Paralyzed

I'm writing this from the Laughing Goat. Ordinarily, that would be just a super thing. But in this case, it kinda blows.

I'm here because I have no Internet at home. And no phone. And no cable (No! Not NO CABLE!)

This morning, while Rick was nursing a sick Tea (nursing = putting her on the couch to drink orange juice and watch Dora all day) he noticed that we were in a communication vacuum. Everything was off. Yet, he couldn't call because we didn't have a phone. And he couldn't look up the number online to dial Comcast on his cell. Because, well, you know. So I called them from work, and I guess Rick resorted to some kind of Senor Wences-inspired Dora puppet show to keep Tea from losing it.

The surly Comcast dude informed me that somehow we had missed a payment several months back (did I mention how much I love moving 3 times in four months?) I had somehow skipped over that late payment every month while paying our regular bill. So, voila! No mo service. And now we know the dark side of the Comcast Triple Play--complete isolation.

Anyhoo. I was going to pay the bill over the phone. I reached down for my wallet, and...it wasn't there. It was there when I went to lunch. It was there when I paid for lunch. It was there when I rode back with my friends from lunch. I THOUGHT it was there when I sat down. But it was not. I searched and searched my vicinity, the restaurant, even crawled around in the parking lot to see if it fell anywhere. I searched through at least four garbage cans. But no wallet.

To review: I had no money, no credit cards, no driver's license, no Costco card. I was planning to leave early to relieve Rick from sick duty, and when I got on the road I realized that my empty light was on. That drive to Boulder was a nail-biter to say the least. And once I got home I realized that I also had no way to connect back to work. Because see above.

So here I am at the Laughing Goat, drinking a latte that I bought by scrounging through the couch cushions, working as long as they'll have me and NOT relieving Rick from kid duty even for five minutes. I have no money, no gas and limited communications.

Ever read Johnny Got His Gun? I feel like that guy.

Someone just lost the rodent vote

Soon to be re-branded as Ronco's MISTER SQUIRREL

Please, please give Mike Huckabee his own cooking show. In yet another installment of "You can't make this shit up," the most affable creationist freak I know turned up on the Morning Joe last week before the South Carolina primary and gave the most bizarre rationalization ever why he is The Man of the People in South Carolina.

Apparently, South Carolina is one of those fine places, like West Virginia or Southern Indiana, where squirrels aren't just cute and puffy-tailed--they're good eatin'. Huckabee claimed on the show that he is the candidate of choice for South Carolina because when he gets hungry late at night, he likes himself some squirrel. Not only that, but he devised an ingenious way to cook up our little friends, sort of the inbred toothless version of heating up soup on a hot plate in your dorm room.

And I quote:

"When we were in college we used to take a popcorn popper -- because that was the only thing they would let us have in the dorms -- and fry squirrels in the popcorn popper."

Woo hoo! When's the dinner party, Mike?

Here's the link (because every time I try to embed it I fuck it up):

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yj3QAzSWVA4

That quote is the first best part. Second best part is Scarborough's retort:

"Sounds good, but I prefer grilling possum on the hood of my Ford Bronco."

Ahahahaha! LOVE.

I have two observations. First, if I were a resident of South Carolina, I'd be a little miffed at Gov. Huckabee for his blanket observation that my peeps and I are all squirrel-chomping yokels. And second, if I may channel Thomas Frank for a moment, if woodland critters are a staple of your diet, perhaps you are voting against your own self interests if you side with the Republicans. (Of course, you may be upper-middle class and just LIKE squirrel meat. Not judging.)

What's the matter with South Carolina?

Nice try, Mike. But I hear Hillary will eat ANYTHING if you dare her.

Marketing the slopes

Gianni and I went skiing at Breck yesterday (Weather: A. Snow coverage: D+. Wind on top: F-). Or rather, Gianni went to ski school from 9 to 3 and I ditched him to ski on my own for 6 hours. I took advantage of my innate ability to go skiing the day before a resort gets huge heaping dumps of snow. Mostly I cruised around on whatever now hadn't been skiied off or otherwise dissipated since the last storm. It was both a great chance to get away from it all and yet another opportunity to remind myself that I'm getting older.

