Does anyone else think Al Roker looks like he has angry red nipples and a little blue weenie?
No. More. Candy. For. Me.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Quote of the day
“This is a moment of anguish. The Bush presidency has engineered the unlikely double whammy of undermining free-market capitalism and essential freedoms, the nation’s twin badges.”
-- Roger Cohen, The New York Times
Go here for the whole column.
-- Roger Cohen, The New York Times
Go here for the whole column.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Mmmmm... pineapple*
*Lifted, with love, from some dear soul who has far too much time on her hands.
Dear Red States:
We’ve decided we’re leaving. We intend to form our own country, and we’re taking the other Blue States with us. In case you aren’t aware, that includes California, Hawaii, Oregon, Washington, Minnesota, Wisconsin, Michigan, Illinois and all the Northeast. We believe this split will be beneficial to the nation, and especially to the people of the new country of New California.
To sum up briefly: You get Texas, Oklahoma and all the slave states. We get stem cell research and the best beaches. We get the Statue of Liberty. You get Dollywood. We get Intel and Microsoft. You get WorldCom. We get Harvard. You get Ole Miss. We get 85 percent of America’s venture capital and entrepreneurs. You get Alabama. We get two-thirds of the tax revenue; you get to make the red states pay their fair share.
Since our aggregate divorce rate is 22 percent lower than the Christian Coalition’s, we get a bunch of happy families. You get a bunch of single moms. Please be aware that Nuevo California will be pro-choice and anti-war, and we’re going to want all our citizens back from Iraq at once. If you need people to fight, ask your evangelicals. They have kids they’re apparently willing to send to their deaths for no purpose, and they don’t care if you don’t show pictures of their children's caskets coming home. We do wish you success in Iraq, and hope that the weapons of mass destruction turn up, but we’re not willing to spend our resources on it anymore.
With the Blue States in hand, we will have firm control of 80 percent of the country’s fresh water, more than 90 percent of the pineapple and lettuce, 92 percent of the nation’s fresh fruit, 95 percent of America’s quality wines, 90 percent of all cheese, 90 percent of the high tech industry, most of the U.S. low-sulfur coal, all living redwoods, sequoias and condors, all the Ivy League and Seven Sister schools plus Stanford, Cal Tech and MIT.
With the Red States, on the other hand, you will have to cope with 88 percent of all obese Americans (and their projected health care costs); 92 percent of all U.S. mosquitoes; nearly 100 percent of the tornadoes; 90 percent of the hurricanes; 99 percent of all Southern Baptists; virtually 100 percent of all televangelists; Rush Limbaugh; and Bob Jones University. We get Hollywood and Yosemite. Thank you.
Additionally, 38 percent of those in the Red states believe Jonah was actually swallowed by a whale; 62 percent believe life is sacred unless we’re discussing the war, the death penalty or gun laws; 44 percent say that evolution is only a theory; 53 percent believe that Saddam was involved in 9/11; and 61 percent of them believe they are people with higher morals than the rest of us, despite all evidence to the contrary.
Oh, and finally, we’re taking the good pot, too. You can have that dirt weed they grow in Mexico.
Peace out,
Blue States
Dear Red States:
We’ve decided we’re leaving. We intend to form our own country, and we’re taking the other Blue States with us. In case you aren’t aware, that includes California, Hawaii, Oregon, Washington, Minnesota, Wisconsin, Michigan, Illinois and all the Northeast. We believe this split will be beneficial to the nation, and especially to the people of the new country of New California.
To sum up briefly: You get Texas, Oklahoma and all the slave states. We get stem cell research and the best beaches. We get the Statue of Liberty. You get Dollywood. We get Intel and Microsoft. You get WorldCom. We get Harvard. You get Ole Miss. We get 85 percent of America’s venture capital and entrepreneurs. You get Alabama. We get two-thirds of the tax revenue; you get to make the red states pay their fair share.
