They race to find a tarnished pedigree,
and joyfully proclaim he is a fraud.
The rally cries from tea to shining tea:
uncover proof that he was born abroad.
In Kenya’s dirty streets there lies the truth,
a baby born a Muslim spy, a leech!
A single piece of paper is the proof,
without it they will overthrow, impeach.
The facts they claim will Trump and reign supreme,
elucidate our country’s greatest sham,
Hussein, a name, a nightmare, a bad dream!
Americans, naïve, fell for the scam.
Another day, another wasted breath.
Their noise is slowly choking me to death.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Monday, May 24, 2010
Lost and Found
It's no secret that I have trouble getting Sarah to school on time. If the 34 tardies on her second trimester report card don't convince you, well, you'll just have to take my word for it. I've also never pretended that a big part of the problem isn't me.
Take this morning, for example. My cell phone alarm clock vibrated at 6:38 a.m., and I promptly hit the cell phone snooze button. When I finally dragged myself out of bed and poured my coffee, I immediately did what I do every morning: I grabbed my laptop and began my morning ritual. Yahoo email. Facebook. Savannah Morning News. Savannah Morning News obituaries. Cnn.com. Perez. TMZ. People.
But this morning I had something else on my mind--the series finale of Lost. No doubt a lot of people woke up this morning and feverishly surfed the internet for other viewers' interpretations of what actually happened on the finale. Only I don't watch Lost. I caught the first episode when it debuted six years ago, and I hadn't seen another one until last night, when I watched the last 30 minutes. I have read about the show over the years, however, and like anything that I'm curious about but have no desire to actually watch, I went to trusty google to search for spoilers (I've done this for countless movies too, like Paranormal Activity).
So as the time ticked away this morning, I was sitting on the bed reading theories on my laptop about characters and circumstances that I know nothing about. And that's the story of my mornings. I do stupid shit. There's really no other way to put it.
When Sarah and I finally got in the car and I turned on the engine, 7:40 was staring me in the face. Under the very best circumstances (no traffic, no red lights), I can get to school in about 20 minutes. Under normal circumstances, it takes around 26 minutes from start to finish. The traffic wasn't terrible today, but I got behind a driver on the Causeway going 40 in a 50-mile-per-hour zone (slowing down to 35 on the bridges!). I couldn't pass her because it was foggy out, so when I got up to the just-turned-red light at Whitefield and Ferguson, I decided it was high time to take a new shortcut.
I have three trusty shortcuts on my way to school, all highly illegal. The first shortcut is a mere half a mile from my house when I just miss the first light leaving The Landings. Waiting for that light when I'm already starting out late is a torturous experience, so I usually turn right into the Village shopping center, then make an immediate illegal u-turn (against a sign that says 'no u-turn'), before returning to the Causeway.
My other two shortcuts are reserved for the times I just miss the left-hand turn arrows at Whitefield/Montgomery Cross Roads and Montgomery Cross Roads/White Bluff. When that happens, I continue on straight through the green lights and then make left turns into the neighboring shopping centers, cutting through empty parking spaces until I can eventually turn back on to the streets that lead the way to school. I discovered these shortcuts thanks to other drivers who I saw do the same thing. Many of those drivers have Country Day stickers on the back of their cars and are no doubt headed to the same destination.
In hindsight, the new shortcut this morning is the only one that is not illegal. It involved a perfectly legal right turn onto Ferguson and a perfectly legal left turn on to a nameless diagonal road that connects Ferguson and Whitefield. And it was pretty to boot. In the misty, dewy fog, I drove through a line of oak trees on either side before finding a small break in the line of cars traveling down Whitefield.
Hopefully my days of taking shortcuts will be short lived. Once August 17 rolls around, I have pledged to become a responsible mom who gets her kids to school on time. Meantime, I still have four more days to do stupid shit, race to school and lament my tardiness before summer break.