It's not that I can't ski like I used to. I still can. It's that the names of some of these runs are having an adverse affect on me. I used to look at runs with names like The Burn, Boneyard, and Lower Boneyard and think, oh hell yeah. In my younger days, I could go for The Burn from first chair to sundown. But now I look at The Burn and I think, "OWWwwwwww." And let's face it, as a 38-year-old white mother of two, I just feel like an asshole skiing something called "Psychopath."

The thing is, I have no trouble skiing Horseshoe or Cucumber Bowl, even though those are plenty tough. Maybe they just need a renaming campaign aimed at women sliding down the ramp toward middle age. Instead of "The Burn," call it "You Go Girl!" And rechristen "Boneyard" as, "Hooray, My Knees Still Work!"

Naturally they can't really do that because the slopes would strongly resemble a taping of Oprah. So I'll just have to do my own attitude adjustment and admit that after all these years, I'm still pretty much a psychopath.

Never say never

That's GOFUCKYOURSELF for the triple word score.

Gianni recently discovered Scrabble. He is enamored and wants to play every night. That's wonderful for two reasons, the most obvious is that it boosts his spelling and vocabulary. But the other is that he has unwittingly brought peace and diplomacy to an area of the Polito family where for 17 years, there has been none.

Long long ago when Rick and I first moved to California, we went on our first weekend getaway. We rented a cute little cottage in Mendocino for next to nothing. We spent the days beachcombing and mountain biking and the nights curled up in front of the fire. One night we attempted to play Scrabble. We failed. Or rather, Rick failed.

We had never played Scrabble together before, and let me tell you it was an eye-opener. I quickly realized that the love of my life was not only a great Scrabble player and a formidable opponent, but also the worst sport I had ever seen in my life. He gloated when he pulled ahead. He swore and sulked when he lost. It was like playing Scrabble with John McEnroe. I finally took the board, dumped the tiles, and swore that I would never engage in Scrabble with him again. And since then it's been a running joke, a sore spot, and common knowledge that it's best for the relationship and mankind that we leave the game box untouched on the shelf.

Since Gianni started his love affair with Scrabble, he's played with me. He's played with Rick. But he'd never played with both of us--until last night. After much deliberation, we decided to think of the children. We established word game detente and Scrabbled together for the first time in nearly two decades.

And it worked. Rick was a good sport. He only said, "you BITCH," once, when I blindsided him with a huge triple-word score. And I could tell he was using every bit of restraint to not jump up on the table and do the cabbage patch when he pulled within three points of me. He's all grown up. He didn't even make a fuss when I crushed him like a grape at the end, which is of course not important to me at all because I'm not competitive in the least. (WOOO!)

We're ushering in a new era of peace, prosperity and Scrabble nights that we hope will last for decades to come. It's amazing what you can put aside for the good of the children.

If you feel disenfranchised, raise your hand

Tsunami Tuesday is coming. On February 5, Colorado gets to join with approximately 752 other states to help determine who will be our Democratic nominee for the presidency. And given who the choices are, we'll get to play a part in history.

At least, SOME of us will. I won't.

I just found out that I registered to vote a month too late to participate in the Colorado caucus. Because I was too busy feeding my children and reading graphic novels to register in time, I will be sitting at home on Tsunami Tuesday like a college freshman who lost her fake ID. I feel so cheated--I don't get to cast my vote for the candidate of my choice. Or rather, I don't get to show up at the gym in Gianni's school between 9am and 11am and raise my hand. (I really don't understand this crazy caucus shit.) Quel bummer.

That just means that all of you other Democratic Coloradans better represent and hie yourselves to the polls on Feb. 5. One of the beautiful things about being an American, and about registering for your Colorado driver's license before December 5, is that you have that right to vote. Just ask those of us who were too lazy to drag our butts out to the DMV before then. So get out there and make me proud.

Unless you're a Republican. Then stay home.

Dodging the bullet

God, what a week.