Since our aggregate divorce rate is 22 percent lower than the Christian Coalition’s, we get a bunch of happy families. You get a bunch of single moms. Please be aware that Nuevo California will be pro-choice and anti-war, and we’re going to want all our citizens back from Iraq at once. If you need people to fight, ask your evangelicals. They have kids they’re apparently willing to send to their deaths for no purpose, and they don’t care if you don’t show pictures of their children's caskets coming home. We do wish you success in Iraq, and hope that the weapons of mass destruction turn up, but we’re not willing to spend our resources on it anymore.
With the Blue States in hand, we will have firm control of 80 percent of the country’s fresh water, more than 90 percent of the pineapple and lettuce, 92 percent of the nation’s fresh fruit, 95 percent of America’s quality wines, 90 percent of all cheese, 90 percent of the high tech industry, most of the U.S. low-sulfur coal, all living redwoods, sequoias and condors, all the Ivy League and Seven Sister schools plus Stanford, Cal Tech and MIT.
With the Red States, on the other hand, you will have to cope with 88 percent of all obese Americans (and their projected health care costs); 92 percent of all U.S. mosquitoes; nearly 100 percent of the tornadoes; 90 percent of the hurricanes; 99 percent of all Southern Baptists; virtually 100 percent of all televangelists; Rush Limbaugh; and Bob Jones University. We get Hollywood and Yosemite. Thank you.
Additionally, 38 percent of those in the Red states believe Jonah was actually swallowed by a whale; 62 percent believe life is sacred unless we’re discussing the war, the death penalty or gun laws; 44 percent say that evolution is only a theory; 53 percent believe that Saddam was involved in 9/11; and 61 percent of them believe they are people with higher morals than the rest of us, despite all evidence to the contrary.
Oh, and finally, we’re taking the good pot, too. You can have that dirt weed they grow in Mexico.
Peace out,
Blue States
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Hey... look over there ----->
There's a new feature on this blog o’ mine.
A question of the day. Thought up by me. (Or by you, if you want to send it along.)
Won't you, pretty please, pop in once a day or so to let me know what you think?
A question of the day. Thought up by me. (Or by you, if you want to send it along.)
Won't you, pretty please, pop in once a day or so to let me know what you think?
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Mama Bear
For the past three years, I’ve been honored to answer to “Mommy.” Even Daddy calls me that sometimes, especially when he’s making a point to a blonde-haired, blue-eyed Urchin (“Even Mommies have to pick up their toys, don't they, Mommy?”)
“Mommy” was among Urchin’s first words. She uses it in every tone, from happy to irritated to sweet and sometimes naughty.
My favorite use comes at the end of a school day, when she runs into my arms and announces to her class, “This is my Mommy.”
Gets me every time.
The other night, after we’d negotiated yet another deal involving dolls, books and bedtime, she said “G’night mama. I love you to the moon.”
It stopped me in my tracks.
Mama? Who's Mama? Certainly not I.
I decided it was a fluke and, having successfully gotten her to bed, told her I loved her and closed the door. By morning, I’d forgotten the whole thing.
Later that day we were playing with PlayDoh.
”Can I have the green one, Mama?“
Again, with the Mama thing.
“Urchin?” I asked, "why are you calling me Mama? You usually call me Mommy. I like when you call me Mommy.”
No response. Just a sweet, sweet smile and a couple of blinks.
Well, you can guess the rest of this story. I have become Mama and I’m shocked at how foreign and yucky it feels to me.
Nothing against Mama. Some of my best friends are Mama. But Mommy feels a part of me. It’s where we started, even when she was in utero. I’d whisper “Mommy loves you and can’t wait to meet you.”
Throughout Urchin’s life, like many Moms, I’ve continued to refer to myself in the third person, always calling myself Mommy. She, in turn, has never called me anything else. Until now.
In the past few days, she’s called me nothing but Mama. It rolls off her tongue like she’s been saying it her whole life. I'm not sure where she got it, except maybe everywhere. There are a lot of Mamas at school and in our neighborhood.
Silly as it may seem, I miss Mommy. She fit me, but I fear she’s gone forever. I have gently suggested we go back to Mommy. Unfortunately, both she and Urchin appear to have moved on.
My job now is to get used to it. And to realize that this won’t be the last time Urchin breaks my heart.