Take this morning, for example. My cell phone alarm clock vibrated at 6:38 a.m., and I promptly hit the cell phone snooze button. When I finally dragged myself out of bed and poured my coffee, I immediately did what I do every morning: I grabbed my laptop and began my morning ritual. Yahoo email. Facebook. Savannah Morning News. Savannah Morning News obituaries. Cnn.com. Perez. TMZ. People.
But this morning I had something else on my mind--the series finale of Lost. No doubt a lot of people woke up this morning and feverishly surfed the internet for other viewers' interpretations of what actually happened on the finale. Only I don't watch Lost. I caught the first episode when it debuted six years ago, and I hadn't seen another one until last night, when I watched the last 30 minutes. I have read about the show over the years, however, and like anything that I'm curious about but have no desire to actually watch, I went to trusty google to search for spoilers (I've done this for countless movies too, like Paranormal Activity).
So as the time ticked away this morning, I was sitting on the bed reading theories on my laptop about characters and circumstances that I know nothing about. And that's the story of my mornings. I do stupid shit. There's really no other way to put it.
When Sarah and I finally got in the car and I turned on the engine, 7:40 was staring me in the face. Under the very best circumstances (no traffic, no red lights), I can get to school in about 20 minutes. Under normal circumstances, it takes around 26 minutes from start to finish. The traffic wasn't terrible today, but I got behind a driver on the Causeway going 40 in a 50-mile-per-hour zone (slowing down to 35 on the bridges!). I couldn't pass her because it was foggy out, so when I got up to the just-turned-red light at Whitefield and Ferguson, I decided it was high time to take a new shortcut.
I have three trusty shortcuts on my way to school, all highly illegal. The first shortcut is a mere half a mile from my house when I just miss the first light leaving The Landings. Waiting for that light when I'm already starting out late is a torturous experience, so I usually turn right into the Village shopping center, then make an immediate illegal u-turn (against a sign that says 'no u-turn'), before returning to the Causeway.
My other two shortcuts are reserved for the times I just miss the left-hand turn arrows at Whitefield/Montgomery Cross Roads and Montgomery Cross Roads/White Bluff. When that happens, I continue on straight through the green lights and then make left turns into the neighboring shopping centers, cutting through empty parking spaces until I can eventually turn back on to the streets that lead the way to school. I discovered these shortcuts thanks to other drivers who I saw do the same thing. Many of those drivers have Country Day stickers on the back of their cars and are no doubt headed to the same destination.
In hindsight, the new shortcut this morning is the only one that is not illegal. It involved a perfectly legal right turn onto Ferguson and a perfectly legal left turn on to a nameless diagonal road that connects Ferguson and Whitefield. And it was pretty to boot. In the misty, dewy fog, I drove through a line of oak trees on either side before finding a small break in the line of cars traveling down Whitefield.
Hopefully my days of taking shortcuts will be short lived. Once August 17 rolls around, I have pledged to become a responsible mom who gets her kids to school on time. Meantime, I still have four more days to do stupid shit, race to school and lament my tardiness before summer break.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Train Wreck
Coming from a mile away
Oblivious of yesterday.
The problems of the world
In one celestial swirl.
Hijacking all your joy
Vapid, loud and coy.
Running over minions
Void of real opinions.
Minds obliterated
Worshipped and hated.
Throngs of blinding lights
sparks instantly ignite.
Overcrowding space
Dismantling human race.
Feckless, idle, inept
Degenerate train wreck.
Oblivious of yesterday.
The problems of the world
In one celestial swirl.
Hijacking all your joy
Vapid, loud and coy.
Running over minions
Void of real opinions.
Minds obliterated
Worshipped and hated.
Throngs of blinding lights
sparks instantly ignite.
Overcrowding space
Dismantling human race.
Feckless, idle, inept
Degenerate train wreck.
