Who the Hell is Chris Dodd?

I answered a few questions about current issues at gotoquiz.com 2008 Presidential Candidate Matching Quiz. The answers matched me up with the following candidates according to how I feel about the issues.

I'm stunned to see Giuliani at the top of my list of Republicans. I'm not sure how that can be. Other than that, and the fact that I have no idea who Chris Dodd is, these results make sense.

P.S. Sorry about the blue font. It imported that way and I'm too lazy to figure out how to make it more readable.

84% Chris Dodd
84% Barack Obama
82% Hillary Clinton
81% John Edwards
78% Joe Biden
77% Bill Richardson
74% Mike Gravel
73% Dennis Kucinich
52% Rudy Giuliani
45% John McCain
35% Mitt Romney
34% Mike Huckabee
29% Tom Tancredo
27% Ron Paul
23% Fred Thompson

My family is CRAZEEEEEE

The following is an excerpt from an e-mail I got from a near relative. Believe it or not, it was part of a Christmas greeting. I love said relative, but let's just say we stand on very different sides of the political fence. He frequently regails me with new ideas and theories he has picked up from talk radio. Sometimes I'll take the bait and rebut, but more often I just let it go.

But I don't even know what to make of this one. For what it's worth, I've changed the names of his wife and daughters. "Alice" is the wife, "Suzi" is the 15-year-old daughter, and "Monica" is the 22-year-old daughter.

Taxi driver in San Diego yesterday morning was a "Political refugee" from some "Small Shad-Like country" Elytra?? in Africa,
He is one of the thousands that I question , worry about and let Suzi know she needs to worry when in large cities. He has been here since 1986 and before the priest signed his U S Immigration documents he had been in the "War' of that nation since 1970" had both parents and siblings murdered and burned; joined the "Rebel forces' and was a "Killing Machine" my interpretation of 50 questions he answered for me killing anyone his rebel leaders told him to kill prior to him being 20 years old. Back in his day there was no DOPE just guns and blood!
He was the third African, one Eithopian, one Sudanese and him all have been allow in the country since 1986, two from "Rebel armies"
That is one very simple reason I pick up my "Concealed weapon permit" tomorrow cause I have already done the first coarse, as Monica and Alice have, and plan to do 8 courses!

What the hell is that supposed to mean? Lordy. Methinks he forgot to take his crazy meds. . . Best I can tell, he's using an African immigrant taxi driver, who has apparently been in this country legally since 1986, as his justification for needing to carry a concealed weapon. But I can't be entirely sure.

And what, exactly, does "DOPE" have to do with any of it?

God help us all.

Fuck you, Rubik. And your damn cube.

Davy and I had a great time in Chicago. The weather was unseasonably warm while we were there and our hotel accomodations were AMAZING. I simply can't recommend the Palmer House Hilton highly enough--especially the executive level in the towers. It was fantastic!

My mom stayed in Austin to take care of the girls while we were gone, and they seem to have had a great time with minimal meltdowns, although that is surprising considering how much they did while we were gone.

Unfortunately, Mom took them to see Santa while we were away, which is always a disaster in the making after wishes have already been communicated and accomodated. But, well, what are you going to do?

Both girls had previously asked for Nintendo DS's and a couple of other small items, all of which had been purchased and prepared for Christmas Eve. But, as always happens when you let a child talk to Santa right before Christmas, they came up with some new ideas on Santa's lap.

In addition to the Nintendo DS, a certain Webkinz, and a skateboard, Mia suddenly developed a desperate need for a "real" magic wand. Can you imagine the havok that would be wrought if Santa were to go around giving out real magic wands? Oy ve. We pointed out that it could be very dangerous if a magic wand were to fall into the wrong hands. Mia agreed with this idea, but she pointed out that she was only planning to use it for two things: to get a cell phone and to fly.

She didn't get a real magic wand. . .

And then there was Zoe. Zoe wants to play the double bass (aka bass fiddle or string bass) and she's wanted to for years. Trouble is, the bass is an enormous instrument and miniature versions (1/8 scale) are relatively rare and quite expensive. Plus, kids outgrow them pretty quickly and have to move up to 1/4 scale and then 1/2 scale in a matter of a few years. So, with her agreement, we've put it off until she's a little bigger. However, while sitting on Santa's lap, she came up with a brilliant idea. "Santa," she said "I know it's kind of late notice, but I was thinking since miniature bass fiddles are so hard to find, maybe your elves could make me one."

