I've been putting off posting about my trip to Denver. I want to say it was crazy and fun and we will all get together again soon and do something real classylike now that we are all grown up ladies with mortgages and husbands and babies and dogs and stuff, but I couldn't help feeling that it was probably the last time Lynn, Heather, and I would be together for a very long time, if not forever.

Funny how that works.

We keep promising each other that we will do this big yearly trip, all us waitresses. We will somehow all find the time and money and babysitters and we will go on a giant girly trip for a long weekend and we will be just as we were back in the olden days. We will keep changing locations, and since we are all spread out over then entire globe we can just take turns hosting.

Truth is the few of us who still live within the Philadelphia limits can't even get it together for a happy hour.

Heather and I were the only ones who could make it out to the wedding because life gets in the way of flying cross-country or cross-world to watch a girl you used to work with marry a guy you never met before. We were in the wedding, we kinda had to be there. And it took some work. And some dollars. And some shifting of the babies. But we got there.

It was so good to catch up with each other without anyone else around. Heather and I haven't had any one-on-one time for years. Probably not since the day before she left for San Diego, at Copa Too over pitchers of margaritas. I wish I would have written down what we did and said that day, our lives were so different then. We probably gossiped and complained about dumb crap. This time around we got to talk about real things, like life and our little boys and the weight and heft of post-nursing boobs. Oh! And we took a mid-afternoon nap! That bed never saw such sleeping. We were beat and we missed our boys and we were total downers. And we had that weird elevation hangover. Sleeping was the smartest thing to do.

When I gave the bride a good night kiss after everything was over it felt like a goodbye kiss. Isn't that terrible? I was the Maid of Honor. You'd think we would see each other all the time. I'll be surprised if I see her again within five year's time. Hell, I'll go out on a limb and say ten. She has no reason to come back to Philadelphia anymore, and I'm not likely to go out to Denver anytime soon, unless I make good on that whole RVing across America idea. But with the price of gas... (excuse du jour)

On the upside, when the three of us were together, it felt like we were never apart. We got to be a little silly and drinky.



We talked about people that weren't there. We talked about people that were there. We shared clothes and make up and stories.
We rode around in limos.


And sacrificed our personal safety to grab a six pack.

It was a good trip.

equal press

babies look cleaner and more well-kempt in b&w, don't they? That's why you rarely see any color pics of the under5 set on this blog.

uno

Payton is one month old today. One month marks the halfway point of the insanity, so congratulations Ad and Brian! Only two to four more weeks of total junk. Then it gets better, I promise.

swift kick

Assuming I stick with my current mortgage company and pay my current rate and stay put in my current house, I will officially own it the same month that Jake turns 32.

I'm not even 32 yet.

happy belated flag day!

love,
jake

conspiracy theory #123r78scq

Not that this is relevant to anything but there is no one here at work who I'm good enough buddies with to talk about it so I'm going to post it.

Every time I get work-related public (pubic!) health oriented STD literature I swear Geo.Bush and his Conservative Dept of Health Minions are flooding the American people with horror stories of rampant viral underpants nightmares and way exaggerated statistics:

1 in 4 Americans have HERPES! Quick! Button your jeans!! Yeah, um, it's called cold sores. Cold sores on your mouth will make you test positive for herpes in a blood test. Big deal. Pop a Valtrex and buy some Carmex. Or Blistex. Or something else that ends in -ex. Stridex maybe. Kotex. Whatever.

Holy crap! HPV starts with H and ends in V so it must be just. like. HIV! Every single HPV germ is deadly and warty and it will surely kill every single one of your daughters after rendering them sterile and unattractive to the community. Vaccinate! Vaccinate! Vaccinate! Yeah, no. There are hundreds of kinds of HPV's out there and you can catch them in a billion different ways and the vaccination may or may not work for some but it certainly doesn't work for all. They aren't all deadly and sexually transmitty. Relax. Your daughter is such a skank anyway that HPV is the least of your worries.