We had layoffs at my company. Lots of 'em, relatively speaking--about 10 percent of the staff. My head is spinning. I've been really fortunate in my career that I've never worked anywhere that had any intense layoffs, at least not while I was there. I always seemed to jump ship long before it sank.

But wow. To sit there, learning in the morning that it's coming, and watch your cube-mates and co-workers march one-by-one into The Room (and then into The Other Room, for grief counseling) is more emotionally wracking than I expected.

I know it has to be done. I know that our current administration and the Fed and the American financial markets have been beating on our economy like a pinata and it's about to burst. I know that our clients are cutting back, so we must do it too. I know that we're being proactive, and one deep cut in the beginning is better than death by 1000 knives later on.

It still sucks.

And let's talk about survivor guilt. Frankly, I am lucky to still be here. I've only got six months' tenure at my job. The writer who started the same day that I did is gone. So are a helluva lot of people who have been there longer than I have. It's a big gold stroke that they kept me. I hope it's a vote of confidence, and I'm not just next up on the chopping block if the shit goes down again. I prefer to see the glass as half full.

The funny thing? It's definitely sad. But I'm in awe of the power of human resilience, and the strong spirits and professionalism of those who had to go. They are amazing and they will be just fine.

Ditto the professionalism of the company and the compassion they showed in executing a hard business decision that affected so many people personally. I saw the head of the company go around to each person who was let go, tears in her eyes, and tell them that they still matter. And mean it. I doubt we'll see the chairman of Citibank do the same thing.

It's like when we had our bikes stolen out of our garage. We came down and they were gone. We calculated that it had to have happened in about 15 minutes' time. They jimmied the garage door, cut the locks, and took any bike of any sort of value (leaving our neighbors' crappy bikes.)
They were pros. As I told Rick, if we were going to get robbed, at least we got robbed by the best.

Getting laid off by the best is definitely no huge consolation. But it beats a complementary copy of What Color is Your Parachute? and a swift ass-kick out the door. Deep down amidst the suckiness, I appreciate that.

Tea's first haircut

It had to happen some day. I'm not talking about the ceremonial first haircut--the one where your precious little angel sits in a chair that looks like a car, plays with toys, and walks away with a lollipop and a lock of hair tied with a ribbon. I'm referring to that other first haircut, where someone under the age of 8 finds a pair of scissors in a drawer and decides to have a party.

The other day the kids were playing nicely in the basement while Rick and I attempted to remember how to have adult conversation. We were interrupted by Gianni, who came up the stairs holding his spiffy new RC car.

"Can you fix this? It doesn't want to go."

We looked at it. No, it didn't want to go. Mostly because there was a huge chunk of hair wrapped around one of the axles. We had to ask.

"Whose hair is this?"

"It's Tea's."

"How did it get there?"

"She was holding the car up to her head and the wheels were going."

"Why were the wheels running?"

"I don't know." (uh huh)

"How did you get it unstuck?"

"I cut it."

!!!!!!!!!!!

The world stopped turning for a second, we all ran downstairs. Gianni can be such an articulate little person sometimes, you totally forget that he's capable of truly awesome 7-year-old boneheaded judgement.

Thankfully, the damage was minimal. Tea has so much freakin' hair, you can't even tell where she lost some. And we did get Gianni to rethink his answer about the wheels and admit that his finger on the button and some direct pressure may have been involved. (The offending car has been put on tiny toy blocks for a week, out of reach.)

On the bright side, he was just trying to help, and he did free Tea from the clutches of the car. The road to hell, etc. And we're very fortunate it wasn't Tea doing the cutting, or I imagine it would have been waaaaay worse. Instead we have our precious first lock of hair--wrapped around a plastic wheel--and a reminder that we need to hide the scissors.

Those kids. They do the darndest things.

The two-ton telephone

Dammit, I did it again. My bag overturned in my car and I've lost my cell phone. Yet, I can make calls because I have Bluetooth connectivity in my car. Once again, I have turned my car into the world's largest phone. I guess I'll need to have Rick call me on the way home so I can actually locate the damned thing by the sound of the ring.