Friday, April 23, 2010
The Death of Decency
I was no fan of George Bush. I won't bore anyone with all the reasons, but let's just say that I googled the immigration requirements of the Netherlands on more than one occasion during his back-to-back terms in office. But not once, not for one moment during his presidency, did I contemplate his demise. I never once, even in the privacy of my own home, even in my subconscious, wished that he would die. In fact, after his presidency, when his daughter Jenna got married, I felt sincere happiness for George and Laura. He may have been a terrible president, but I believe he was a good father who deserved to celebrate the marriage of his daughter.
Yet somehow, in the years that have passed, it has become perfectly acceptable to make jokes about the death of President Obama. A recent Facebook group, titled "DEAR LORD, THIS YEAR YOU TOOK MY FAVORITE ACTOR, PATRICK SWAYZIE. YOU TOOK MY FAVORITE ACTRESS, FARAH FAWCETT. YOU TOOK MY FAVORITE SINGER, MICHAEL JACKSON. I JUST WANTED TO LET YOU KNOW, MY FAVORITE PRESIDENT IS BARACK OBAMA. AMEN," currently has 1,091,361 fans. Blatant misspellings and annoying all caps aside, when did it become okay to joke about the death of a president? That used to be taboo, so taboo that you may even receive a knock on your door from the Secret Service if you cross the line and verbally threaten the president.
When Obama won the election, I thought it was a turning point in our country. I thought that maybe, just maybe, the hateful rhetoric that some people bantered about during the election would fade into oblivion. I thought that people might channel their hatred into action and work to find a more viable candidate in 2012. But apparently the easiest way for these people to be proactive is to simply wish for Obama to die.
When I stumble upon a sign at a Tea Party that says, "Obama, 50 percent black, 50 percent white, 100 percent liar," I can no longer believe that all of this hatred and rage is not based on race. When one of my (now former) Facebook friends writes that the only reason Obama won the election was because "7 million blacks who can't even read" voted, I can no longer believe that race is not an issue.
I don't believe that this kind of hatred and disgust is strictly based on Obama's policies. Sure, ask one of these people why they hate Obama so much, and they will give you a laundry list of reasons. They will say that Obama has set our country back by decades. I wonder what has changed so much in their lives in the past 16 months to make them say that. Are all of these people among the wealthiest one percent of Americans who may actually see an increase in their taxes? Doubtful. Will all of these people voluntarily forgo their Social Security and Medicare services when they become available to them because they detest social services so much? Doubtful. Will they abhor healthcare reform so much if a catastrophic illness strikes them or their family members and sends them into bankruptcy? Doubtful.
The most frustrating thing of all is that there's nothing I can do, nothing I can say, to change what these people think. They will continue to flap their wings and make a lot of noise until Obama is out of office. And apparently they don't care if it's by defeat or by death. They won't even smile just a little bit one day when Sasha or Malia walk down the aisle next to their proud parents. And that is everything that is wrong with our country.
Yet somehow, in the years that have passed, it has become perfectly acceptable to make jokes about the death of President Obama. A recent Facebook group, titled "DEAR LORD, THIS YEAR YOU TOOK MY FAVORITE ACTOR, PATRICK SWAYZIE. YOU TOOK MY FAVORITE ACTRESS, FARAH FAWCETT. YOU TOOK MY FAVORITE SINGER, MICHAEL JACKSON. I JUST WANTED TO LET YOU KNOW, MY FAVORITE PRESIDENT IS BARACK OBAMA. AMEN," currently has 1,091,361 fans. Blatant misspellings and annoying all caps aside, when did it become okay to joke about the death of a president? That used to be taboo, so taboo that you may even receive a knock on your door from the Secret Service if you cross the line and verbally threaten the president.
When Obama won the election, I thought it was a turning point in our country. I thought that maybe, just maybe, the hateful rhetoric that some people bantered about during the election would fade into oblivion. I thought that people might channel their hatred into action and work to find a more viable candidate in 2012. But apparently the easiest way for these people to be proactive is to simply wish for Obama to die.