Luckily, we were able to find a *really* miniature wooden bass in Chicago--two inches tall. . . We put it in her stocking and she thought it was very funny. She's not sure if Santa misunderstood or if he has a really good sense of humor. But she admitted that she got "exactly" what she asked for.

At least they didn't ask for a pony. . .

Experience is a strange word.

Think about it for awhile. Say it a few times. I think you'll see what I mean.

That's what it's like inside my head. . .

Ridiculous!

To my ever-growing list of things that drive me NUTS, I'd like to add the following: catsup.

I don't care if it IS a valid spelling. It's ridiculous. Ketchup is also a valid spelling, and much less ridiculous.

Use it.

Dumb Kids

I often forget how fortunate I am. All the children in my immediate circle of friends are very, very bright. They are, without exception, charming and fun kids with whom I enjoy spending time. However, they've spoiled me for "regular" kids. And I'm always stunned when I'm forced to face the reality of a child who is, um, not so smart.

For those of you who think every child is gifted, well, perhaps you should stop reading now. Or you and I could agree to disagree. Because I'm going to be blunt .

My daughter (and I'm not going to tell which one at the risk of outing the child in question) has a friend who is not smart. In fact, she's just plain dumb. I'd say she's dumb as a rock, but frankly, that would be giving her far too much credit and the rock far too little. This child is not developmentally delayed. Apparently she's perfectly average at school. She's hitting her benchmarks, blah, blah, blah. But she doesn't have the sense God gave an earthworm. Critical thinking skills? They must be banned at her house. Along with curiosity, humor, and books. She's perfectly nice, and I can take her in small doses, but after a few hours she tries the absolute limits of my patience.

Man. I love my kids. And if you're reading this and you have kids, I love yours too. But the dumb ones?

Not so much.

There's. A. Dead. Rat. In. Front. Of. My. House.

Legs up in the air.

Dead.

I'm afraid I have to move.

One Down

Thanksgiving is behind us, and for that I give thanks. The meal itself was good and my mom and I did much better than I expected in the kitchen. In fact, this visit has, across the board, gone much better than any in the recent past. And I'm thankful for that as well.

What I'm NOT so thankful for is the attitude my father gave me when he showed up yesterday. Davy and I had decided that we would eat around 2:30--so that we'd have time to get to the gym and I could prepare our meal in a comfortable time frame. Plus, we knew that Daddy would stay for the Cowboy game no matter what time we ate, so it made since to schedule dinner right before the game. So, we called Daddy and told him 2:30. "Okay, I'll be there at noon so we can do Zoe's birthday," he says. "Hmmm," says I. "I think it would make more sense to celebrate Zoe's birthday after Thanksgiving dinner, since I'll be busy cooking and getting everything ready. Why don't you come around 2:00."

So he shows up at 2:00 and he doesn't say a word to me, only I don't realize that because I'm busy finishing everything up for dinner. As we're getting ready to sit down at the table I ask how he had spent his morning. "I worked," he says, tersely. "You worked?" I replied, not quite *getting* it yet. "Why did you work?" "What else was I supposed to do?" he says. "I wasn't allowed to come over here until 2:00." "Are you pissed off?" I ask, as it finally seeps into my reluctant brain. Oh yeah. He was pissed, and the injustice of it made me so angry I just walked away. And I ate my dinner in silent fury. As I washed the dishes and drank half a bottle of wine, it faded into self pity.

You know, there's no way for me to win in the holiday battle between my parents. And I'm tired of it.

In other, absolutely terrifying news, Tom is very sick. Several of you have heard pieces of the story as I vented to you about his unexpected hospitalization (in Round Rock!) and our unexpected hosting of his rambunctious yellow lab, Boris. The news just keeps getting worse. The procedure they did last week to relieve his jaundice was not effective and will have to be redone on Monday. In fact, the doctor wanted to do it when he saw Tom on Wednesday, but because of the Thanksgiving holiday, he couldn't get the surgery scheduled. All signs point to cancer--and a shockingly dire prognosis if they're right. If his biliary tumor cannot be resected, the anticipated survival rate is less than one year. If it can be resected, the 5-year survival rate is 20%. But that's up from a whopping 0% survival rate 10 years ago. . .