Tragic. Next time you're starving to death or being held as a political prisoner, think of my plight.

Doesn't anyone say "Stop the presses" anymore?

Parade Magazine is about more than Walter Scott's Personality Parade. It's also about publishing interviews with pivotal world figures about their hope for peace....after they get assassinated. The cover of yesterday's issue was an interview with Benazir Bhutto. It's by Gail Sheehy. And as it turns out, it's her last interview. All of those things? Huge. Except....the whole thing was written and went to press before the Dec. 27 shooting.

So Parade is running this juicy interview and the only thing bitter old ex-journalists like me are thinking is: You couldn't have changed the headline on the cover? Or added a preface? You realize you had a great scoop and you've now overshadowed that by looking like complete boneheads.

I guess there are two possible explanations. One, the story went to press and because there was an archaic system or something, they couldn't change anything once it shipped (which in my opinion is totally inexcusable in the digital age, but whatevs.) Or two, the issue was already printed and ready to go before Dec. 27 (likely, since they were probably getting the jump on xmas.) Doing another print run over the holidays would have been pricey and complicated.

Is it worth the money to correct the cover and not appear to be totally not paying attention? Or better to just explain it on the Web, as Parade did immediately after the assassination? Who knows. All I know is that it's journalism. The one thing you're supposed to be is timely and factual. If that's not worth the effort, then hmmm.

I guess it's a good thing no one reads print media.

Cindy Crawford--what a hag

We took a trip last week to the world's largest model train shop, conveniently located in Denver. It was pretty amazing...for the first half hour. Then I grew weary of looking at what must have been about 7,000 miles of train track and arguing about which is better, G gauge or HO.

Fortunately, this store knows their audience and the parents of their audience. They have a nice little sitting area next to the Thomas train table with mom-sized chairs and copies of gossip mags. I settled in with Star Magazine to read about the Best and Worst Beach Bodies of 2007.

The best bods were the usual suspects: Hayden Panettiere, Jessica Alba, Eva Longoria, and other hot young things whose vocation it is to look like babes on the beach for the paparazzi. But guess who was the worst? Roseanne Barr? Barbara Bush? No. It was Cindy Crawford. And indirectly, it was me.

Why was Cindy Crawford such an affront to the eyes of beachgoers this year? It's not like she was 750 pounds and wearing a G-string. She didn't have a life-sized tattoo of Yosemite Sam across her front section. She had the nerve to be a mom over 25 wearing a bikini. You could see her stretch marks, which apparently causes the editors of Star to throw up inside their mouths a little.

Because, ew! Here's a woman in her FORTIES who has had two kids and still looks pretty awesome. Every curve is where it's supposed to be. The only difference between her and the best bods is a little extra skin on the abdomen. But gosh, that really offended Star Magazine. So much so, that of all the people on the beach this year, she was the WORST. Never mind that I was sitting in a model train store and every single person in there would look several orders of magnitude worse than Cindy Crawford were they on a beach in Mustique.

Seeing that really kicked me in the ass. Or the stomach, as it were. I am 38 years old. I am a mom. I am in pretty good shape. Yet, I have stretch marks. Oh, the humanity. I wish I could have kept the smooth belly of my 20s forever, but a funny thing happened. I carried two gigantic children. That tends to stretch things out a little. I didn't think that was a huge deal. But apparently every time I walk out on the deck of Spruce Pool, I'm tempting the other patrons to gouge their eyes out. According to Star Magazine, am I now relegated to bathing skirts and demure mom cuts? God I hope not. Yesterday I walked by the racks of extremely cute bikinis at Target and thought, can I really not wear that anymore? Really? 'Cause what a shame.

Oh my god, the comments about Cindy's bod. How can you go out like that? Cover up! Get a tummy tuck! Let me tell you something. At one point after Tea was born, I looked into a tummy tuck, to reduce the sheer amount of extra skin I now have there. And you know what? Not only does it cost about $10,000, but it is MAJOR SURGERY. With a fairly unpleasant recovery time. Do I really want to spend ten large for the privilege of sitting on my ass for two months, waiting to heal? Just so I can look 22 from the neck down? NO. I'd rather buy an awesome custom bike, or go to Thailand for a month. I hope Cindy feels the same way.

