From this site, and many others:

In an interview with the Las Vegas Sun, Sen. John McCain, R-Ariz., was asked by columnist Jon Ralston why he didn’t choose Gov. Jim Gibbons to chair his Nevada campaign.

“I appreciate his support,” McCain said. “As you know, the lieutenant governor is our chairman.”

Why snub the governor? Ralston asked.

“I didn’t mean to snub him,. I’ve known the lieutenant governor for 15 years and we’ve been good friends,” McCain said. “I didn’t intend to snub him. There are other states where the governor is not the chairman.”

Maybe it’s the governor’s approval rating and you are running from him like you are from the president? Asked Ralston in a question McCain clearly found loaded.

Said McCain, chuckling, “And I stopped beating my wife just a couple of weeks ago.”

Apparently this highlarious barb was met with awkward silence and/or the gasps of thousands of indignant slash mortified white women.

For realz? For realz. I can’t count the number of times my husband has joked about beating me or starving me to death or drowning me in a pool of lime jello or breaking my legs and then tying me down to a bed of red Texas fire ants. ALL THE TIME, Y’ALL. You don’t see me getting all uppity about it, do you? I can hold my own with my own jokes of killing him with a dull chainsaw or hiring a bereted French assassin who is still very stealthy in spite of his flamboyant beret.

A sense of humor is a sign of a healthy marriage, is it not? And joking about spousal abuse is a sign of a guy who thinks it’s funny to joke about spousal abuse, I guess. It wouldn’t have been funny coming from the late Mr. Ike Turner. It would have been creepy and probably not true. I guess it’s not funny coming from your presumptive Republican nominee for the office of the president of the United States, either. But there’s no need for hushed gasps or indignant pointing of fingers. Here, for Mr. McCain’s future reference, are a couple of issues I suggest that he avoid joking about:

spousal abuse, oh wait…my bad
date rape
rape
rape in prison
AIDS, county jail rape, and other places where rapes occur
child pornography
murdering your wife because she pissed you off
murdering your wife for her money
murdering your wife
murder
torture that is secretly condoned by the United States government
war
taxes
Black people
issues
politics
lime jello

I hope I helped, Senator McCain. Let’s just see if you can keep your silly noggin out of trouble next time.

“Don’t know nuthin’ ’bout no love.”

I was not having sex when I was 16. I was also not having ‘boyfriends’ or ‘kissing’ or ‘dates’ when I was 16 either, so whatevs. Which was a good thing, because I was always a little behind in my understanding of reproductive processes. This is what happens when you spend your 5th grade very special heath class giggling and making jokes rather than paying attention. And why I was quite befuddled by the purpose of feminine hygiene products which were not pads and how they worked.

So when I was 16 I had a few boys who were my friends, not call on the phone friends, but hang out and make jokes in the classroom friends, and a couple of good girl girlfriends who liked to laugh and sing and giggle like me. They were the ones who told me in euphamistic terms how the feminine hygiene products which are not pads worked. I forbid them from discussing matters in my presence ever again.

One of these friends was named Patty. She was a nut. She’s still a nut. She’s a nut in Germany serving the United States Air Force or Army, I always forget. When we were 16 we started saying the following phrase ‘Bebbies having bebbies. Don’t know nuthin’ ’bout no love.’ And then we’d assume grandmotherly African American personas who spent their days carping about all the youngins getting pregnant.

Did I mention I didn’t understand how tampons worked? Just clearing that up…

So quote good times end quote, for me, at the age of 16, consisted of me speaking with a funny voice and singing broadway style songs incessantly with my equally not cool friends. Which, by the way, ended up being the BEST BIRTH CONTROL ever invented and I highly recommend it for all you 16 year old girls reading this blog right now. PS - if you are 16 and reading this blog then I must be the coolest not-quite-32 year old on the block. Email me so we can be bffs, kay? Mkay!