Really gross gynecological pictures are plastered all over the halls of our nation's high school nurses offices and health classrooms and college dorms and doctor's offices and social service organizations.

Guess what?

I don't buy it.

Sure there are diseases out there, but come on. With all the press they've been getting lately you would think we were a nation full of crotch rot. People aren't getting laid because they are scared, and then I have to deal with these people who are super cranky and not getting laid and yelling at me because they are uptight and miserable.

Or something like that. Regardless of the issue, people are uptight and yelling and it's bringing me down.

Do you know what I love? The herpes commercials. They always (ALWAYS) show a couple wearing wedding rings, and the man always (ALWAYS) has herpes and his loving wife, who, unlike her horny fornicating bastage of a husband, remained a virgin until her wedding day still (STILL) doesn't.

I think that there is a clandestine underground right-wing laboratory somewhere in the Midwest with secret government agents who get paid to Photoshop lamprey mouths on people's naked crotches and develop scary tri-folding glossy-print full-color brochures that tell you to wait until marriage to do it or your thing will rot off and to stop being so damn gay because that's how you die and go to hell.

Seriously. Who do you know that would let their nasty ass chassis get so out-of-control scabby that it would end up in a text book?

Other than your mom, I mean.

OOoohhh. I haven't wrecked your mom in awhile.
It feels real good.

Your mom feels real good.

this is not a high coup

My company is changing its name.
The initials will remain the same.
The mission will remain the same.
The address will remain the same.
My salary will remain the same.

I don't like it.
I say we keep Philadelphia in the title.
No one asked me about this.
Don't they know I have problems with the word "public"?
Toilets and telephones are public.
At least the ones I prefer to use.

I hear they are changing the logo.
I hope this means I get a new mug.
My corporate logo mug is from 2002.
It has never been properly washed.
We don't have hot water on my floor.

I rinse my dirty deskfork in my coffee.
And wipe it with kleenex that I steal from a co-worker's desk.
Sometimes I loan out my deskfork.
Enjoy your ramen noodles, suckers.

I rarely drink office coffee.
It just sits there to prove I've been in lately.

I have decided I will not use the word "Public".
I will be referring to my place of business as the Pubic Xxxxxh Xxxxxxxxxt Xxxxxxxxxxn.
It's funnier.

damn the man

Last year I wrote a Father's Day post. I don't think we did anything special, but I know that I held Jake's hand around a pen and wrote the word "Daddy" on a notecard. It is still on the fridge.
The year before that I didn't even mention it in the blog, but I kinda remember driving in circles for hours trying to find Dave's baseball field in Mt. Nowhere, New Jersey because it was Father's Day, dammit, and my boy was going to spend some time with his dad.

This year we hung out downtown at the School of Rock show because a friend's son was playing. It's funny how a bunch of pre-pubescents can play better than most any crappo band at any crappo bar around. Then we went for ice cream, which is a nice treat. Usually we eat ice cream in the dark, alone, with only the television to witness the gorging.

We aren't big holiday people. If it isn't my birthday or there isn't some sort of cookie or festive drink involved, you aren't likely to find us at the table. We talked about how absurd all these high-pressure, low-reward days are and Dave said something to the tune of "that kid doesn't owe me anything today or any other day, I owe him everything. He didn't ask to be put here, I chose to bring him into the world".

I like it.

Put it in a card and maybe I'll buy it next year.

I did think it was super cute when Jake ran to the window to see Dave coming home from his baseball game this year (that we skipped) and screamed down the street: "HI DADDY!! HAPPY FADDER'S DAY! COME INSIDE!".

I hate the Sprint lady that tells me how many voice mails I have. Her voice is mechanically cheery even though I know that one of the messages that waits for me is the one my brother left early Sunday morning just after he found out that his best friend passed away sometime the night before. She doesn't care what kind of news is on the other side of her beep. I don't want to listen to it but there isn't a way to erase it unless I play the first couple seconds of it. Maybe you can do it for me. Have you ever heard your brother's voice when he tells you something really awful? It stops your breath before he even gets done saying 'hey', makes you sit down in the middle of your hallway when he asks if you got his message, and tears your heart in half while he says 'I was supposed to be there with him'.