With that elephant sitting in the middle of the table yesterday, I'm not quite sure how Davy was able to find the right words for the Thanksgiving blessing. Tom didn't eat much, and he slept through much of the football game. But he was here. And it is flat-out impossible for me to imagine that next year he might not be.

If this makes you laugh as hard as I did, you need a life, too.

Here is an excerpt from a recent instant message conversation in which I amused myself mightily.

Robyn: Does he still have the super-long hair? I'll be interested to see/hear what/if my girls have anything to say about it.
Innocent Friend: he does indeed still have super-long hair
Robyn: Notice I did not say super, long hair.
Robyn: Because I'm an editor.
Robyn: I pick and choose my punctuation carefully. . .
Innocent Friend: Nice use of the elipses there...
Innocent Friend: My punctuation would probably best be characterised as "random"
Robyn: There will be no mocking of my elipses usage.
Robyn: Although, jumping off my high-horse for a moment, I do note a certain unintended irony
Robyn: "I pick and choose my punctuation caefully. . ."
Robyn: That might be the most absurd sentence I've ever typed.
Robyn: Crap
Robyn: "carefully."
Robyn: Editorially speaking, I just get funnier and funnier.
Innocent Friend: Recursive editorial comedy. Pure gold, that is.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA

This morning I'm editing a 2nd grade social studies reader and I come across the following line: "Our president makes important choices for our nation with help from Congress."

It sounds so innocuous when you put it that way.

Add this to the list

In case someone out there is keeping a list of words I hate, please add "pricey" to the list. As in, "the food at [name of restaurant here] is okay, but it's a little pricey" or "those new-fangled electronic toys are pricey, don't you think?"

There are real words to express that idea. You know them. Use them.

Just so we're clear. . .

I hate the holidays. I wake up the morning after Halloween with a pit in my stomach just thinking about what's coming. It's not that I hate the idea of the holidays. Not at all. I hate the reality--of juggling obligations with relatives and knowing that no matter what I do, there's no way to make everybody happy.

I'll exhale again on January 1st.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW

This just isn't right. He's old enough to have seen her as baby Michelle on Full House.

Ick.

AWKWARD

So, in the industry (the publishing industry, that is), there's a term for all the stuff that comes at the beginning of a book. You know, it's the stuff on the pages that are numbered with Roman numerals instead of, um, regular numerals*. The term is "front matter." Similarly, the stuff printed in the back of the book, the glossary, the index, anything that comes after the "real" content of the book, is called "back matter." Also prevalent in the publishing industry is the use of alpha-abbreviations (Heh--I just made that word up, but it sounds GOOD, don't you think?) for everything. For example, text that is missing but will be inserted later is marked "TK" ("to come"--go figure). A table of contents is a TOC. And, as you can imagine, front matter is FM and back matter is BM. Unless you have a particularly sensitive client that prefers to use EM (endm atter). Which, apparently, I do.

Today my client pointed out to me that the publisher of a project I'm currently working on would prefer to use the term "end matter" for obvious reasons. Ever the professional, I popped off the following IMHO hilarious e-mail.

I'm disappointed that they're using EM instead of BM. It takes all the fun out of a hard day of work. "Someone is going to have to help me knock this BM out if we're going to make that deadline." "There's no way I'm going to finish this BM by the end of the day." "Could someone run to Starbucks and get me an espresso? I'm only halfway through this BM and I've been working on it for hours."

I could go on and on.

'Cause I'm so mature.

And you know what her response was? Nothin'. Nada. Stony electronic silence.
Man, I hope there wasn't a no-potty-talk clause in my contract, because if there was, I'm screwed!

I think I'll go take that shower now. . .

* Why can't I remember that word? There are Roman numerals and ??? numerals. Aggghhh. Once again, I place blame on the brain damage.

