Caterwauling

Watched Lewis Black’s new show “The Root of all Evil.” It was Oprah vs. the Catholic Church, and you could text your votes. I voted for (against?) Oprah, mostly for her Obama endorsement. (Just kidding — I’m actually still ticked at her for giving us Dr. Phil!)

I’ve been wanting to blog about today’s Geraldine Ferraro comment, but I can’t really claim to know what her intent was, so anything I can say is speculation. But Michael Steele made an interesting point today in support of her, that if she can’t express her opinion, well, it’s the backlash that’s suggesting racism is still alive and, unfortunately, well in this country.

She made a stupid comment. No arguments there. I was going “WTF?” when I heard it. I thought I heard on CNN that she said she herself wouldn’t have been picked to run with Mondale if she were male, but I could be making that up.

In any event, in my heart of hearts, I wonder whether we’re all turning this election into (hopefully) a better outcome of the last one — four long years ago, the whole “vote for anybody but Bush” theme was rampant. Few voters were in favor of John Kerry (although I was); more were anti-Bush than pro-Kerry.

And in this election, are we voting against the Bush legacy more than we are supporting any one Democratic candidate? Just in general discussions with folks, I get the feeling that some are voting based on one’s longer career of public service and others are voting the other way because of that same person’s career (i.e., is “anyone but Clinton” the post-modern “anyone but Bush”?).

Don’t take this as bashing the other guy — I’ve been supporting my candidate faithfully (donations and all) but not wasting my energy on coming up with reasons to dislike the competition. I’ve tried hard to NOT pay attention to the politics of the campaign and try to focus on what my candidate stands for. The things I feel passionate about, and the things I am personally struggling with, are why I voted the way I did — not what one did or didn’t say at a particular juncture on the campaign trail.

Many of my friends — smart, educated people whose judgment I trust — are in favor of Obama. But when I ask some of them what swayed them, the thing I’ve heard most frequently is that they are skeptical of having another Clinton era — I keep hearing words like crooks and liars and scandal and other words that don’t go much beyond four letters.

Which, I get. I really do. I just have yet to hear someone have the first thing out of their mouth be, “This is why Obama would totally rock socks. …” Because, hey, if he gets the nomination, I will likely vote for him … although I must admit that the best argument I can come up with right now is, “Because he’s not McCain.” (However this all ends up, though, I’ll be studying the finalists closely before voting. Even if my candidate gets the nomination.)

Someone made a joke to me awhile back that has never left my mind because I didn’t have a comeback. I was saying that I was bummed that Hillary didn’t win some primary or another and the response was that she would have a good job as the janitor of Obama’s Cabinet.

And I thought to myself, wow, if I had said a similar comment about Obama, that would have been taken in such a way to suggest something incorrect about me.

And in that, Michael Steele may have a point — if we’re afraid of being offensive through simple discourse, then we really haven’t made much progress, have we?

Which is why I will stick to arguing about who should be the the next “American Idol” and leave the political correctness arguments to the rest of this capital city. Anyone else voting for a Carly Smithson/David Cook finale ticket?

You know, I don’t mind it as much when it’s my paying customers who cough, barf and snarf all over me, but when it’s the a-holes who think we are put on the planet for them to entertain, molest and/or listen to their life stories over and OVER again who do it whilst coughing all over me, I get a twee bit testy.

Otherwise, the meetings went great. It serves as a reminder of what our customers want and need, and it’s one of those times when all the corporate divisions mix and mingle, so everyone’s put their agendas down and we pull together as a team and bond as well as cooperate. It’s a glorious thing, one that I always hope will continue when we go back to the digital salt mines.

Anyway, clearly I’m home, I’ve got a bit of a cold and my feet are still swelled, with the left one still looking like something out of a Foo Fighters video. I had to buy Crocs in a size 10 to fit over it — my feet are an 8 1/2 on a good day — and they’re still tight. Le sigh.

I rolled in late Friday night to see my mom waiting at the door. I walked past her and went straight to my room for the next 24 hours. She was so excited to see me. And I burst straight into tears that this is my life, and welcome back to it. Last year, I admit I hoped for someone to come along to love me. I guess I should have been a lot more specific because this is SO not what I had in mind.

But I’ve always said 34 is going to be “my year.” And here I am, three months away from that so-called magical era, and I am not giving up on that dream. I spent a lot of time with myself this past week, and the thing is, I like the “me” who has gone into hibernation. I’m not overly fond of the current incarnation, though.