If you are trying to get a hold of me, text me instead of leaving me a voice mail. I won't be checking my messages.

We knew Markie our whole lives. Our dads were friends. He was like my brother's brother.

I'm glad I got a chance to spend some time with him last time we were home. I feel bad about telling him his car was crappy and hard to drive. He probably knew his car was crappy and he did a good job of teaching me all the tricks to make it drive better. He should have finished off those 2am Greek Fries that Brian and I half-devoured but he said he was trying to be healthy so we threw them away and went to my mom's to build a fire and share a bottle of Makers and talk about growing up together.

niner

Since it's June everyone is posting their super lovey dovey anniversary posts so I feel like I should too, but everyone already ate all the words out of my brain and I can't think of anything original to say that won't make you puke in your mouth.

Boy, nine years is a long time.

Three cheers for child brides!

trade

For those of you who are fortunate enough to deal with Jake on a regular basis, please heed this notice that he will be trading in his beloved Boneshoes this afternoon for an equally flashy pair of space invaderesque arcadey rocketship slip-on martian shoes. The Boneshoes are too small and they stink to highseas. The new shoes are the same (Payless) brand, same (Airwalk) style but they don't have bones on them. Please make a giant deal about the new ones and how cool they are and don't mention the old ones. I've been preparing him for the switch for a few days, but it will still be hard for him, especially considering his new fascination with pirates which meshes so well with his lasting fondness for all things bones. That's what he is doing when he walks up to you and tries to close one eye and balls up his fist and thumps it across his chest and makes a gutteral noise in his throat. He's being a pirate.

For those of you who are fortunate enough NOT to deal with Jake on a regular basis regarding the Boneshoes, consider yourself lucky that you don't have to bear witness to the meltdown which is sure to ensue. And please note that the obsession the boy has with these damn shoes is definitely worth a post.

I promise not to stock up on anything that Jake loves in an unhealthy manner ever again if there is a chance that he will grow out of it. Even if whatever it is that he loves is on sale for the low, low price of $5.

more cowbell

Philadelphia Schools are closing early because of the heat this afternoon.

Lame.

We get this heat wave every single year. It sucks because our buildings are so old that air conditioning is either crappy or non-existent but we get through it with less than a dozen heat-related deaths. And yes, I consider angry hot-weather gunfight deaths to be heat-related deaths. Old people get all the glory but it is the teenage boys that I really worry about in the summertime.

Did you know that there is a correlation between murder rates and ice cream sales? That is what you learn when you are a Criminal Justice major. Just a big mix of criminological and sociological and psychological and sometimes political status trends and what we can do about it. Theoretically. I just saved you 40K and a lifetime of social service.
If you go to the corner store this evening and they are all out of popsicles, go home now. Stay away from your exterior walls and your windows. Someone is going to die.
And then write a letter to your local rep to ask that more air conditioners be given to those less fortunate so they can stop killing people when they are hot and angry. And mention space heaters, for when we are cold and miserable, because ice cream sales are also up in the dead of winter, right after the holidays because we are all in that "I must ingest 3000 calories per day" mindset due to all the holiday eating parties and we are so broke because of Christmas that we eat ourselves into an oblivion and then start shooting. Or something. I've been out of school for a while so I forget how it goes exactly.

