with a very genuine "no, thank you."

I really don't know how much better it could have gone, short of being recruited by his personal staff to work on his campaign, or maybe for all the people from my high school and college to have seen me connect with my hero. I can tell you that I have stormed the stage to shake hands with Bill Clinton, John Kerry, Howard Dean, and recently my kids and I were photographed with Senator Ron Wyden (a favorite of mine). And with all due respect, those brilliant men are forgettable by comparison. At the risk of losing all credibility, my experience today was magical, and I have hope that Obama's grass roots, from-the-bottom-up politics is the answer. The answer. That is what I told the Statesman Journal, the freelance journalist who interviewed us, and that is what I will continue to say until we catapult Barack Obama into the White House, where he belongs.

Yes We Can. Si Se Puede.

Just what the doctor ordered:


And we even got closer than this...


And so we've shaken on the deal.


He is worthy of the hype. And you all KNOW I never say that.

seeing stars

Sibling rivalry was pretty much ruining my life as of a few weeks ago, and my options were either to sell the children into slavery, or to conceive of a way to motivate good behavior. I chose the former, but couldn't get Todd on board. He misses out on most of their corrivalry, and is thusly quite attached to them. So I embarked upon a journey to locate, and lure, whatever inner angels had withstood all the gruesome battling. It is with some shame that I confess to you that I have relegated my 8 and 9 year olds to a chart system.

The only chart we have ever used was for potty training a million and one years ago, but it was a wild success. Each kid trained in under a week. Nevertheless I felt a little like I was insulting them to implement these charts, but they have responded so incredibly well, I'll take anyone to the mat about it now, lol.

So Quinn and Rei each have a small chart, with 80-something squares, and they get a star sticker (those ones that our teachers used) for showing exceptional effort to be kind/considerate/tolerant/patient/non-violent towards one another. They do not get stars for adhering to a base level of courtesy or manners, nor for making their beds, doing schoolwork, or brushing their teeth without being asked, for these things are all expected of them. They get stars for walking away from a fight, compromising, negotiating, being generous beyond expectation (giving up the front seat), and for going long periods of time interacting peacefully, and in a way that doesn't make me want to slit my wrists. They may not ask for stars, or point out their good behavior. As you can see from the picture, I am not liberal in doling them out, though secretly, I do delight in it. I love the way they beam when I recognize their achievements, and I am proud to say that chivalry is becoming the norm around here. When their cards are full, they will receive $20, which isn't that much, so I'm surprised at how hard they're working. I'd like to think that underneath all the surliness are two kids who want to please their mama.

Anyway, that's what we're doing, and it's working wonders.

Oh, my kids have code names for some odd reason, don't ask me why. Reilly goes by "Fathom," and Quinn by "Zerix."

a toast

(That's a tiny roma tomato for perspective.)

As many of you know, B and I joined a gym recently, and have been working our asses off in hopes meeting a specific July weight goal. To augment this regimen, and in B's case, because of diabetes, we've sworn off all delicious-tasting food, in favor of low-carb, low-taste things such as hay and spinach. One thing I am allowed is a piece of Oroweat Best toast, with Adam's peanut butter, and a banana sliced on top. This has become a favorite of mine because, let's face it, bananas are sweet, and this option far outweighs the horse food cereal or a Kashi waffle rock with a drizzle of wanna-be maple syrup.

We've been working out every chance we get, and even got in some good time last night, dashing into the club at the last minute. I went to bed hungry and was really looking forward to my pb & banana toast this morning. So, imagine if you will, the depth of my sadness to discover that the shriveled-up grandma heel of bread was the only piece left. After I toasted it, and it shrank to half its size, I spread a teaspoon of pb on it, and then sliced eight pieces of banana onto it, whereas a normal slice of toast holds an entire banana. I sat down to eat and found myself glaring at this meager meal, but ultimately, ate it in one bite and began the countdown to lunch, which I might add, will be early today.

emoticons, check!

This morning I was starting a list of things to discuss with my psychiatrist later, and the first thing I jotted down was that I didn't get my labs done. I instinctively put a frowny face next to this, for I am chagrined to have forgotten. The funny part, though, is that I put the frown sideways, the way it appears when one is typing. I think I may need to talk to him about my excessive computer use as well. :)

noprah

Since I'm already being filleted for my hatred of Once, the muppets, and egregious grammatical errors, I may as well climb out on the nearest limb and really bear my soul.

I hate Oprah Winfrey. No, just let me finish. It's not because she's a pompous, self-important megalomaniac, it's because she interrupts constantly. Pathologically. And she always redirects the conversation to herself. One time she interviewed a woman with terminal cancer, who had just suffered the indignity of shaving her hair, to which Oprah blurted out, before the woman was finished speaking, "I know just how you feel, I got a terrible perm one time and had to cut my hair really short." This pretty well epitomizes my beef with her.

Now, I'm not marching in any anti-Oprah parades or anything, but I'm really firm in my opinion, and the margin for changing my mind is razor-thin. While I do offer half-hearted applause for her Angel Network, and her impact on literacy, I cannot help but think that the underlying, possibly overriding, purpose behind these endeavors was to send her ego soaring to new heights. Okay, I digress.

Getting back to that razor-thin margin, Oprah has recently done two things that have given me pause in my loathing.

First, she endorsed Barack Obama for president.