Ode to Dr. Bronner's

Okay, it's not really and ode at all but a declaration of love. I placed my annual Dr. Bronner's Magic Soap order last week, in honor of the cooler weather, and it arrived today. And this year I branched out, too. In addition to the peppermint, my old standby since college, I ordered eucalyptus and tea tree. I'm officially ready for winter and all the upper respiratory crap it wants to send my way, baby. I can't wait for my next shower.

Zombie Kid Likes Turtles

Happy Halloween!

Boring for You = Therapeutic for Me

I spend a little bit of time on a good-sized message board, the focus of which is healthy cooking and lifestyles. The board is frequented, in general, by a large number of intelligent, interesting people from all over the world, several of whom I've met in real life.

For the most part, people behave and are nice to one another, although sometimes discussions will disintegrate into ugly battles. The battles can be pretty entertaining, but sometimes they're just uncalled for. Instead of starting one of those battles, I'm going to vent here about two unrelated topics that have pushed my buttons over the past couple of days.

1) Maybe I'm wrong, it wouldn't be the first time, but I'm pretty sure that when someone with a terminal illness goes in to hospice, the idea is that they're not going to recover. A woman posted this week that her friend with recurrent breast cancer can't take any more treatments and is going into hospice care. She got lots of sympathetic and sweet responses, and one that was just stupid:

I am so sorry to hear about your friend's fight with breast cancer. She
will be a winner with your support and the support of the other supper club members. A positive outlook is key to her recovery. I wish her all the good things that are sure to come her way with your love and support.

While I'm certain the woman who posted this meant well, it makes me want to kick her in the cyber teeth. Did she not read the original post or is she simply ignorant? Either way, something about it annoyed the crap out of me and I just needed to say it out loud.

2) There's a guy who posts frequently and adds a lot to the discussion. He is friendly, helpful, and has a good online demeanor. He lives in San Diego, so he's had a lot to say about the fires in California this week. He's been very helpful to several people who were looking for information about people they haven't been able to reach. He seems to be a truly nice guy. But he posted this today and it really rubbed me the wrong way:

4 more bodies found. Although it sounds like they may have been illegals as border patrol agents found them. News is saying death toll is up to 10 as a result of firestorms. Sad.

"Although"? Although what? Four more people died, although they don't really count because they were here illegally? What the hell?

If it were any number of other people who regularly tick me off with careless shit like this, and I were in the mood for a fight, I'd call him on it. But he's a decent guy, and he CAN'T have meant that the way it sounded.

So, there you have it. I realize it's of no interest to anyone but me, but I had to get those two things off my chest before I got too much more worked up about it.

Now I'm off to eat Thai food with my husband. Anyone want to place bets on what he's going to say to tick me off? I seem to be ready for a fight!

Random Thoughts

1) I have huge respect for people who do this blog thing every day. As I've mentioned before I *thought* I had a lot to say, but I seem to have overestimated my need to express myself. It turns out that the longer you go between entries, the more difficult it is to dive in. It's sort of like when you put off returning a phone call, and then you realize it's been too long, and you can't call now because that would just be weird. . .

2) I've become inexplicably addicted to Dancing with the Stars. There's really no way to explain it. I don't like "reality" programming (well, except for Top Chef and Project Runway, and one other that I absolutely REFUSE to admit to publicly) but I started watching Dancing with the Stars last season with my kids and somehow I got hooked. I'm fascinated by the motivation of the celebrities who agree to do it, and by the skill of the professional dancers. I also love the fact that the show provides a lucrative and public outlet for professional ballroom dancers who have worked their butts off in an area that traditionally provides little (if any?) financial reward or notoriety.

3) Today, thanks to my infidel friend Jake, I've been thinking about toast. I love toast. I love the smell of toast toasting toastily. I love the scritchy scratchy sound a dull knife makes as I spread the butter on across the crumby golden surface. I love the slightly crunchy but still tender toothsomeness that indicates toasty perfection. I especially love a warm piece of nutty whole-grain toast topped immediately with a thin slice of mild white cheese--so the cheese softens slightly but does not truly melt. Toast, in the words of my 7-year-old, rocks.

For Sara. . .