Anyway. Sorry. Where was I? It's hot. I took Jake to the big bike race yesterday after spending an hour debating whether to take him up to Manayunk. I packed us like we were going on a weeklong desert trek. Tons of water and spray bottles and bandanas and snacks and Gatorade and Matchbox cars. I was so worried that we would dry up somewhere along the way and no one would find us because we would be reduced to nothing. I was there for about an hour before it dawned on me that there were actually people on these bikes. 156 miles in the oppressive Philadelphia heat and I'm worried about dragging my boy up The Wall one time while we take breaks to hit up a bunch of party spots. Holy crap though. If you've ever climbed that wall (17% grade = the road rises 275 feet in one-third of a mile) without a two year old and a bag of his crap on a hundred degree (124 on the pavement) day you know it isn't easy. Down wasn't so bad, but people were pretty drunk by that time so no one made room for a lady with her baby, so there was a lot of pushing and near-rolling. Jake mostly loved it, especially the motorcycles and the helicopters and the medics and the team cars with all the bikes on top. He screamed at the pack and eyed up everyone's beers but I didn't let him drink any. On account of the heat. It was so hot that I didn't drink a drop either. Can you believe it? I'm old. It's official.

Back to schools being let out...

I'll be the first to admit that I didn't grow up somewhere known for hot weather, but we didn't have air conditioning either. The teachers would bring in fans from home everyday and schlep them in and turn out the lights and try to teach us something of some sort of value and send us home to our hot houses where we would lie around and complain about the heat and ask that the sprinkler be turned on. I don't have air conditioning in my house now (save for a window unit in Jake's room and a wall unit in the living/dining room), and I certainly didn't have it then. I am sitting tight in my office and Jake can stay at the air-conditioned day care all day and we will both be happy. I'll pick him up at 5ish, and maybe even get the stroller because I can't bear to carry him six blocks and I'll dump him in the new baby pool out back.

Speaking of which, I took some pictures of it on Saturday, when we really WT'ed it up. Me in a t-shirt and underpants in the pool with Jake in his supercute trunks and rashguard and Dave in his uber-gross nylon or whatever (read:plastic) gym shorts sitting on a mildewy folding chair under the hose which he had rigged over the clothesline pole so it would spray directly on him. What can I say? It was hot. The pics are only of Jake. Even I have standards of what I am photographed in and I don't have any reason to blackmail Dave so I kept him out of the pics too.

I've also been spending time eating crow this weekend. I know some people who know some people so I sometimes end up getting some serious swag. Sometimes it is awesome, sometimes it is just a bunch of junky crap that I turn down because I have no place in my life for it. I have to start by saying that I whole-heartedly disapprove of Crocs in any way, shape, or form. They look sweaty and gross and aren't flattering. That said, I am in lust with my new Croc flip-flops. They are mushy and squishy and nubby and lovey and feel oh so good on my feet and they were free. Even Dave wore them to the corner to pick up a pizza the other day. Problem is that they are ugly as sin so I'm reserving them as house shoes. I figure if I don't take them out of the house I can still make fun of the people that do take their Crocs out of their house. Right?

I'd set up links to all this fun stuff I'm talking about but Blogger is crapping out on me. AGAIN. Anyone else thinking of switching hosts? It seems that whenever I'm feeling particularly bloggy I can't get anything to load or save or post. Today I have zero powers of editing, so I apologize for the thousand words of text that could have been summed up in one hyperlink and the dozen or so typos and spelling errors.

Blame Google. They are responsible for 99% of the world's goings on anyway.

in crowd

I really miss the olden days when Jake required a wardrobe overhaul every three months. I'm a little bit bored of what he has now.

However, I do like that he is big enough that I can steal his socks. They are short enough not to show above my sneakers. Everyone knows that only dorky moms wear socks that show.

Speaking of dorky moms, I think that maybe the other moms out there that I avoid because they are chronically dorky may actually be avoiding me because I might be dorky. As if, right! Right? Right?

I recently read a post about not fitting in with the other moms. I also stumbled upon a post about falling somewhere in between those (weird) moms who seem to be happy with their housekeepy lives and the single girls with no kids who seem to be happy with their socialite lives. The article was about single moms but I find myself stuck between those two extremes all the time.