I read about all these pregnant teenagers with a certain degree of befuddlement and mild curiosity. Because I was very much a kid when I was 16, and all my friends were kids, and safe sex talks were as lost on me as they’d be on an old timey rocking chair on the front porch of a Cracker Barrel. Irrelevant.
Now I look back and I’m very glad that I wasn’t the girl at the parties with the illegally procured alcohol, and that I wasn’t friends with those boys and girls. The ‘bad’ kids, who weren’t actually bad, but doing exactly what was expected of them by their peers and parents.

And I certainly don’t judge those hapless, pregnant girls out there. I feel sorry for them. My sister got pregnant when she was 16. It’s been a long, hard road for her. But she managed. In the end, we all manage, don’t we? Silly girls who don’t pay attention to biological processes, not-slutty but sexually active girls who find themselves in a pickle…it usually all works itself out, doesn’t it? It does in my world.

And here, for your viewing pleasure, is exactly everything I knew and understood about the human reproductive cycle when I was 16. In song.

I have an agenda, of sorts, this summer. Here’s what it looks like:

Summer Agenda, 2008

1. Sleep in everyday.
2. Get through the 2nd draft of my story.
3. Do 100 push ups. This is the loftiest and least attainable goal of all.
4. Take weekly field trips to various educational and exciting locations around North Idaho.
5. Take naps.
6. Read.
7. Walk two miles everyday.
8. Sleep in everyday.

Ambitious, I know. I hate to bring this up, because all the working moms out there might actually reach through their monitors and strangle my freckly neck, but staying home in the summer has its own unique sets of problems. Namely boredom and restlessness. I, of course, am not one to suffer from these problems, as you can see from my long and interesting list of things I’ll be doing this summer. Here’s the second, and more interesting part of my list.

Things I’ll do this summer, this time with feeling:

1. Plan out healthy meals that also taste good, even if no one else in the family agrees how good they are.
2. Service our two little money-making candy machines. Wallow in quarters daily.
3. That’s it. This did not warrant a second list at all, did it?

No. It didn’t. I’ll just stop while I’m ahead, then.

It’s summer here in Idaho. Finally. We were wearing sweaters and drinking hot chocolate on the last day of school, so summer, even in its 60 degree incarnation, is quite welcome. As I write this two of my children are feeding the ducks of the neighborhood pond (causing duck fights, no doubt) and the third is hopping happily on the neighbor’s trampoline. Excuse me while I go retrieve her.

****
I’m back. Usually surrounded by the neighborhood crew, she was alone, for once, jumping in her long Sunday church dress with her Easter sandals nicely tucked under her tricycle, which also served as her stepladder onto the trampoline. Time to come home. Time to get out of the mild Idaho sun.

When we first moved here, everyone asked us how we were enjoying the weather, “Big difference, huh?” they’d say. And we’d agree. But the biggest difference between South Texas and North Idaho has nothing to do with the pretty fall colors or lovely white winters. It’s summer that’s so mind- blowingly different. My childhood Texas summers are clouded with memories of cold, cold air conditioning and the cartoons on the USA network, at least during the summers we had cable. Outside games, when tolerable, were played in the evenings, if at all. If you were lucky enough to get to a pool, you were blessed. The rest of us just cowered under our window units or central air and kept our shades pulled tight and screamed at whoever was stupid enough to open the door and let the air out.

My last summer at home before marrying Will was spent without central air. It was easily the most miserable summer of my life. It was sticky, Africa hot. The one window unit was in the living room, and if I wanted to sleep privately or speak with my hot, but not literally hot boyfriend named Will without siblings dangling on me, I had to suffer it out in the airless back bedroom. Miserable. So, let me tell you, dear reader, wherever you are, I don’t take these lovely North Idaho summer days for granted. The mere fact that one may walk three times around the neighborhood without having a dropping dead heat stroke is a gift, A GIFT I TELL YOU. And we don’t take it lightly.

Here are a few of summery type pictures, taken over the last few days. More will come. There’s much, much more to do before fall rolls around again.