“Mommy” was among Urchin’s first words. She uses it in every tone, from happy to irritated to sweet and sometimes naughty.
My favorite use comes at the end of a school day, when she runs into my arms and announces to her class, “This is my Mommy.”
Gets me every time.
The other night, after we’d negotiated yet another deal involving dolls, books and bedtime, she said “G’night mama. I love you to the moon.”
It stopped me in my tracks.
Mama? Who's Mama? Certainly not I.
I decided it was a fluke and, having successfully gotten her to bed, told her I loved her and closed the door. By morning, I’d forgotten the whole thing.
Later that day we were playing with PlayDoh.
”Can I have the green one, Mama?“
Again, with the Mama thing.
“Urchin?” I asked, "why are you calling me Mama? You usually call me Mommy. I like when you call me Mommy.”
No response. Just a sweet, sweet smile and a couple of blinks.
Well, you can guess the rest of this story. I have become Mama and I’m shocked at how foreign and yucky it feels to me.
Nothing against Mama. Some of my best friends are Mama. But Mommy feels a part of me. It’s where we started, even when she was in utero. I’d whisper “Mommy loves you and can’t wait to meet you.”
Throughout Urchin’s life, like many Moms, I’ve continued to refer to myself in the third person, always calling myself Mommy. She, in turn, has never called me anything else. Until now.
In the past few days, she’s called me nothing but Mama. It rolls off her tongue like she’s been saying it her whole life. I'm not sure where she got it, except maybe everywhere. There are a lot of Mamas at school and in our neighborhood.
Silly as it may seem, I miss Mommy. She fit me, but I fear she’s gone forever. I have gently suggested we go back to Mommy. Unfortunately, both she and Urchin appear to have moved on.
My job now is to get used to it. And to realize that this won’t be the last time Urchin breaks my heart.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Chicken … shit
I know people who think it’s a crime not to be a David Sedaris fan.
Consider me guilty.
I’m not an un-fan. His work is funny and well-written. I read it often. But I don’t read everything he writes. I don’t run out and buy his new one the first day it’s out. And I’m usually done with one of his books about 100 pages before it ends. (My friend John knew this about me. He loved me all the same. Will you too?)
Anyway, Sedaris has a great piece about undecided voters in this week's New Yorker.
If you don't want to read the whole thing, here’s the gist:
To put them in perspective, I think of being on an airplane. The flight attendant comes down the aisle with her food cart and, eventually, parks it beside my seat. “Can I interest you in the chicken?” she asks. “Or would you prefer the platter of shit with bits of broken glass in it?”
To be undecided in this election is to pause for a moment and then ask how the chicken is cooked.
Consider me guilty.
I’m not an un-fan. His work is funny and well-written. I read it often. But I don’t read everything he writes. I don’t run out and buy his new one the first day it’s out. And I’m usually done with one of his books about 100 pages before it ends. (My friend John knew this about me. He loved me all the same. Will you too?)
Anyway, Sedaris has a great piece about undecided voters in this week's New Yorker.
If you don't want to read the whole thing, here’s the gist:
To put them in perspective, I think of being on an airplane. The flight attendant comes down the aisle with her food cart and, eventually, parks it beside my seat. “Can I interest you in the chicken?” she asks. “Or would you prefer the platter of shit with bits of broken glass in it?”
To be undecided in this election is to pause for a moment and then ask how the chicken is cooked.
I quit
At 12:01 a.m., on Sept. 15, 1997, I quit smoking.
I had my second-to-last cigarette about half an hour before that. It was supposed to be my last, but a random battle with a praying mantis rattled my nerves just enough that I had to have one more.
For me, the hardest thing about quitting smoking was that, all of a sudden, I had so much time on my hands — time that I used to spend smoking. It took a few days to figure out what to do with myself. Once I did, I filled the time with work, exercise and jigsaw puzzles. I almost fell off the wagon once. Drove to the store to buy a pack, sat in the parking lot for an hour, drove home again after the urge passed.
Since that day, about a week after I quit, I’ve never looked back.