Most of my friends are childless, most of them childless by choice. I love the childless set. They do fun things, they have time for me when I need it, and they like Jake because they only see him when they want to and he is one of the very few children in their lives so he gets spoiled by them. It can be a little frustrating when they say that they know what I mean when I whine about something mommy-related because I know they don't. But I know that they think they know what I mean because I thought I knew what people meant before I had a kid too so it all works out because I know they hear me and they care. On the other hand, I try not to whine about something mommy-related because no one really wants to hear it and I'll feel better if I just have a good time and stop bitching and start acting like I'm 28 again. Isn't that the purpose of having friends that aren't parents?

My momfriends are a very select few that have been handpicked because they do understand that it is hard to be a good mom and a good person and a good wife and a good everything else but well worth the extra effort. They know what I mean when I bitch about something mommy-related and either have something good to say about it or just shake their head and pass me another drink/cookie/hug/babywipe.
If you are a mom and you are my friend I consider you to be a pretty damned good lady. If you are a mom and I read your blog you are a pretty damned good lady who really knows how to write. Thank you, Pretty Damned Good Ladies. You are moms who are trying to raise your kid(s) to be a good, productive member(s) of society who adhere(s) to the values present in your home while being a good friend and neighbor to the world and you are funny and nice and most importantly, pretty.

And I appreciate that your ways of doing things may be the same or different from the way I do things or from the values present in my home. And that is why I like you, because you are different from me and I am trying to be White about this whole parenting thing, and diversity is pretty high up on the list.

I have been shunned by some moms because of my beliefs, convictions, mouthy tendencies, or reluctance to do certain things to my child. Seriously, one of the moms at the park got mad because I wouldn't let Jake have some of her kid's Hershey bar and now they can't play together. A baker lady at one of the pizza shops stopped being nice to me when I kindly asked her not to give Jake a free soda. Another mom got mad because I told her that I don't prepare meat in my house at all so Fridays aren't that big of a deal to me during Lent. I'm not Catholic and I don't cook meat?!?! But my last name ends in a vowel and I live where I do!?!? Scandal! How will my baby grow? Or make his First Communion? Brain overload!

City living requires you to share public space with, well, with the public. I let Jake play with anyone, even the (mildly) rough and dirty kids because he needs to learn to fend for himself and play fairly and be social and not be grossed out or prejudiced. I have never gotten between him and another child in a spat over turns at the slides or fights over a toy. I've given Jake the look and he knows to back off or share or whatever, and I allow other moms to deal with their kids the way they deal with them and I will stay out of it. Only once did I take Jake away from the park because I didn't like the way another child (read:mom) was acting. I think that is good momming practices, don't you?

I was at a baby party a few months ago and I spoke with another mom for well over an hour about all sorts of fun things we both love when she changed the conversation to what I think about being a single mom to a bi-racial kid. She was a single mom of a bi-racial brood of children, and she wondered if my experiences living in a big city with a child who was part "I'mguessinghe'sHispanicofsomesort?" was similar to her experiences living in the country with children who are half Black. When I told her that I was married but choose not to wear a ring her jaw dropped and she told me that she couldn't believe I lied to her like that and tricked her into thinking we were "kindred" and she walked away from me and asked her kids to come to the kitchen and take a break from playing. Her word, not mine, that kindred thing. Odd choice. We had fun together, our kids loved each other, we drink the same kind of beer and eat the same kind of ice cream. We went to the same college and do the same sort of job. Her best friend was in my wedding. How could we not be kindred? I didn't bother telling her that Jake's dad is white. I may have gotten slapped.

There is a mom at the park near my house who I get such a kick out of seeing a few times a week. Her daughter is edible, her son is adorable, and we seem to have tons in common. She told me her name once, but I totally forget it so I just call her Sophia's mommy. I really, really like Sophia's mommy and Sophia's mommy really likes me too and we laugh as we watch the kids play and talk about things that aren't really important but it's good to talk about them at the end of a long day while the kids run themselves tired. But none of the other moms want to have anything to do with us even when we try to bring them into our tiny sororal circle of hilarity and goodness.