Ben Affleck: Let me just stick…my head…here we go…say cheese!

Scared African child: I’m going to lean back just a little…can someone grab on to my chest and pull me away from this big-headed balloon man?

Happy African child: Shut up and smile. This disembodied floating white head is giving us money.

Unimpressed African child: Someone just grabbed me off the street and put these African clothes up on me. Do you think that white man can call my mom to come and get me?

Scared African child: He doesn’t have any hands, so uhhh…no probably not.

Happy African child: Maybe he could put a pencil in his mouth and dial your number that way. But I’m not gonna ask him. And I’m not holding the phone to his floating balloon head.

Scared African child: Me, neither. You could become a homeless traveling hobo, for all I care. I’m getting myself far away from White Happy Head.

Unimpressed African child: You Africans suck. I’m not scared of this torsoless fool. Watch this…I’m not even going to smile when they take this picture. ‘Sup camera.

Happy African child: You better smile before Ghosthead takes away our money! SMILE! DO IT!

Unimpressed African child: Only if you promise to hold the phone to Decapitated Man’s head after he dials my number with the pencil in his teeth. Do you promise?

Happy African child: I promise! I promise! Just smile! For the love of God….

*CLICK*

Unimpressed African child: I didn’t have time…will you still…

Scared African child: (crickets chirping, frogs croaking, animated dust devil swirls where he once stood.)

Happy African child: Good luck getting home. I’m outtie.

Ben Affleck: Which one of you lucky babies wants to be my new African child? Anyone? Hellloooo?

Unimpressed African child: See you fools later. I’m taking my chances outside on the mean streets of Calgary. See ya, wouldn’t wanna be ya. I mean that literally.

Ben Affleck: You’ll do.

(Picks up Happy African child and cradles him like a baby. Happy African child tries to convey that he is not, in fact, an orphan, but Ben Affleck doesn’t speak African so he doesn’t understand. Also, Happy African child is mightily impressed by Ben Affleck’s ability to carry him without arms, and assumes the white floating happy head is some sort of god or superhero, perhaps one who was blinded by toxic waste, but whose other senses are super-heightened and therefore crazy-powerful. Happy African child decides to take his chances with the Decapitated Superhero. At the very least he could get some cool clothes from Aeropostale out of the deal.

The End.

Dear diary,

1st off, I just wanna thank my precious Lord and Savior for getting me my child porn acquittal. Big ups, Jesus! You my n-word!

2nd of all, I’m gonna just take this opportunity to record my thoughts and feelings after this traumatic time. I never thought all of this could happen to me…I’m just a playa, diary…just a regular baller type playa. I like sex. I like to record myself having sex…so what? I regularly carry a duffel bag full of video tapes of my sexual trysts with 13 year old girls, who doesn’t, diary? Who doesn’t??? I need to get on my knees and thank Jesus some more for his big grace in my life.

*****

Now I’m back. Jesus said that maybe I should lay low and stop talking to him for awhile. Something tells me he’s not really happy about my acquittal. HOLD UP, Diary. I’m gonna go have some words with my precious Lord and Savior. He can’t dis a playa like that. I’M R. KELLY, FOOL!

****

Jesus done turned his white back on me. That’s a’ight diary. He just needs to chill for awhile. No one can hold R. Kelly down. NO ONE! So what did I do to celebrate my acquittal? I did a lot of things. First, I went to my house, I walked up the sidewalk. I opened the door. I walked in the door. I walked into the house. I walked to the refrigerator. I opened the refrigerator door. I got out some juice. I drank some juice from the bottle. The juice tasted rancid. I walked to the pantry where I keep the trash can. I stepped on the thing that opens the lid. I threw the rancid juice bottle in the trash can. I’m gonna go see if Jesus is chill now.