And second, she launched a new reality television show, The Big Give. To summarize, the show's contestants compete to see who can give away Oprah's (or the network's--whatever) money in the most grandiose and meaningful ways. Back story: When I was very young I told my mom my life's ambition was to save all the kids. I even used to cry seeing stop signs in the rain. I have a deep-seated need to know that everyone is warm, safe, and fed. But I lack the means to make this possible, a fact which has fractured my seemingly black heart. But we'll delve into my overly sentimental side another time. So I have a soft spot for virtually everyone. That is, everyone I don't hate, lol. I knew this show would touch me, and I was right on the money (no pun intended). The challenges have ranged from making the best use of $1,000 in 24 hours, to remodeling an entire inner-city school with only a few thousand dollars on which to build. Once the catty, in-fighting, camera-whore players are done hustling to complete their tasks, we get to see the big reveal. I could never convey in words the power of these moments. I know they are edited to pack a greater punch, and I know that ultimately, it's entertainment, but these are real people whose schools are being rebuilt, whose disabled children are being given the treatment and equipment they so desperately need, and real wounded soldiers, who have been cut off by the VA, whose mortgages are being paid. I don't have television, because everything on TV is shit, but my mom records this and, okay, I'll admit it, Lost and Jon & Kate Plus 8. Yesterday I watched two episodes of The Big Give, and I was sobbing like a child, absolutely racked, a worn-out husk of myself. The emotional cord struck by these people in need being relieved of their financial burdens was almost more than I could bear. I don't care about the motives for the show, or who is getting richer, or whose celebrity status is elevated into outer space. I'm in it for the people. I suspect this comes as a surprise. Underneath this caustic, venomous exterior, is a hopeless old softie who wants to heal the world. So I am forced, in spite of myself, to confess that my hat is off to Oprah.

Now, if only she created a show wherein the teams covered all the stop signs with blankies...

me, myself, and i

Since I narrowly evaded a hail of gunfire after my last post on grammatical propriety, I thought I'd give it another whirl, just to live dangerously.

Here goes:

I keep seeing pictures of people on MySpace, as well as references sprinkled throughout various blogs, that contain phrases like "Jenny and I at Silver Falls," or, "He joined my kids and I." (Primal scream)

Here's the deal. When grouping yourself with another person, identify yourself as though you are the only one involved. You wouldn't say, "He gave the gift to I," nor "If you've ever hung out with I, you'd know..." You also wouldn't say, "This is a picture of I at Silver Falls." See where I'm going? Me is the correct pronoun to use in each of these contexts. I suspect this is confusing because if you're following with a verb, the use of I is correct. "Jenny and I went to the store" is right, but it's still a picture of Jenny and me. It's pretty simple, just pretend you are the only one involved, and then add Jenny, your kids, or whomever.

We were all taught as children to say "my friend and I would like some candy," so it is ingrained into our grey matter to say "s/he and I" at all times, but I'm here to tell you, we need a little polishing. I won't even bother with a disclaimer about how I'm not trying to be a bitch. Me knows me's going to regret this altogether.

(But it's worth it if I help one of I's friends!)

once: one time too many

Does anyone know the going rate for two hours of my life? Because I need a refund. Yes you read correctly. I just endured a movie whose intended audience, I am certain, is lobotomy patients. Who are deaf. The offending movie? Once.

Listen, I know how it is. We intellectual types are supposed to get all swept up in the ephemeral charms of the latest indie art house movie du jour, and then strut around like peacocks expounding upon all the profundities, subtext, deeper allegories, ad nauseum. Or maybe faint on our fainting couch, which we keep nearby in the event of a life-altering experience such as The Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. P-l-e-a-s-e. If ever there was a case of the emperor's new clothes, it was The Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. I have seriously almost had my teeth knocked out for denouncing this movie, despite the fact that it had absolutely no merit whatsoever.

My teeth may be in even greater jeopardy now, because I am here to warn you, much like the soothsayer, against this movie. First of all, I really went into it with an open mind, which doesn't happen very often. Second of all, as soon as it opened, I hated it. The main character, a guy whose name I couldn't decipher for all the mumbling, was supposed to be a gritty, lovable, average Irish Joe, but instead he was the ratty, crusty, bug-eyed roommate you had in college whose neediness knew no bounds, and whose teeth knew no dentist. His name, roughly translated, may have been Arhflgnm or something. Onto the girl, whose name, I think, was also Arhflgnm. My major beef with her was that she reminded me of Love Actually's Lucia Moniz (Aurelia), but was in fact, not her. I kept waiting for her to become Lucia Moniz, but it never happened, and I never forgave her. So he's this haggard musician playing for pennies on the curb, and she wanders up to him and they decide to spin their palpable lack of chemistry into lyrical gold. What ensues is 90 minutes of the same song, set against a hole where there ought to have been a plot. You know it's bad when you're scanning the streets of Dublin for a McDonald's, or anything to connect you to what you're watching. So they play songs, and he grins his desperate grin, and she smiles shyly but never takes off her coat the entire movie. It's as though the writer, no wait, there couldn't have been a writer because there was no plot. So, it's as if someone set stream-of-consciousness to a movie, but all they ever thought about was "ummmmm..." If it were a dance, it would be the insecure kid in the corner shifting his weight back and forth.

Apparently I was born without a soul (or, more likely, I sold it to buy some clothes at Old Navy), because scads of people in my life are gushing about this banal bullshit, er, movie. My own mother, who BOUGHT it, argued that my lack of enthusiasm for the story could only be explained by a serious character flaw on my part. And I am afraid to tell Gabrielle my verdict, for fear that she will get medieval on my ass with her various "craft" implements. I'm just so curious how there can be such a discrepancy between friends who agree on so many other points? Danskos are fabuloso, this movie is shit. Why is that so difficult? Can't we just get along? I fear an angry mob will soon appear, weapons in-hand, to pummel me for my ignorant, callous, misrepresentation. When they arrive, I shall tell them, "You think my hating this movie is bad, Karen hates the Muppets!"