I think it is because we are so cool that they are intimidated.

obscene

I learned a new word for fupa today.

It's gunt.

Puke.

another post that will make people say i'm an elitist jerk

It's happening.

Jake is starting to pick up the local accent.

I noticed it a few days ago when he was singing along with Wonder Red on Super Why. "oohwl boohwl toohwl, wondahific yer tahrrific" (all, ball, tall, btw).

And then again this morning on the way to daycare "aww, a doohgahie. she is beeuteeful!".

Darnit, I was hoping it was just babytalk but he is getting better with the annunciation and it seems that letting the village raise my child is taking its toll on my eardrums.

My major beef with the local white person vernack is that everyone sounds different. There are like twenty different local accents. I'm quite sure I've mentioned this before, but mothers and daughters sound different. Sisters sound different from their brothers. Dads don't sound a thing like their sons. Italians sound different than Irish who sound different than, um, than the three other white people in South Philly. One sister who is all two-streeted out sounds like she has a mouthful of socks and another who things she is all classy (kul-e-assie) sounds like the Nanny. I don't get it.

This article suggests that children didn't want to sound like their newly immigrated parents so they changed their speech patterns and that's why everyone sounds different. Um, I would suggest that if you are embarrassed that your parents are Italian that you take off the lipliner and hairspray, hide your gold horn necklace and those doorknockers in your ears, and toss that sweatsuit you wear everyday that has "Italian Princess" airbrushed across the ass. Oops, sorry. Across the culo.

I am in love with this study because it proves to the world that I'm usually right about all things oral.

Well, most things oral. You may not agree with my fixation on peanut butter, dill pickle, and mayonnaise sandwiches. Don't knock it til you've tried it.

My major problem with the accent thing that if Jake ever ventures out in the world he is going to sound like he might need a helmet and a tiny bus to get him around. It isn't cute, it isn't professional, and it certainly isn't respected once you get out of the five -county area.

Why do I live here?, you ask. Well, the whole thing is avoidable. Or at least correctable. Not everyone talks with the accent. I'd say anywhere between 30% and 75% (depending where in the city you are) of the people born and bred here have it. Is it like that everywhere? Down in the deep South is it possible that not everyone talks all drawly? Not everyone in Fargo talks like everyone in Fargo?

Jake sometimes speaks correctly and sometimes not so much. His dad is the same way. Truth be told, me too. If I'm talking to the locals, I talk like the locals. I have this terrible habit of picking up the way someone sounds and throwing it right back at them. It's kinda rude. I'm kinda rude. I've been doing it all my life. Get me in a room full of South Philly chicks and a pitcher of apple martinis or Washington apples or the gross South Philly Chick drink du jour and I'm dragging out my consonants and screwing up my vowels with the best of them while we talk about hair and make up and boys and food and kittens and rainbows.

Oow mye gooaad! I cain't evahn bahleeive it that the Paffamarkahs oahn Arregaahn Avahenuew is gawwtenned the phokatcheeaahs ooohin sayels foahr sevendiefiave centsses. Inahhnee thin unner a doooaller is cheeahpa ('Oh my god, I can't even believe it that the Pathmark on Oregon Ave has got the foccacia on sale for seventy-five cents. Anything under a dollar is cheap.' Need a further break down? 'The grocer has foccacia on sale for seventy five cents. It is a bargain at $1'). South Philly girls can't even believe anything all the time. Everything is shocking.

So nuts.

Nuds.

Nuts.

this just in

In my house we talk about how 90% of what is on the news isn't really news. It may be interesting, but it's not news. We talk about this a lot. About 90% of the time the news is on.

Is it useful to me as a person? To us as a community? To we as a people who are trying to better the country and world we live in? If no, it's not news. Everything is so damn sensational that we are all convinced that our world is terrible and evil and falling apart and we are all going to be raped and shot and beaten and only prayer and isolation and a good set of locks will ever save us from a horrible fate.