When I stumble upon a sign at a Tea Party that says, "Obama, 50 percent black, 50 percent white, 100 percent liar," I can no longer believe that all of this hatred and rage is not based on race. When one of my (now former) Facebook friends writes that the only reason Obama won the election was because "7 million blacks who can't even read" voted, I can no longer believe that race is not an issue.
I don't believe that this kind of hatred and disgust is strictly based on Obama's policies. Sure, ask one of these people why they hate Obama so much, and they will give you a laundry list of reasons. They will say that Obama has set our country back by decades. I wonder what has changed so much in their lives in the past 16 months to make them say that. Are all of these people among the wealthiest one percent of Americans who may actually see an increase in their taxes? Doubtful. Will all of these people voluntarily forgo their Social Security and Medicare services when they become available to them because they detest social services so much? Doubtful. Will they abhor healthcare reform so much if a catastrophic illness strikes them or their family members and sends them into bankruptcy? Doubtful.
The most frustrating thing of all is that there's nothing I can do, nothing I can say, to change what these people think. They will continue to flap their wings and make a lot of noise until Obama is out of office. And apparently they don't care if it's by defeat or by death. They won't even smile just a little bit one day when Sasha or Malia walk down the aisle next to their proud parents. And that is everything that is wrong with our country.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Recipe for Disaster
I had a major revelation about cooking the other day. It's not the obvious: that I'm just not a good cook (though I suppose there are a few dishes I've made that would make Jonah beg to differ). It's that I approach finding new recipes the same way I approach buying clothes. Somewhere out there exists the perfect recipe--the recipe that will elevate me to the status of 3 star Michelin chef--and I will never be satisfied until l I find it.
With clothes, it is the search for that one dress, that one pair of jeans, that one top that will somehow make me look 10 pounds thinner and several inches taller. I may have 30 black tank tops hanging in my closet (and yes, sadly, one day my mom actually counted them), but there is one out there that I don't have that will transform me from Amy Pine bedraggled mom of two to Amy Pine supermodel.
My search for the perfect recipe and the perfect clothes would be fruitless if it weren't for a couple of false positives. I have one recipe for rack of lamb that is so good and so foolproof that Jonah asks me to make it for his twice yearly poker tournaments. At one of his tournaments several years ago, Jonah's friend, French restaurateur John Jawback (who has unfortunately since passed away), raved endlessly about the rack of lamb. For me, this was the biggest compliment anyone could've bestowed upon my cooking. Not only did John serve up some amazing food during his five-course meals at Jean Louise, but he was notorious for criticizing other people's cooking.
And then there's that little black dress that I bought on a trip to Charleston about 10 years ago. My body has changed so much since having two kids--not even necessarily in a bad way--and none of my pre-baby clothes fit the right way. But this one black dress still looks amazing (and believe me, I usually never use the words "me" and "amazing" in the same breath). I can put on this dress and feel completely confident that I look good. If I had an entire wardrobe of clothes like this LBD, I would save countless hours of outfit changes and frustrated primping.
The sad truth is, however, that these two searches are hopelessly intertwined. Perhaps if I focused less on how I look in clothes and I was more willing to try full-on unhealthy fare, I'd have a bigger repertoire of five-star recipes (because let's face it, the minute I see that a recipe calls for a stick of butter, I click the back button). Or if I stopped caring so much about food and flavor, I'd actually lose those last 10 pounds and have an easier time finding clothes that look good. But since neither one of those options sounds very appealing to me, I will continue to spin my wheels searching for perfection.
With clothes, it is the search for that one dress, that one pair of jeans, that one top that will somehow make me look 10 pounds thinner and several inches taller. I may have 30 black tank tops hanging in my closet (and yes, sadly, one day my mom actually counted them), but there is one out there that I don't have that will transform me from Amy Pine bedraggled mom of two to Amy Pine supermodel.