Eleven years have passed. I miss smoking, but only every now and then. I feel 100 times better. I sleep better. I smell better (read that either way and it’d be true). Food tastes better. There are no small ash holes in my clothes. It’s all good.
I say all of this because the same is not true of quitting Diet Coke.
It’s been 22 days and I still miss it every moment of every day.
I’ve just about overdosed on carbonated water. It’s bubbly, but it’s really not worthy. I have one cup of coffee in the morning, to replace the caffeine. I’ve found coffee to be an excellent delivery system for half-and-half and Splenda, but it’s not on its way to becoming my morning delight.
And green tea? I’m trying. Lord, how I’m trying. It’s charming and good for you, sure. But a replacement for the nectar of the gods? I think not.
Then, there’s the biggest thing: I don’t feel any better.
Don't.
Feel.
Better.
If I did, it might be easier to keep this up. But right now, I’m about to cave. Because try as I might to see them, the benefits elude me.
Besides that, it’s making me crazy, this doing without. Yesterday, I almost grabbed a cold can out of the hands of a colleague as we rode up the elevator. Somewhere between the second and fourth floor, as I stared at her afternoon pick-me-up, I could sense her tighten her grip just a bit.
And this morning — ah, this morning — I stood in front of the frig and had a conversation, out loud, about whether to take one for the drive to work.
“Mommy, who are you talking to?” came the voice of an angel as I stood there and pondered.
“No one, sweet pea,” I responded.
“You were talking, Mommy,” she said. “I heard you.”
Yes, my child, I was talking. To no one. And everyone.
I know I’m weak. I know I’m cowardly. But I’m also a girl who needs a return on her investment. And dammit, I’m not seeing it.
Can someone, anyone, please tell me what I’m getting for my trouble?
I had my second-to-last cigarette about half an hour before that. It was supposed to be my last, but a random battle with a praying mantis rattled my nerves just enough that I had to have one more.
For me, the hardest thing about quitting smoking was that, all of a sudden, I had so much time on my hands — time that I used to spend smoking. It took a few days to figure out what to do with myself. Once I did, I filled the time with work, exercise and jigsaw puzzles. I almost fell off the wagon once. Drove to the store to buy a pack, sat in the parking lot for an hour, drove home again after the urge passed.
Since that day, about a week after I quit, I’ve never looked back.
Eleven years have passed. I miss smoking, but only every now and then. I feel 100 times better. I sleep better. I smell better (read that either way and it’d be true). Food tastes better. There are no small ash holes in my clothes. It’s all good.
I say all of this because the same is not true of quitting Diet Coke.
It’s been 22 days and I still miss it every moment of every day.
I’ve just about overdosed on carbonated water. It’s bubbly, but it’s really not worthy. I have one cup of coffee in the morning, to replace the caffeine. I’ve found coffee to be an excellent delivery system for half-and-half and Splenda, but it’s not on its way to becoming my morning delight.
And green tea? I’m trying. Lord, how I’m trying. It’s charming and good for you, sure. But a replacement for the nectar of the gods? I think not.
Then, there’s the biggest thing: I don’t feel any better.
Don't.
Feel.
Better.
If I did, it might be easier to keep this up. But right now, I’m about to cave. Because try as I might to see them, the benefits elude me.
Besides that, it’s making me crazy, this doing without. Yesterday, I almost grabbed a cold can out of the hands of a colleague as we rode up the elevator. Somewhere between the second and fourth floor, as I stared at her afternoon pick-me-up, I could sense her tighten her grip just a bit.
And this morning — ah, this morning — I stood in front of the frig and had a conversation, out loud, about whether to take one for the drive to work.
“Mommy, who are you talking to?” came the voice of an angel as I stood there and pondered.
“No one, sweet pea,” I responded.
“You were talking, Mommy,” she said. “I heard you.”
Yes, my child, I was talking. To no one. And everyone.
I know I’m weak. I know I’m cowardly. But I’m also a girl who needs a return on her investment. And dammit, I’m not seeing it.
Can someone, anyone, please tell me what I’m getting for my trouble?
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Vote, no vote
In normal times, few things will set me off faster than “I’m not voting this year. I hate them both.”