Context aside, I was inspired by that photo. Here's a woman who has spent her whole life living up to the beauty myth. Now she has done her time and she is being herself, with her family. And she is still beautiful. More beautiful than 99 percent of beachgoers. And infinitely more stunning than the Star Magazine staff, who, on their best day, probably resemble the cast of Fraggle Rock. No tummy tuck will fix that, bitches.

I hear Jessica Alba is pregnant. Jessica, just remember--you can buy a lot of baby clothes for 10 grand, and still have enough left over for a rockin' bikini.

Druggie nymphomaniacs have feelings, too

I feel bad for Lindsay Lohan. I never thought I'd say that.

Her little douchebag rehab fling is telling the whole world the juicy sexual details of their relationship. And he's flashing pictures, too. Can't a girl enjoy a roll in the hay with a mere mortal substance abuser without courting tabloid revenge? Guess not.

Reason number one million and two not to get busy with anyone you meet in rehab. That plan never works.

Fortunately, in the same column, MSNBC also reports that Martha Stewart showed off her prison art--a clay nativity scene she made while at the Big House--on her Christmas Day TV show. It's like the yin and yang of fabulously tacky celebrity incarceration stories.

I have an alibi

While you people are watching me, I'm watching you, too. Every once in a while I check SiteMeter to see who has so much free time that they would actually read my blog. The answer? My mom. And a tiny group of fans. I'm huge in New Zealand and Antioch. (Thank you, loyal readers). Every once in awhile, I get someone new, a high school friend who Googled me or someone searching for a discounted Butterscotch Pony.

But today I saw something weird and kinda scary. Yesterday morning, I had a hit from Pakistan. That never happens. My mom never goes to Pakistan. I clicked the entry point to see if this Pakistani fan just had to know my opinion on overpriced Japanese pencils, or roving packs of lesbian teens. Turns out this person clicked onto my blog through my entry on A Perfect Mess. Odd that someone in such a culture would be focusing on the celebration of slovenliness. But the headline on that entry: Vindication is Ours.

Given the events of the past 24 hours? Yikes.

While I'm reasonably sure that my diatribe about neat freaks did not directly influence the assassination of Benazir Bhutto, the timing is uber-creepy. Was it an opposition hater? Or the CIA? Are black helicopters flying over my house right now? In case the Bush administration comes beating down my door to drag me to Gitmo, let me state for the record that I was here the whole time. Working. Reading. Playing with the kids. Blogging about something completely stupid and non-fundamentalist in nature. And Pakistan, don't drag me into your bullshit. I have plenty of bullshit of my own to keep me busy.

Watch out, walls

A week ago, I ran into my doorway and scraped the shit out of my hand. My knuckles were bleeding and it hurt like hell. But my hand looked totally tuff. I had an obvious injury, but I couldn't go around telling everyone I bumped into my own door. Because that would make me a moron. (ahem) So I decided to tell people I punched a wall.

Hey, guys do it all the time. So much so that ER doctors have a name for this particular outburst of macho--the Boyfriend Break. My husband did it when he was in college and his psycho girlfriend was making him crazy, man. The most well-bred, well-mannered gentleman I know could not resist the wall punch when his kids just would. not. sleep. Which cracks me up because I could sooner see Miss Manners punching a wall than this guy.

I even remember my dad doing it when I was 7. I was not being a morning person and my mom was trying to leave my dad with the horrific task of getting me off to school. He not only punched the wall, but the wall was made of cheap drywall and he punched a hole clean through to the other side. He was pissed, but somewhere deep inside I bet he felt like a total badass for punching a fist-sized hole in our house. And that wall never fucked with him again.

