THURSDAY ROUND-UP, YEHAW

This is post #51 and Winifred has still failed to login herself and share these things with the web. Just sayin'. It's been a gender discriminatory two weeks, and I've been an aggressive monger this week. So have the other Quimbys, and my inbox is bursting with material to share.

Let's start with my most recent e-mail from Winifred. She wants us to check out wowowow.com and read Marlo Thomas and Julia Reed's responses to yesterday's Question of the Day (Should Silda Spitzer Stand By Her Man?)

wowOwow is a "website created, run and written by Lesley Stahl, Peggy Noonan, Liz Smith, Joni Evans, Mary Wells, Sheila Nevins, Joan Juliet Buck, Whoopi Goldberg, Julia Reed, Joan Ganz Cooney, Judith Martin, Candice Bergen, Lily Tomlin, Jane Wagner, and Marlo Thomas." It launched last Saturday. I'm not so keen on Whoopi but I'll hold my breath that this doesn't go downhill. I'm all for women on the internet, and hey guess what! I'll get to that next.

Here's what Marlo has to say:

It is her decision whether she wants to stand by him in the long run — but for God’s sake — why must these women have to stand next to them when they confess their sins?

I really didn’t mean it to be funny. I think it’s painful to see these women, time and time again be dragged out to these press conferences to stand there by their man. I’d think more of Spitzer and any man who refused to make his wife stand there in humiliation with him.

and Julia:

I can’t imagine Silda staying with her husband after so public a humiliation, but she wouldn’t be the first woman to do it. Just last July, when Louisiana Senator, David Vitter, was caught in almost the same situation, his wife — another attractive, highly intelligent, auburn-haired lawyer — stood with him by the press conference podium in a photo that looks exactly like the one today on the front page of the New York Times. So far, Wendy Vitter is still standing by her man and he is still in the Senate, but either of these women are made of far sterner stuff than I…or they are nuts. I still remember the awful stone face of Lee Hart in the wake of Donna Rice, and Silda’s face was heart-breaking. She was just so obviously thrown. As Candice said, Bill Clinton’s philandering did not come out of left field like this. And whatever bizarre pact the Clintons may have, Hillary has her reasons for sticking it out. I would have a far more difficult time, especially since these guys are not just unfaithful, but so arrogant. Gary Hart went so far as to challenge the press to follow him, and then he led them right to the monkey business. Did Eliott Spitzer honestly think he would never be outed as client number nine?

Okay, I lied. I can't hold back from wowOwow. I just. Can't. Do. It. The website includes a piece titled, "PRINCESS DIANA! Remember Her?"Liz Smith alleges, claims, and shouts that America has forgotten Princess Diana and that her former lover, Dr. Hasnat Khan, has gone unheard in American media ("And nobody stateside seems to have printed what this man said.") REALLY? BECAUSE EVERYWHERE I TURN HIS CLAIMS ARE REPEATED. Smith doesn't expound on The Pill (hopes dashed) but how we've "forgotten" Diana in the Democratic nominee goings-on and Spitzer scandal. Smith, I've got a tip for you: Turn on E! Check Google headlines. I promise you'll change your mind. What's your point, anyway, Smith? You've only regurgitated what Khan has said. And Khan's testimony was more than a week ago. Okay. Done now, really.

ABOUT THOSE INTERNETS

This season's issue of Bitch arrived in the mail this week and its theme is "THE WIRED ISSUE" (just in time for me to exasperate over dumbed down websites 'run by women for women') and details "blog bandits" among other tech-related stuff. Charlotte gave me a subscription last year, and it has brought me endless joy because the thing about Bitch is that it tends to arrive when I've found I can take no more from the masses. I find solace knowing that other women are as fed up as I am.
Yet issue #39's "Wack Attack" by Jaclyn Friedman addresses an issue I can't (and luckily haven't had to) relate to (yet). Addressing "blogging while female," gender bias on the internet, and the overwhelming amount of power handed to men in control of the internet, Friedman includes several resources for avoiding and supporting one's words on the internets, so I've added them to The Gospel's links. (And, oh yeah, we're part of BlogHer.)
...So I want to like wowOwow but it looks like it just won't work for me. It's not you, it's me, and I'm sure Winifred will have more she wants to share in the future.