****

Jesus says I should be a Muslim. I said ‘You need to stop buggin,’ Jesus! I didn’t do nothing wrong!’ He said, ‘Yeah, actually, you did. Stop referencing me before I smite thee.’ So I’m gonna be a muslim because I need to have someone to thank when I get my Grammys and Jesus ain’t down with my pedophilic ways. We still friends, though. He just don’t know how important I am yet. I’m the Martin Luther King of today. No! I’m the Jesus of today! I should thank MYSELF for my child porn acquittal! Thank you, R. Kelly! Thank you for clearing your name of the things that you actually did with a 13 year old girl! Praise Je-R. Kelly!

****

A’ight diary. It’s time for me to go get freaky in the bathroom. Peace. I’m out.

My Yahoo mail account and I have been in an abusive relationship for 10 years now. It started out sweet, as most relationships do. He’d give me cute little emails from long lost high school friends. I’d save the emails and treasure them as if they were handwritten notes on Electric Youth scented Hello Kitty stationary. We were in love.

But as time progressed I noticed he changed. Little things at first. An occasional unsolicited solicitation, offers of car insurance, extreme pornographic images…little things. It was annoying, but cute in a way. At least he cared.

But then he changed a lot. It was like he became obsessed with me…creepy obsessed, not cute obsessed. Dozens of emails a day…from people I didn’t even know! And some of them weren’t even sexual solicitations! That’s when I gave him some space. I started seeing Gmail. And I gave Yahoo his own little folder for his creepytown emails. Still, I couldn’t let him go. Not after all we’d been through…

I was feeling sentimental today, and I decided to visit Yahoo at his little spam house I gave him. And even though I had just deleted all his freakshow emails two days ago, there were over 70 waiting for me when I got there. Over 70 unsolicited, generically addressed emails, sitting quietly, like 70 long stemmed red roses. And even though I actually don’t like roses (and Yahoo knows this) I couldn’t help but be impressed. I almost cried when I read some of his notes:

u think i’m hot? (lol Julie, I’m not even gay!)

Buy cialis, viagra online, save up to 40%! (lol Ira Barker, I don’t know what cialis is!)

Your credit card debt: Action required (This one looked legit. I sent my credit card and social security number right away.)

I’m 30, single and hot. Come and see pictures! (OMGosh! Me too! Except I’m 30 + 1 and married and the hot thing is debatable! Come see my pictures! We can be pen pals!)

Clean your colon. (Just like that huh? Let me tell you something, C olonCleanse, nobody’s cleaning my colon without a little effort. Nobody.)

Add four inches in lenght (Now that’s totally tempting. I’m sick of being short.)

How to get bigger? (Ummm, eat your vegetables?)

How cute is that? Offers to make me taller, cleanse my colon, do some action with my credit card…I think I’m in love again!

PS - I can’t wait to see what sorts of Google searches show up on my website tomorrow. Can’t. Wait.

It started like this:

When Will was a kid he went to summer camp. While at summer camp he got to go sailing. Years and years later, he swore to me that sailing was the best THING EVER and he would never be happy unless he got a sailboat. Ok…not exactly in those words, but he was adamant that sailing was awesome and I couldn’t prove otherwise.

I went to summer camp, too. And I have my own memories of sailing. They were of me hating the stupid life jacket I was wearing and ducking to avoid the boom thingy and feigning deafness so I wouldn’t have to help do the actual sailing in any way. I was not yar.

So how did my previous ambivalence towards the sport of sailing give way to a hearty endorsement? It took awhile. Will was set on sailing as soon as he saw the beautiful lake in our backyard. And anytime your husband gets enthusiastic about something, especially when that something isn’t violent video games and that something can potentially involve the whole family, you tend to come around, even if you’re really not all that interested in the first place. So we visited a marina last summer, just out of curiosity. Here’s a synopsis of what happened:

Us: Kids! Stop running on the docks! You’re going to drown!

Various older couples: Are you looking for a sailboat?

Us (shuffling our feet): Uhh…yeah…kinda…we’re…uh….just….uh…sorry to bother you…

Various older couples: We started sailing when our children were this age. We all learned how to sail together. Sailing was the best thing we ever did as a family. (Various older couples hug and confirm their lifelong love for one another. I shed a silent tear.) You have to get a sailboat! The kids will just love sailing! You have to do it for your family! (Chanting) SAIL-ING! SAIL-ING! SAIL-ING!