Shockingly, no one believed me when I said I punched a wall. Rick said that was just because they didn't know me well enough. I've still got the scabs on my hand. Maybe I just need a little more embellishment to secure my rep. I could be the only mom at Tea's preschool with LOVE and HATE tattooed across my knuckles. That would be cool.

Parade of fools

It's Sunday! Do you know what that means? Yes, it is the Lord's day. And I subscribe to a special religion where Sunday is reserved for one activity, and one only--reading Walter Scott's Personality Parade in Parade magazine.

We are completely fascinated by the Personality Parade. How can you not be? It's a collection of the most moronic questions you could ever ask about celebrities. It really makes you think about life. For instance, are there really people out there stupid enough to ask these questions? Or, does Parade think we are stupid enough that they can make this shit up and we'll believe other people are stupid enough to write in? It's a philosophical question for the ages.

I mean really. If you had one question to ask about one celebrity, would it be, "Who does Brian Boitano think are the prospects for America's ice skaters in 2010?" Or would it be, "Was Britney Spears really found in a motel room in Riverside with a stripper and an eight ball?"

Our friend Tony is also fascinated with Personality Parade. One of his goals in life is to get a question in the column. So far, he hasn't been able to come up with anything ridiculous enough to make it in. But I think this year is going to be our year. I can feel it. There are just too many unanswered questions about Bea Arthur's life. The public needs to know.

Tony, chase your dream.

Boulder--a safe space for spinning

Remember my horrid experience with the type-A spin freaks at the JCC? Here is another example of how Boulder is different than San Francisco--in a good way. This morning I went to spin class at the Boulder YMCA. Apparently the 9:30 class is quite popular--when I got there the sign-up sheet was nearly full. But I did snag a spot and I went upstairs.

I walked into the room and ta da, all the bikes were full. "I signed up," I said. The instructor said, this always happens. There are 18 spots on the sign-up sheet and 20 bikes. Those of you who are good at math have already figured out that should leave 2 extra bikes, even when the sheet is full. There were no extra bikes. Spin class crashers--it was JCC redux.

While I was trying to decide whether to curl up in fetal position in the corner and ride out the bad flashback or resort to public shaming to smoke out the offender, a nice man offered me his bike. He was a holdover from the earlier class, so he said he could pass on this one. In fact, he insisted that I take it.

Wow. Such a change from Dickheads on Wheels in San Francisco, where everyone just stared around the room with blank looks and said, "Who, ME? Lalalala." Not only that, but I like the fact that Boulderites are shifty enough to try to crash spin class, but nice enough not to go through with it in the end. It's like just the right amount of assholishness without completely spilling over into pure evil. Much how I try to live my own life. I must be in the right place.

Boulder doesn't suck. Next time I'm searching for a decent pair of shoes that don't involve Vibram or I run out of wine on Sunday, I'll have to remember that.

Web site of the week

How Roy Orbison lost 20 pounds in just 10 days

I've been looking for a site that serves this EXACT purpose. I know you have too.

Ulli's Roy Orbison in Cling-film site

http://www.michaelkelly.fsnet.co.uk/karl.htm

Hello, and welcome to my homepage. My name is Ulrich Haarbürste and I like to write stories about Roy Orbison being wrapped up in cling-film. If you have written any stories about Roy being completely wrapped in clingfilm please send them to me and I may put them up on the site. ...

As my friend Joe said, "Who doesn't want to read fan fiction involving Roy Orbison wrapped in cling-film?"

And who hasn't written at least three or four of them? Here's your chance to shine. Ulli is waiting.

Not-so-Safeway

Earlier this week I made a shopping run to Safeway at 28th and Iris. As I picked out produce and organic snacks, it seemed like any other grocery trip. Ho hum. But then, as I was getting milk, I heard someone say, "Get the FUCK DOWN, and STAY down!" and then heard a struggle.

I looked back into Organic Produce and saw two plainclothes cops wrestling a perp to the ground. And he was resisting arrest, big time. They were trying to subdue him and get the cuffs on. I swear, it was like an episode of COPS. When they finally got him cuffed, one cop went to call for backup and the other one held him there. So here was this agitated guy in cuffs, face down, next to the mixed greens.