In normal times, I’d climb right up on my soapbox and start in with the tale of my family’s sacrifice for this country and its freedoms. I’d preach about civic duty, the responsibility to our children, those amazing photos from Tiananmen Square. I’d remind you that in new democracies like South Africa, Georgia and Ukraine — where they know the difference — people stand in line for miles to cast the vote you’re so cavalier in tossing aside.
I’d do my best to shame you into changing your mind. And might even be successful.
These are not normal times. And I’m conflicted.
Two people who are dear to me have made that statement in the past week. Both of them believe there is no real answer, so they're staying home this year.
Each said it. Neither got more than a nod from me. No guilt. No shame. No soapbox.
There are three possible reasons:
1. I’ve matured enough since the last time I heard it to just let it be.
2. I get how they’re feeling. It’s damn hard these days to see that light at the end of the tunnel as anything other than an oncoming train.
3. I’m afraid that if I push them to the polls they’ll cancel out my vote, and then some.
Sadly, even though I think #1 and #2 have some merit, I think #3 is the right answer.
This election means so much that it’s hard for me to take a chance this time around. Even though typically every cell in my body screams for every one of us to vote, regardless of which lever we pull, this year my screams are more specific, unpatriotic though that may be.
Truth is, I used to trust democracy to weed out the bad guys. I don’t anymore. When we’re up against people like the ones in the video at the bottom of this post, I can’t trust democracy to handle this one. I mean, these hateful, ignorant people have the same number of votes that you and I have.
About 10 years ago, when I first moved to Washington, my boss and I were walking back from lunch one day and talking politics when he said something that shocked me.
“Democracy is overrated,” he said. “I don’t think everyone should have as much say as everyone else.”
I was horrified.
These days, though, as his words — and these words — ring in my ears, I fear he may be right.
In normal times, I’d climb right up on my soapbox and start in with the tale of my family’s sacrifice for this country and its freedoms. I’d preach about civic duty, the responsibility to our children, those amazing photos from Tiananmen Square. I’d remind you that in new democracies like South Africa, Georgia and Ukraine — where they know the difference — people stand in line for miles to cast the vote you’re so cavalier in tossing aside.
I’d do my best to shame you into changing your mind. And might even be successful.
These are not normal times. And I’m conflicted.
Two people who are dear to me have made that statement in the past week. Both of them believe there is no real answer, so they're staying home this year.
Each said it. Neither got more than a nod from me. No guilt. No shame. No soapbox.
There are three possible reasons:
1. I’ve matured enough since the last time I heard it to just let it be.
2. I get how they’re feeling. It’s damn hard these days to see that light at the end of the tunnel as anything other than an oncoming train.
3. I’m afraid that if I push them to the polls they’ll cancel out my vote, and then some.
Sadly, even though I think #1 and #2 have some merit, I think #3 is the right answer.
This election means so much that it’s hard for me to take a chance this time around. Even though typically every cell in my body screams for every one of us to vote, regardless of which lever we pull, this year my screams are more specific, unpatriotic though that may be.
Truth is, I used to trust democracy to weed out the bad guys. I don’t anymore. When we’re up against people like the ones in the video at the bottom of this post, I can’t trust democracy to handle this one. I mean, these hateful, ignorant people have the same number of votes that you and I have.
About 10 years ago, when I first moved to Washington, my boss and I were walking back from lunch one day and talking politics when he said something that shocked me.
“Democracy is overrated,” he said. “I don’t think everyone should have as much say as everyone else.”
I was horrified.
These days, though, as his words — and these words — ring in my ears, I fear he may be right.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Important correction
In journalism, it's a cardinal sin to get someone's name wrong. Because, after all, what do you have but your name?
So to Baby WHO DOESN'T HAVE ANY Clothes On, my sincerest apologies.
So to Baby WHO DOESN'T HAVE ANY Clothes On, my sincerest apologies.
Friday, October 10, 2008
Body wars
I have only recently made peace with my body.
For most of my life, we were at war, she and I. I battled in sad and hurtful ways to make her something she isn’t. She fought back at every turn.
In the end, we both lost. Until we were found.