Guess what? It's not terrible and evil. Well, it kinda is. But it isn't any worse than it ever was. It's probably better than ever, but no one tunes in at six to hear how crime rates are down and there are more kittens and roses now than there were five years ago. But every one seems to need a good dose of how it is shaping up to be a fun summer because it should be warmer and sunnier than it was a few months ago when we weren't having fun because it was colder and greyer because it makes us feel better after we hear how many people were stabbed and how many innocent bystanders were shot and how terrible it is that our world is falling apart. (Read: I'm sorry if this sounds cruel, but how many innocent people do you know that stand around on a drug corner past midnight? Yeah, bitches. That's what I thought. And don't be fooled because that innocent bystander is pregnant or a grandmother. Crackheads and thugs get pregnant too, and your cute little idea of a grandmother is not the typical grandmother that gets caught up in this crap, blogs the girl who just got off the phone with a 32 year-old crack-headed facially-tattooed pregnant grandmother who is mad because children's services is "making her go to parenting classes or some sorta shit for no reason". Oh, wait. I'm sorry. That should read 31 year-old. My arithmetical bad. My brain is fiscally set to 2009 but the world is still stuck in 2008)

The major stations refuse to cut into scheduled sitcom garbage programming- with it's oh-so-precious, dollar-fetching commercial-advertising airtime- with real news, but they are more than willing to cut into real news with a bunch of good-looking toothy pundits giving us their take on the real news while the real news is still going on in real time in the background.

Holy crap! I see by the tiny ticker at the bottom of the station identification logo that Hillary is conceding! Where is the news? Turn on the news!

"Lex Feelgood, what do you have to say about it?"

"Blah blah blah I knew that guy over there back when we went to a really good college and before my daddy got me this job, and now back to you, Staci (with an 'i') Tittersout."

"Lex, while you were talking, we just found out that Hillary isn't really conceding, let's go to the file footage to show you what she was saying while your mic was on and hers was off..."

Gah!

I read more blogs than I do news sites. I care more about what you do in your house with your friends and family than I care about a bakery in South Jersey with the best turnovers in the tristate area or what the Shorecast will be this summer. Our local headlines are flooded with stories about the pretty liar thief who likes to almost show her boobs in all her pictures and newscasters sending out racy bikini pictures to a married newscaster man and fighting with police while screaming "I'm a newscaster!" and getting her emails checked by another newscaster who was taken off the air and not answering his phone and hey wait! his newscaster wife works for another newscasting station and her newscaster partner is not having his newscaster contract renewed so she must be devastated about her newscaster husband and her newscaster buddy and probably worried about her newscaster job. That is shitcasting. Not newscasting.

This morning while someone with way too much make-up on for 7am was yammering about nothing in particular for three seconds past her allotted yammer time, I saw a still of Barack Obama joining hands with his wife on a platform in St. Paul. That is news. News that makes a whole lot of other news about politics and civil rights and equality for the last fifty years valid and worthwhile and historical and I got a lumpy throat while I burned that image into my brain so I never forget it. In my country there is a black man with a shot at getting his portrait on the wall of the White House taking the next step while a woman with maybe possibly still a chance to have hers up there is deciding whether she still wants to stay in this race. Holy crap. Why is Sheinell Jones still talking about where to get the best roasted pork in the city? Seriously. They led into Obama's nomination by talking about the fact that he promises to try whiz on his steak next time he is in town and he wants a pork sandwich from John's on Snyder. Who is writing this effing copy? John on Snyder?

How is a girl to keep up on local current events? Oh, right. The BBC.

So how are things in your town today? I'm guessing that it is sunny despite a few gunfights between no one you know or care about on a street you've never heard of with a chance of a crappy festival in a neighborhood you aren't familiar with featuring local activists and marching bands from three towns over with dollar hotdogs sold by ABC Meat Market and a free t-shirt for the first fifty people that park in the EFG Parking Lot and WXYZ radio will be there with bumperstickers and keychains?