Once more, the conversations didn’t exactly happen that way. But that was definitely the gist…sailing was the best thing that ever happened to them. Family after family. And looking around on that beautiful, beautiful day, I thought…why not? Why couldn’t we be that family? And that’s when I came around. Now I am yar.

So we have a countdown in place. In approximately 7 months we will have paid off our Dodge Caravan. At that time, and no sooner, we will finance the purchase of a sailboat. A thirtyish year old O’Day, apparently. In the meantime, I try to picture myself looking very Katharine Hepburnish and not throwing up over the side of the boat from the motion sickness. I picture my husband knowing exactly how to sail the thing and not yelling at me for pulling the wrong rope and nearly killing us all. I picture my children wearing their life jackets and having the time of their lives, not begging to go home and puking all over each other and also me as I try to pull the wrong rope. And I will not, I repeat, will not, watch Swiss Family Robinson, Joe vs the Volcano, Titanic, The Posiedon Adventure, Mutiny on the Bounty or Lifeboat until then. Or Gilligan’s Island, but I wouldn’t watch that show anyway because it was so stupid. That’s right, I said it. Stupid.

…kinda. Now aren’t you dying to read this post to figure out the context for the phrase ‘trashy ho store?’ Of course you are.

This meme is stolen from Planet Nomad, who didn’t tag me, but stolen nonetheless. And if you go to Planet Nomad and read the places she’s been, try not to stab yourself 70 times with a dull butter knife for having not lived such an exciting life as her. Seriously, you’re not helping anyone by stabbing yourself.

1. What were you doing 10 years ago?

Loooong agooooo, and oh so far awaaaaay… Sorry. I just started nostalgically singing in my mellow alto voice for some reason. We celebrated our first anniversary during the summer of 1998. And we moved from San Antonio back to Abilene, Texas, so I could finish up my undergraduate degree. And in August of 1998, we went to New York for my best friend’s wedding. And that was the last summer, incidentally, before we got knocked up and ended our free and easy days. Don’t ya remember you told me loved me babay?

2. What are 5 things on your “To Do” list?

Other than rewrite my novel, find an agent, find a publisher, get published and join the literary intelligentsia as a fantastically successful author? Not much.

* join Earthwatch. This is my new obsession. I dare you to go to their website and not fall in love with ‘citizen science.’ Leigh and I are thinking of doing a trip together next year. I’ll keep you posted.

* Exercise daily. Fatkins is over, thankyouverymuch, but exercising everyday is a huge goal this summer. I’ve kept off the little bit of weight I loss during the carbless torture, but there’s more to lose. This is definitely my most boring goal of all time.

* Collect original art. Specifically 19th century American watercolors. Until I’m bored with 19th century American watercolors, then I’ll switch to Islamic prayer rugs or something cool like that. How pretentious did the previous sentence sound? Be honest.

* Buy a sailboat. This is on the agenda for 2009, no lie.

* Come up with a cool fifth thing to be added to this list at a later date. Nothing else comes to mind, other than clean out my garage. Clearly not cool enough.

3. What are 5 snacks you enjoy? (In no specific order)

Dr. Pepper, red wine, almonds, cottage cheese, Cadbury’s chocolate bars.

4. Name some things you would do if you were a millionaire.

Buy real estate. Travel. Buy art. Invest in microloans. Lather, rinse, repeat.

5. Name some places where you’ve lived. *
Nouakchott (Mauritania), Chambery (France), Swansea (Wales), Three Hills (Alberta, Canada), Alturas (California, US), Bonney Lake (Washington, US), Tacoma, West Seattle, SE Portland, Tigard. (you should know where Seattle and Portland are)

*Ummm…I couldn’t bring myself to delete her list. Texas and Idaho can’t compete.