I could go into all of the reasons. But seven-and-a-half years of therapy later, I no longer need to affix blame.
It just is what it is.
Well, actually, it was what it was, until Urchin was born.
I had a tough time in the beginning of my pregnancy. Physically, my body rebelled in ways I’d never imagined. But that wasn’t the half of it. Psychologically, I was a mess.
At first, I refused to connect with the little life growing inside of me. I was certain she wasn’t going to stay with me. And I didn’t want to get too attached.
When I finally came to believe, panic ensued. How am I going to keep her from feeling as lost and unworthy as I did growing up? How will I be able to teach her to love herself when my own ability is so new and unsure? Will I be able to build up her self-esteem if I can barely sustain my own?
Most importantly, am I going to be able to love her exactly as she is, in a way my mother was never able to?
Urchin is almost three now, and so far, so good. We do a lot of things, Husband and I, to help her know how much she is loved, how smart and beautiful she is, how much we value her individuality. We allow her to explore things she’s interested in. We welcome her opinions. We take her hand when she’s afraid, kiss her boo-boos when she’s hurt and try to hold our tongues when can see that if she keeps doing what she’s doing she’s going to bump her head/skin her knee/stub her toe/etc.
We try to say “yes” as often as we can, even when she wants to do something we’re not sure she can do just yet. We let her wander far enough to feel like she’s accomplished something, even if it means having to chase her a bit. We let her touch, smell and see, even if it means we have to wash her hands, blow her nose or soothe her fears.
We work hard to keep food about sustenance rather than reward or punishment. We let her eat what she’s hungry for — nothing more or less. Ice cream is a treat, sure, but she doesn’t get it for cleaning her plate.
We won’t bring Bratz or Barbie* dolls into her world, in an effort to put off as long as we can the ridiculous notions that perfection is attainable or that little girls should look like big girls.
We read her stories that reinforce that it’s OK to be different, to be scared sometimes, to be smart, to be short, to have freckles, to wear glasses, to come from somewhere else, to wear two different socks if you want to. We sing songs about love and kisses. And we hug her more times in a day than she can stand.
The other day, I caught her whispering to Baby With No Clothes On (as opposed to Baby Who Has Clothes On, who isn’t nearly as beloved). As Urchin hoisted Baby onto her shoulder, she cooed, “It’s OK, Boo. Don’t be scared. Mommy’s right here.”
As she rocked from side to side, she kissed the top of Baby’s head and added, “I love you to the moon.”
I turned away as the tears took hold. And said a silent prayer of thanks for the reassurance.
For most of my life, we were at war, she and I. I battled in sad and hurtful ways to make her something she isn’t. She fought back at every turn.
In the end, we both lost. Until we were found.
I could go into all of the reasons. But seven-and-a-half years of therapy later, I no longer need to affix blame.
It just is what it is.
Well, actually, it was what it was, until Urchin was born.
I had a tough time in the beginning of my pregnancy. Physically, my body rebelled in ways I’d never imagined. But that wasn’t the half of it. Psychologically, I was a mess.
At first, I refused to connect with the little life growing inside of me. I was certain she wasn’t going to stay with me. And I didn’t want to get too attached.
When I finally came to believe, panic ensued. How am I going to keep her from feeling as lost and unworthy as I did growing up? How will I be able to teach her to love herself when my own ability is so new and unsure? Will I be able to build up her self-esteem if I can barely sustain my own?
Most importantly, am I going to be able to love her exactly as she is, in a way my mother was never able to?
Urchin is almost three now, and so far, so good. We do a lot of things, Husband and I, to help her know how much she is loved, how smart and beautiful she is, how much we value her individuality. We allow her to explore things she’s interested in. We welcome her opinions. We take her hand when she’s afraid, kiss her boo-boos when she’s hurt and try to hold our tongues when can see that if she keeps doing what she’s doing she’s going to bump her head/skin her knee/stub her toe/etc.
We try to say “yes” as often as we can, even when she wants to do something we’re not sure she can do just yet. We let her wander far enough to feel like she’s accomplished something, even if it means having to chase her a bit. We let her touch, smell and see, even if it means we have to wash her hands, blow her nose or soothe her fears.
