Ha, Ha, You Still Don't Know How I'm Voting (And Neither Do I)

I'm taking my time posting today, because I just don't think that any of you will be that excited about what I am excited about. Which is, I cleaned off one of my counters that has been covered with junk since I got back from vacation, oh, over 2 weeks ago. Namely, a 2-gallon drink cooler, a 1/2-bushel market basket, scads of gallon-size freezer bags that I keep meaning to reuse, assorted napkins and dishtowels that people insist on leaving there, 2 leftover loot bags from Rachel's party a month ago, and assorted other junk. And you know what? It was downright energizing! I felt empowered!

And now? The counter is covered again. But at least it's different stuff.

Time for a news round-up. First off, good news, fellow hypochondriacs! We've got even more to worry about! That irritating sore in your mouth that's been there a while? It might be cancer! That stiffness in my joints that I was chalking up to middle age? It might be cancer! Isn't that great?

Oh, and here's something interesting: someone named "Bush" is announcing some planned troop reductions. Bush? Bush who? I watched the Republican convention all Thursday night, and I don't remember hearing that name at all. And, in case any of you, like me, were confused as to what those protesters were yelling in the hall during Senator McCain's speech, it was "You can't win an occupation!" That would be correct. The Israelis have already learned that. Or, rather, are still learning that. Slowly. Painfully slowly. I hope we turn out to be faster learners.

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Okay, I'll admit it - I've got a few problems with how people are acting lately. Governor Palin seems competent enough, intelligent enough, and she certainly gives the Republican ticket a more youthful air. But her fans? Good Lord, they scare me. For all you lovely ladies (and yes, it is the women) who are energetically defending your idol, CALM DOWN! Even if some of us like - admire, even - Governor Palin, we still may not vote for her ticket; either because we disagree on some issues or we feel someone else is more qualified in areas that are important to us. But this isn't a high school popularity contest, girls. You can't just take the people who disagree with your candidate behind the gym and beat them up. Verbally or otherwise. It makes you look bad.

Um, Governor Palin? That goes for you, too.

And, Republicans? Listen, all those people who aren't Republicans are still Americans. I know you don't like that fact, but there it is. Truly, your convention was an exhibit in fearmongering and "us v. them-ism" that was not appropriate for a candidate of the moral stature of John McCain. In other words, JOHN MCCAIN DESERVES BETTER than that show you put on last week.

But then again, he let you do it. So maybe he doesn't.

True Love

I stayed up late to listen to McCain's speech (I'm an equal-opportunity convention watcher) with the kids, and now I must scurry off to bed before I walk into my kitchen and see something scurry across the floor. As I did last night. Which brings me to

Reasons I Love My Husband

1. He always agrees to have "just one more" kid.
2. He didn't drag me up to Maine over Labor Day weekend.
3. He puts up with tripping over knitting bags and yarn stash in the bedroom.
4. I spend all his money and he never complains.
5. When woken at midnight by my decidedly female "Eeek!", he staggers out of bed and sets mousetraps in our kitchen.
6. Before he goes to work, he empties said traps of whatever carcasses may lie therein.

If that's not love, what is?

As The Food Turns

It's Wednesday! Time to clean out the refrigerator and start with a clean plate. I mean, slate. Whatever.

I'm not doing too badly, folks. I've been making my kids eat the leftovers more (not cooking helps to facilitate that), and it shows. Sort of. Still, despite my best efforts, on the right there we have 2 Gladware containers of leftover "enchilala duff." (Named by one of our toddlers, can't remember who...) That's black beans, corn, salsa, canned diced tomatoes, and tomato paste, all thrown together in a crock pot and then dished out in taco shells to a semi-appreciative crowd. These particular leftovers must have gotten lost behind something else; otherwise David would have finished them off in lieu of eating our normally carnivorous fare. They are accompanied in the leftover category by a small amount of pot roast (glass dish) that has passed its "eat by" date. Not too bad, not too bad...

Atop the roast is a jar of maraschino cherries a neighbor found in her cabinet and pawned off on me. (Believe me, when you have 6 kids, everyone brings you their extra food.) I love maraschino cherries, at least when I get one or two on top of a milkshake or ice cream sundae. But a whole jar? Not so much. They start tasting poisonous. What does "maraschino" mean, anyway? "Bad for you"?