My search for the perfect recipe and the perfect clothes would be fruitless if it weren't for a couple of false positives. I have one recipe for rack of lamb that is so good and so foolproof that Jonah asks me to make it for his twice yearly poker tournaments. At one of his tournaments several years ago, Jonah's friend, French restaurateur John Jawback (who has unfortunately since passed away), raved endlessly about the rack of lamb. For me, this was the biggest compliment anyone could've bestowed upon my cooking. Not only did John serve up some amazing food during his five-course meals at Jean Louise, but he was notorious for criticizing other people's cooking.
And then there's that little black dress that I bought on a trip to Charleston about 10 years ago. My body has changed so much since having two kids--not even necessarily in a bad way--and none of my pre-baby clothes fit the right way. But this one black dress still looks amazing (and believe me, I usually never use the words "me" and "amazing" in the same breath). I can put on this dress and feel completely confident that I look good. If I had an entire wardrobe of clothes like this LBD, I would save countless hours of outfit changes and frustrated primping.
The sad truth is, however, that these two searches are hopelessly intertwined. Perhaps if I focused less on how I look in clothes and I was more willing to try full-on unhealthy fare, I'd have a bigger repertoire of five-star recipes (because let's face it, the minute I see that a recipe calls for a stick of butter, I click the back button). Or if I stopped caring so much about food and flavor, I'd actually lose those last 10 pounds and have an easier time finding clothes that look good. But since neither one of those options sounds very appealing to me, I will continue to spin my wheels searching for perfection.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
sex, lies, and videotape
It's confession time. I've seen a couple of celebrity sex tapes in my day. Two of them--the Pamela Anderson/Tommy Lee and Paris Hilton/Some Random Jewish Millionaire DVDs--were rented by someone I'm now married to who shall remain nameless and were watched by me out of sheer curiosity. I absolutely don't understand why Pam broke up with Tommy, but that's a topic for another blog. Then I caught a snippet or two of the Kim Kardashian/Ray J video online. It must've somehow popped up on my screen, because I would never have deliberately looked for it. But there is one sex tape that I won't be watching: the rumored-to-exist John Edwards/Rielle Hunter tape.
It's not that I don't think John Edwards is a decent looking guy. It's just that he's not a decent guy. At one time, I believed that he was a good looking, charismatic, everyman politician who would've made a great vice president. I so ardently supported his bid for VP that I even snuck out of work a few months prior to the 2004 presidential election to watch him speak in Johnson Square. I was even still mildly interested in him when he announced he was running for president in 2008.
And then there was Rielle Hunter. If I'm willing to overlook Bill Clinton's indiscretions with Monica Lewinsky, you'd think I could turn a cheek in this case too. But something about the John Edwards affair smacks of douche-baggery. Is it that his wife was battling cancer at the time? Is it that he had two young children at home? Is it that he tried to have his assistant claim paternity of his and Rielle's daughter? Is it that he thought he could get away with something like this and have it go unnoticed while campaigning to be president of the United States of America? Maybe it's all of the above.
So no, I don't really want to watch John Edwards have sex. And I don't want to watch Rielle Hunter have sex. I don't want to watch any visibly pregnant woman have sex for that matter. Especially with John Edwards. And I don't even care if John Edwards rivals Tommy Lee for the biggest ... ego.
It's not that I don't think John Edwards is a decent looking guy. It's just that he's not a decent guy. At one time, I believed that he was a good looking, charismatic, everyman politician who would've made a great vice president. I so ardently supported his bid for VP that I even snuck out of work a few months prior to the 2004 presidential election to watch him speak in Johnson Square. I was even still mildly interested in him when he announced he was running for president in 2008.
And then there was Rielle Hunter. If I'm willing to overlook Bill Clinton's indiscretions with Monica Lewinsky, you'd think I could turn a cheek in this case too. But something about the John Edwards affair smacks of douche-baggery. Is it that his wife was battling cancer at the time? Is it that he had two young children at home? Is it that he tried to have his assistant claim paternity of his and Rielle's daughter? Is it that he thought he could get away with something like this and have it go unnoticed while campaigning to be president of the United States of America? Maybe it's all of the above.