We work hard to keep food about sustenance rather than reward or punishment. We let her eat what she’s hungry for — nothing more or less. Ice cream is a treat, sure, but she doesn’t get it for cleaning her plate.
We won’t bring Bratz or Barbie* dolls into her world, in an effort to put off as long as we can the ridiculous notions that perfection is attainable or that little girls should look like big girls.
We read her stories that reinforce that it’s OK to be different, to be scared sometimes, to be smart, to be short, to have freckles, to wear glasses, to come from somewhere else, to wear two different socks if you want to. We sing songs about love and kisses. And we hug her more times in a day than she can stand.
The other day, I caught her whispering to Baby With No Clothes On (as opposed to Baby Who Has Clothes On, who isn’t nearly as beloved). As Urchin hoisted Baby onto her shoulder, she cooed, “It’s OK, Boo. Don’t be scared. Mommy’s right here.”
As she rocked from side to side, she kissed the top of Baby’s head and added, “I love you to the moon.”
I turned away as the tears took hold. And said a silent prayer of thanks for the reassurance.
* A word about Barbie
Did you know that if Barbie were a real woman, she’d be seven feet tall?
Her bust would measure 38 to 40 inches.
Her waist would measure between 18 and 24 inches.
Her hips would measure between 33 and 35 inches.
She’d weigh 110 pounds.
Her 6- to 7-inch neck would be unable to support the weight of her head.
She’d have to walk on all fours, because the proportion of her calves in relation to her thighs and feet wouldn't allow her to stand up straight.
By comparison, the average woman is 5’ 4”, weighs 145 pounds and wears between size 11 and 14.
Her average measurements are 36-30-41.
Is it any wonder that little girls have a warped sense of what is beautiful?
Her bust would measure 38 to 40 inches.
Her waist would measure between 18 and 24 inches.
Her hips would measure between 33 and 35 inches.
She’d weigh 110 pounds.
Her 6- to 7-inch neck would be unable to support the weight of her head.
She’d have to walk on all fours, because the proportion of her calves in relation to her thighs and feet wouldn't allow her to stand up straight.
By comparison, the average woman is 5’ 4”, weighs 145 pounds and wears between size 11 and 14.
Her average measurements are 36-30-41.
Is it any wonder that little girls have a warped sense of what is beautiful?
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
A few words from "this one"
I am disgusted that anyone — let alone a man running for the highest office in our land — would refer to a fellow American as "that one."
Which one, Mr. Maverick?
The one who’s given hope to millions of people who are sick at our stomachs over what you and your ilk have done to our country?
The one who’s shown a steady hand, a calm voice and a willingness to understand our bone-crushing fear over what will happen next?
The one who realized long ago that calling you names isn’t going to help us get through this crisis with our lives and our sanity intact?
The one who’s taken us by the hand and is walking us through the dark, explaining each thing that goes bump in the night?
The one who's promised to help us win our friends back, so we don’t have to endure this terror — or any terror — alone ever again?
Is that the one, Mr. Maverick?
Don’t look now, but while you and Caribou Barbie are grasping at straws, throwing everything against the wall to see what sticks, That One is leading us to higher ground. And we’re following. In droves.
That One, Mr. Maverick, is on our side.
Whose side are you on?
Which one, Mr. Maverick?
The one who’s given hope to millions of people who are sick at our stomachs over what you and your ilk have done to our country?
The one who’s shown a steady hand, a calm voice and a willingness to understand our bone-crushing fear over what will happen next?
The one who realized long ago that calling you names isn’t going to help us get through this crisis with our lives and our sanity intact?
The one who’s taken us by the hand and is walking us through the dark, explaining each thing that goes bump in the night?
The one who's promised to help us win our friends back, so we don’t have to endure this terror — or any terror — alone ever again?
Is that the one, Mr. Maverick?
Don’t look now, but while you and Caribou Barbie are grasping at straws, throwing everything against the wall to see what sticks, That One is leading us to higher ground. And we’re following. In droves.
That One, Mr. Maverick, is on our side.
Whose side are you on?
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