6. Name some bad habits you have.

I’m entirely too fussy with my children. Arbitrarily fussy. It’s ridiculous, really. And I’m awful with keeping up with my family. And I’m quick to get enthusiastically psychotic about a project, only to drop it five minutes later. Now I’m feeling bad about myself. Let’s move on.

7. Name some jobs you’ve had.

Whilst in college I worked at the trashy ho store previously known as Jean Nicole. I think it turned into ‘Melrose’ or maybe ‘Trashy Ho Store.’ I also worked at Sears a few times. I did telemarketing with Olan Mills once. That was fun. I did daycare and attempted waitressing, twice, and failed horrifically both times. Like, crying in the bathroom because I forgot to actually place the orders horrifically. I was a glorified secretary at Merrill Lynch a few years. And then I started teaching. Then I quit to stay home.

8. Name those whom you are tagging.

Hmmm…so with my recent absence, I’m not entirely sure who’s reading and who isn’t. So I’m tagging the few of you that I know are around: Smartypants Beck, Bren, Crazy Elaine, EMama and Jenica. Try not to steal my awesome answers, as tempting as they may be. We can’t ALL have the opportunity to work at the Trashy Ho Store, previously known as Jean Nicole.

“To succeed in life, you need two things: ignorance and confidence.”

Mark Twain

Check and check, Mr. Twain. Ignorant of the craft of writing, confident in my own ability to do anything, absolutely ANYTHING, I have to say that there is nothing more humbling than trying to do something big, then not quite succeeding as quickly as you assumed you would. I’m an impatient person. So impatient, that 2.3 seconds ago I wrote ‘inpatient’ and debated going back to fix it. Ok, that story was a lie. Sometimes I lie about things that happen to me. In this way I am like James Frey, except without a publisher or book deal or a Oprah Book Club autobiography based on a mountain of lies.

Back to my impatience: I finished The Palace Sweeper. I like it. But would I read it if I picked it up in a Barnes & Noble (public library)? I don’t know. Maybe not. Even if I did, that’s no tribute to me, because I’m not a great reader. I’ve been reading countless literary agent blogs lately. Countless. And I have to say…I don’t get it. I don’t get the stuff they like. I ABHOR chick lit, so much that I capitalize ABHOR instead of just writing ‘dislike.’ And most of the agents I stalk eat that stuff up. And as for my genre of choice, young adult, mmmmm, not so much. You have no idea how many teenage vampire bounty hunter love triangle type stories are out there. Neither do I. I just made that genre up.

Once more, back to me and my impatience. STOP DERAILING ME. I get this sense of panic every now and then (every ten minutes) when it comes to writing. On the one hand, I love to write. I cherished the hours I crept away with my little notebook to handwrite my little story. On the second and much heavier hand, I get b-o-r-e-d working on the same project for seven months. And the thought of putting another seven, or eight, or thirty-three months on the same project terrifies me. Why? Probably because I’m flighty and shallow. Or maybe because I’m not sure I have a re-write in me.

Will, who is not a writer, but knows me very well, keeps me in check. “I can’t re-write this thing!” I screamed/whimpered upon realizing The Palace Sweeper wasn’t as good as it could be (something he realized a week before.) He reminded me, nicely, that doing something right isn’t always about doing it quickly. Damn the bastard with his earthy common sense. Sometimes I swear I’m married to Morgan Freeman.

Look at him…judging me with his earthy, wise eyes. Judging me, I tell you. STOP IT, MORGAN FREEMAN! I’M DOING MY BEST! So thanks to Willgan FreemanHarrison, I’m back to the beginning of the journey. Which is definitely the scary part. Writing a novel is easy, y’all. Writing a nuanced novel worthy of an intellectual reader’s attention….not so easy. And now that I’m no longer ignorant of the work required, or overly confident in my ability to do it, I’m cursing Mark Twain for calling me out in the first place.

I hate you, Mark Twain. I hate you. And you, too, Morgan Freeman.