I mean, you can always break up with someone who isn’t meeting your needs or if you just don’t love them anymore, but how do you disassociate with family and self if they’re driving you bugshit nuts?

I know, there’s some lesson I need to learn in all of this. But why does every moment of life have to be some sort of teachable moment? Why can’t I go away and chaos not erupt, and why can’t I come back and not feel like I’m stepping into a bear trap and that I’m going to be dangling upside-down over an alligator pond with my foot ensconced in the metal jaws until I can figure out how to gnaw my way back to freedom?

In any event, I suppose it’s Lent. I’d like to give up on all the offers I’m getting from ProFlowers and Hallmark and 1-800-Flowers.com. Any girl who claims she isn’t into flowers is lying. I personally hate the smell of them because they remind me of funeral homes, but honestly? I abhor their absence even more. All this holiday does is serve to remind me that I’m not “there” yet and to stoke the fear that I may never be.

Funny, that. The girl who just wants some goddamned personal space really wouldn’t mind sharing it with someone after all. But how many more tests do I have to go through with situations I DO NOT WANT before I get to the ones I would possibly like very much?

I was just listening to my iPhone tunes, and feeling mellow while listening to Trisha Yearwood’s “Real Live Woman.”

I was leaning back in my chair, just sort of staring at the wall and thinking, and I didn’t even realize the song had changed.

But just to show you the power of Lenny Kravitz, when the lyrics started playing for his song “Again,” I felt my girly bits twinging.

Seriously.

Does that man inspire orgasms all across the world with just the sound of his voice, or am I just lucky enough to have a “moment” in the middle of a slightly stressful day?

Oh, Lenny. Thank you for being hawtt and sexy … unlike Dave Matthews, who is playing now. But I gotta admit, DMB’s “Crush” is serving to continue my “come on, get happy” feeling.

Ooh, “Run to the Water” by Live. Yeah! There’s something compelling about that Ed Kowalczyk, too. Perhaps that was why I was so soggy-pantied over Chris Daughtry, who favored him vocally and a bit physically.

OK, Kate Voegele’s “Wish You Were” is next in the rotation. Female hard-on killed, although I do love, love, LOVE this song, too.

Soggy-panty break over. Back to the digital salt mines.

My 4 1/2 year old niece hates naptime. She gets good and crabby without one, and she will fight you to the death if she thinks you’re trying to knock her out for a while and go do something that she could derive great enjoyment from destroying.

But once she gets forced down for an hour, something miraculous happens. She’s pleasant. For 10 minutes, anyway, till she realizes the cleaning or errands that were achieved without her doing her level best to undo it.

My friend refers to her kids (the other’s 2 1/2) as her weapons of mass destruction. And she always goads me about when I will make her an aunt. We all know the answer after I talk to her — buy stock in Trojans, ’cause those kids may be the cutest I’ve ever seen, but they’re not the poster children for reproduction.

I say all of this to pontificate on whether I got a nap once in awhile, would I be any less wound-up. Like, if I could just tell everyone to go fuck off for an hour or two (preferably in those words, but maybe I can soften it up for some) and curl up with my black fleece blankie and a cup of peppermint tea, would I back away from the mental taser gun that I would use on everyone with INVISIBLE COMMON SENSE?

Despite the plethora o’ shit I have to deal with, today I want to complain about the, well, lack thereof in other parts, if ya catch mah drift.

I’ve been on this medication for four months now. It is doing nothing to improve the condition it was intended for. However, all of the side effects have shown up to the party and it’s irritating because all the bad stuff is here but the good stuff isn’t happening.

I wasn’t worried when the label said the pills may cause fatigue, bloatedness, irritability, blurred vision and constipation. Fuck, I enjoy most of that without paying $20 a bottle. But I figured it was a small price to pay to get better.

Hah. Meanwhile I have two refills left on this thing and realize now that I have to take other pills to combat all the damn side effects. No wonder people get hooked on medications — it’s not that you WANT to ingest a veritable pharmacy of meds, but you HAVE to.

I still get mad at people who poop at work, though. I don’t care if an urge does come at an inappropriate time — that doesn’t mean you should indulge it!

There are no fans in the ladies room, for one, and two, how do you bounce out of a stall with the pooh aroma in every fiber of your hair and clothes and still manage to say hello to the people who are holding their breath whilst washing their hands because your booty stank?