So no, I don't really want to watch John Edwards have sex. And I don't want to watch Rielle Hunter have sex. I don't want to watch any visibly pregnant woman have sex for that matter. Especially with John Edwards. And I don't even care if John Edwards rivals Tommy Lee for the biggest ... ego.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Three-Ring Circus
In the past couple of years I've learned a lot of commonly used Internet and texting abbreviations. Though LOL had been on my radar for quite some time, I finally shed my 30-something facade to discover such gems as WTF, ROFL and my personal favorite, OMFG. One that took me a while to figure out was PITA, which I came to discover was an acronym for Pain In The Ass. That one popped into my head today when I read an article in the Savannah Morning News about how the group PETA staged a failed circus protest at Hodge Elementary School.
Yesterday, PETA sent an activist in an furry elephant costume outside of the elementary school to hand out "ele-friend" stickers and give hugs to the unwitting students. I have no doubt that the elephants in the circus would be better off in their natural habitats, however, advocating for these 10,000-plus pound creatures by scaring mostly indigent elementary school students doesn't really seem like a good place to start.
The circus protest might not have infuriated me quite so much if it weren't for a PETA incident that took place six years ago. Back in 2003, they sent activists dressed in furry chicken costumes to Gadsden Elementary to scare the students out of eating chicken. They encouraged the children to "kick the bucket" and held up a sign reading "chickens are friends, not food."
Why on earth would PETA target an elementary school with a large number of indigent kids? Were they hoping that these kids would go home and ask their mothers or fathers to stop serving chicken, which happens to be one of the healthiest and least expensive lean meats in the grocery store? Were they hoping to start a tofu revolution among America's lower class? It's bad enough to take advantage of the carefree elements that come with being a child--being naturally drawn to mascots in furry costumes and having the inability to associate the food on your plate with the animals you see at the petting zoo. But to do that to a population of students that probably doesn't have the means to live a meat-free lifestyle is unconscionable.
If a PETA mascot approached my children in an attempt to scare them away from the circus or make them afraid of eating chicken, they would have a number of Internet abbreviations at their disposal: OMG, this cr8zy lady came FTF w/ me. What a PITA. WAFB. She 8tacked me in my chkn costume and gave me a blk I. I am FUBAR.
Yesterday, PETA sent an activist in an furry elephant costume outside of the elementary school to hand out "ele-friend" stickers and give hugs to the unwitting students. I have no doubt that the elephants in the circus would be better off in their natural habitats, however, advocating for these 10,000-plus pound creatures by scaring mostly indigent elementary school students doesn't really seem like a good place to start.
The circus protest might not have infuriated me quite so much if it weren't for a PETA incident that took place six years ago. Back in 2003, they sent activists dressed in furry chicken costumes to Gadsden Elementary to scare the students out of eating chicken. They encouraged the children to "kick the bucket" and held up a sign reading "chickens are friends, not food."
Why on earth would PETA target an elementary school with a large number of indigent kids? Were they hoping that these kids would go home and ask their mothers or fathers to stop serving chicken, which happens to be one of the healthiest and least expensive lean meats in the grocery store? Were they hoping to start a tofu revolution among America's lower class? It's bad enough to take advantage of the carefree elements that come with being a child--being naturally drawn to mascots in furry costumes and having the inability to associate the food on your plate with the animals you see at the petting zoo. But to do that to a population of students that probably doesn't have the means to live a meat-free lifestyle is unconscionable.
If a PETA mascot approached my children in an attempt to scare them away from the circus or make them afraid of eating chicken, they would have a number of Internet abbreviations at their disposal: OMG, this cr8zy lady came FTF w/ me. What a PITA. WAFB. She 8tacked me in my chkn costume and gave me a blk I. I am FUBAR.
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