Next to the cherries is a full container of margarine. I was about to use it when (luckily) Theo walked into the kitchen and pointed out to me that I had bought the kind he is allergic to. So I put the lid back on and jammed it into my black hole of a refrigerator, thinking I would give it to a neighbor when I had a minute to spare. By the time I rediscovered it, there was a hole burned in the lid by the refrigerator bulb (does this happen to anyone else? Please say yes), so I felt funny about giving it away. I mean, what would I say? "Here, have this margarine. Don't worry about that hole in the lid. I don't think any plastic melted onto the margarine itself. And margarine's sort of fake anyway."

On the left, this week's piece de resistance: 2 jars of salad dressing that I made for our 4th of July BBQ. One of these jars has already been featured twice in this blog - once when I first removed it from the refrigerator, and again when I discovered it on my counter 2 weeks later. It's the Rasputin of refrigerator discards. It will not die.

It Takes A Mother...

Okay, I've been mulling all this over, and what I think happened is this: originally, the VP selection committee called me, you see; but I wasn't home. One of my teens must have taken the message, and of course I never got it. So the committee had to settle for Governor Palin, right?

But that's okay - Ms. Palin is way more photogenic than I am. How does she pull off that sexy schoolmarm look, anyway? Will someone tell me, please?

It does look as though the Republicans have figured out that to achieve, say, a settlement between the Israelis and the Palestinians, they don't need some politician who doesn't know squat about making people get along; they need, instead, someone who has spent at least 15 years forcing her children to coexist somewhat peaceably. I can picture Ms. Palin sitting down with those recalcitrant Middle Easterners now:

Ms. Palin: Okay, fellas, what seems to be the problem here?
Mahmoud Abbas: Well, they started it; they came in and took our land and...
Ehud Olmert: Liar! The UN said we could have it. They voted and everything!
Mahmoud Abbas: Oh, yeah? Well, they didn't say you could kick us out!
Ehud Olmert: We didn't kick you out - you ran away. Babies!
Ms. Palin: Boys! Boys! What's past is past. There seem to be several sticking points to negotiations here. Let's look at this Jerusalem issue. It seems you both want it, and you're not willing to share.
Mahmoud: We were sharing, but they took our piece!
Ehud: We took your piece because you were going to take our piece!
Mahmoud: Liar, liar, pants on fire!
Ms. Palin: It's clear that you two cannot get along. What we'll have to do is take turns. Mahmoud, I'm going to set this timer. You can have Jerusalem for, oh, 6 months; and then Ehud here can take the next 6 months.
Ehud: How come he gets it first?

All I can say, Ms. Palin, is that you have your work cut out for you. And, hon, if you do end up living in the Vice Presidential mansion, please refrain from dismissing your chef because you want to cook for your own family (as you did when Governor). It makes the rest of us women look bad, all right?

Or, you could send him to me - I'll be glad to cede my kitchen duties for 4 years. No problem.

Sock It To Me

I've been wondering why I can never find a matched pair of socks for Susie when I need it. Well, the mystery has been solved. I excavated her sock/underwear drawer and analyzed what I found - 2 lonely pairs (over there on the left) and 17 single socks: 6 pink, 4 purple, 3 green, 2 yellow, and 2 white (with lace cuffs). All completely different from each other.



Tell me, how is it possible for a 3-year-old child to already own more than a dozen mismatched socks? Where do the mates go? It is conundrums like this that eat away at my soul, bit by bit, until there is nothing left of me but a half-crazed woman roaming the aisles at Target, searching fruitlessly for a pack of all-white little girl socks.

Fruitlessly, I say, because you cannot buy a whole bunch of socks in the same color. You have to buy them in packages of 6, and heaven forbid that you should be able to find a package that has less than 4 different colors in it. So you buy the assorted colors, and when some socks disappear, you think, "Ha, ha - I'm no dummy. I'll go back and buy another pack of the same kind, and then I'll have spares!"

Well, that's what I think, anyway. I know, I'm so clever. So I go back to Target and buy another pack and I bring it home and discover that the socks are not precisely the same kind as the socks I bought previously, because the evil sock manufacturers change the design every 6 weeks or so. Just to make me crazy.

Yes, that's right - while some women can manage to raise 5 children while governing an entire state, I cannot even manage to dress my kids in socks that match. Which probably explains why no one has asked me to be Vice President...