What happened? Was this a high-speed pursuit that ended in Safeway? Did he try to rob the store? Was he trying to put a genetically-modified tomato in with the organic ones? Sixteen items in the 15 items or less aisle? Who knows?

In my lifetime I have been in some skank-ass markets. The White Hell Pantry next to the El stop. The 24-hour Safeway in Upper Market, a tweakers' paradise. And of course, the nasty Cala at Haight and Stanyan, where I was always the only customer not shoplifting or trying to buy vodka with food stamps. This store in Boulder? Quite possibly the nicest, cleanest, most well-stocked Safeway I've ever seen.

Random.

How the other half lives

A very nice family from Gianni's class invited us to ride along in their truck for the Boulder Holiday Parade. We were going to head into Denver for their holiday parade, but how can I deprive my children of the opportunity to ride in a parade? So we stayed local to wave and throw lollipops at people.

I've been feeling a little melancholy in the past week. As much as I love Boulder, it's hard to spend the holiday season in a place where you're new. People are going to parties and seeing friends and loved ones, and you're, well, not. In fact, in my case, you feel like you're traveling in a closed tube between work and home, between software white papers and potty training. It can get you down. So I looked forward to having a holiday-related social outing.

And it starts out fun as promised. We ride downtown in the back of a construction truck filled with hay bales and two other families. Gianni is in heaven. Tea is being a pill, but what else is new. All is hunky-dory until we get to the staging area. It turns out that the Barack Obama contingency is riding behind us in the lineup.

John, our host, turns to everyone and says, "Uh-oh, we've got Democrats behind us," and the rest of the group says, "Oh no!"

Oh no?! OH NO??? Great. Our one holiday outing of the season, with people who seem like they could be friends, and it turns out they're the only four Republicans in Boulder. How did this HAPPEN? How could Rick spend every morning this semester talking to this guy at drop off and not realize that he was the big R? And I know he didn't, because this is my husband who has been known to say, "if I found out someone I knew voted Republican, I would shun them." (He has a flair for the dramatic.)

This is a genuine social conundrum for us. Keep in mind that we are coming from a place where, if we were riding in the back of a truck full of hay, and I said, for example, "Dick Cheney sucks cocks in hell," 99.99 percent of the other passengers would agree with me. Hell, in Boulder, you'd think that at least 97.9 passengers would agree. How in god's name did we end up riding with the other 2.1 percent??? What to do? Should we just smile and throw suckers at people? Or should we jump ship and hope that the Obama float will take us in?

I spent the first 15 minutes of the night worried that I would get stuck debating health care, and the next 15 minutes terrified that someone would bring up the R-word and Gianni would blurt out, "But Dad, you said all Republicans were EVIL!" But it all turned out fine. We had a great time, went out for pizza afterwards, talked about all of the things we had in common, and avoided the subject of 2008 entirely. It was a fine, non-partisan time for all.

We learned a valuable lesson last night. Republicans are people too. But I'm still glad we snuck that Obama sign onto the back of their truck before we left.

Something stinks, and it's not the dog

The New York Times reports that people are buying up luxury perfume for dogs to prevent their beloved pets from stinkin' up the pet-friendly workplace. One brand, Sexy Beast, retails for $65. This unisex fragrance (Unisex. I'm not kidding) is a “blend of bergamot and vanilla-infused musk combined with natural patchouli, mandarin and nutmeg oils.” Best of all, it's vegan. Because, you know, dogs are big vegans.

So instead of having dog whiff in your cubicle, you have a mixture of essential oils AND dog whiff. Lovely. And I don't know about you, but patchouli? I'd rather have my dog smell like a dog than like some 19-year-old hippie on Phish tour. Also, what if you work in a perfume-free environment? THEN what? It's really not fair if your dog gets to wear perfume but your co-workers don't.

I will out myself as having the stinkiest dog on the planet. I love him, but he reeks. And he takes every opportunity to make himself stink more. Wet leaves, squirrel pee, dried earthworms, you name it, he rolls in it. Still, it would be somewhat jarring if he suddenly started smelling like Zsa Zsa Gabor.

You can smell him from here.

Because it's my mission to keep you from blowing $65 on canine cologne, here is my gift to you--my secret weapon against dog stink.

On a camping trip a few years ago, we stopped off at the beach. Vito, a true beach boy, ran off to dig holes and chase sticks. At one point we lost track of him. Where did he go? Oh, no worries, he's over rubbing against that log. That log with flippers. And whiskers. And rigor mortis.

Yes, Vito had discovered the biggest, stank-ass dead seal he could find and he immersed himself. Every inch of him smelled like dead seal. We faced a night in a tiny tent with The Seal Whisperer. We had forgotten our bottle of Sexy Beast, and pretty much anything else we could use to bathe him or remove the stink. The only thing I had in the car was one of those teeny tiny bottles of Purell that you get at Walgreens for 99 cents. With nothing to lose, we poured whatever was left in the bottle all over Vito.

If this is on the list of ingredients, don't buy it.

And damned if it didn't work. The little bit of Purell eradicated every bit of seal stank. To this day, Vito's beauty routine consists of regular baths and the occasional dab of Purell behind his ear.

So if you're worried that your dog is feeling not-so-fresh, save yourself $64.01 and stock up on Purell. It doesn't come in a holiday bling package. And I can't vouch that it's vegan. But it'll do the trick.

My little pony

It's fourth quarter, which means, according to everyone at my new job, that I will be working my ass off nonstop for four weeks. I will be chained to my desk and sick of my co-workers. I will eat only vending machine food and burritos from Burrito Kitchen, and I will end up with scurvy or rickets or one of those old fashioned diseases for the overworked and malnourished.

In preparation for my indentured servitude, I'm eating lots of limes and getting my Christmas shopping done early and online. God forbid this be The Year Mom Ruined Christmas. (Again.) I've been poring over the digital shelves at Amazon in search of the perfect gift. I even did a little reconnaissance work at Target yesterday while buying Tea's new big girl car seat. I didn't find any winning gifts, but I did see this:

Words fail.

Butterscotch Pony is here! I've heard that "this incredibly lifelike pony is a very special, once-in-a-lifetime friend." (Or if you're Gianni and Tea, "a special never-in-Mom's-lifetime, over-her-dead-body friend.")

It's life-sized! It eats plush carrots! It's the perfect gift for your kid if you have bought them absolutely fucking everything else in the world to fill the gaping hole in your morally bankrupt lives! It beckons to your children from the endcap at Target!

Oh my god.

Hey, you know what else is life-sized, eats carrots, and responds to your touch? A REAL PONY. If you're actually insane enough to buy your child a three-foot-tall overindulgence, go big or go home. Get the real thing.

I speak from experience because I actually HAD a pony when I was Tea's age. No lie. I did not know this until years later. Apparently, my dad had a friend who had a farm in Bloomfield (Bloomfield=Bloomington without the big-city sophistication.) He had a pony he was trying to unload on someone. My dad thought, hey! I have a three-year-old, you have a pony! It's perfect. That is how I became a proud miniature equestrienne with my own goddamn pony.

I only met the pony once. My dad took me out to see it and it tried to eat me. I'm no plush carrot but I guess I looked pretty tasty. And as suddenly as the pony had come into my life, it went away again.

I actually remember going out to a farm and seeing a pony and almost losing my foot to it. But I had no idea it was MY pony. Years later, in therapy, I couldn't even blame my parents for not getting me a pony. Because they DID. I feel gypped. But I do get to feel all superior because I had my own pony, motherfuckers, so it's not a total loss.

In 20 years, Tea can complain to her therapist that I didn't get her a Butterscotch Pony. Maybe she'll find one on eBay and buy it for herself to compensate. And she'll think, as she gently grooms it and it swishes its synthetic tail in response, that her life is now complete.

Nah.

All I'm sayin' is that if I see any pony-shaped boxes on my doorstep, they're going straight to the Butterscotch Glue Factory. Fur real.