BACK TO GENDER BIAS AND SCANDAL

First: The Vatican has released new sins. I love to sin, so I love to know that my inability to recycle in the apartment (bad habits die hard, I guess) or accept my college's graduation pledge (it's just not your business, degree dispersers) can add more sinful delight to my daily life. That was tongue-in-cheek. Honest. A thorough discussion has been shared by e-mail by the family, but I think Charlotte summarizes everyone's feelings accurately. She wrote, last night:

I have been considering the "new sins." As it turns out, this is just one guy's opinion and not actual policy, but it was telling nonetheless. I am encouraged by the emphasis on the effects of one's actions on others, but why are these specific sins mentioned? It seems that those who bear social responsibility are still disproportionately female.

I also think that it is insane to single out drug use as a sin in general, much less as a mortal sin. Do caffeine and Ritalin count? Was Frank McCourt's father sinning by indulging in alcohol, or was his sin the neglect of his family? Is it a sin to have a mental illness? Why aren't owners of gambling establishments, pimps, or sellers of alcohol mentioned instead? Is this really about targeting pleasure yet again?

I liked this from the BBC: "Father Gerald O'Collins, former professor of moral theology at the Papal University in Rome, and teacher of many of the Catholic Church's current top Cardinals and Bishops, welcomed the new catalogue of modern sins. 'I think the major point is that priests who are hearing confessions are not sufficiently attuned to some of the real evils in our world,' he told the BBC News website. 'They need to be more aware today of the social face of sin - the inequalities at the social level. They think of sin too much on an individual level. I think priests who hear confession should have a deeper sense of the violence and injustice of such problems - and the fact that people collaborate simply by doing nothing. One of the original deadly sins is sloth - disengagement and not getting involved,' Father O'Collins said."

I particularly like that this priest focused on priests' responsibilities toward their parishioners, who should, as Deacon Manley says, be exercising their consciences rather than obeying a catalogue of mortal and venial sins. It is absolutely time for an honest examination of the intersection of individual freedom (and moral agency) and social responsibility. I take comfort in the idea that there are at least two priests who care about the divide between rich and poor. I do wonder what the definition of "poverty" is -- vis a vis, say, Mother Teresa and her views. Is it still okay for nuns and mothers to be poor? Will the Vatican share some of its "excessive wealth" to feed those who heed its warnings against "bioethical" sin? Or are they still receiving "graces" in return for their suffering?

AND FINALLY BACK TO SPITZER

Charlotte used to live in New York. In fact, I've told people that she's "from New York" even though she was raised in the same house that Emily and I were. She's more devastated than I am, and I'm embroiled in my own drama, preventing me from really getting involved.

I am so disgusted by Spitzer. I had been telling people how great he was for years. What a load of CRAP about testosterone. The problem here is not hormonal. It is entitlement to women as products -- as of today's tawdry revelations, we know that he saw them as products whose lives were of no import to him. Clearly the feds are lying about how they caught him, but he knew that there were incredibly powerful people after him -- including "Tammany" Joe Bruno and the entire Bush administration -- and he goes to the Mayflower?? Ugh. I would like to know when we can expect David Vitter's resignation as well.

Also -- Geraldine Ferraro cannot really be that clueless. Why is she making things worse??
Why, Geraldine, why?

Winifred is disappointed that he had to "import" women from DC. (If Winifred had to pick a home-away-from-North Dakota, she'd pick the District.) I've called her three times today about this post, and forgotten each time to ask what she thinks about Dragging These Women Through the Mud with him. So I'll go out on a limb and assume. (Deep breath.) It's not really our business, and while I think it's important to cover every corner of a story, I don't think it was in the best interest of my campus newspaper to report about Spitzer's clients, and I don't think it's anyone's business what these women look like, what they do, how old they are, and what their myspaces say. He did something illegal. They did too, but prostitution isn't really a woman's career goal and maybe it's better to help women then lambaste them for their choices. BUT MAYBE THAT'S JUST ME.

MY DRAMA
Is coming later. It's good. I promise. Charlotte said I had to share, and I typically do whatever she says.

You're Kidding Me, Right? II

BOOK CLUB

While I'm hungry and cranky, I'm going to dive into the Quimby Family Road debacle.
Here are the facts:
1. Emily read it first.
2. Charlotte read it second, and in the Portrait Gallery in January, asked if I wanted to read it.
3. Post-apocalyptic societies are so my thing. I want to know what other people think the End of the World will be like in the way most people wonder about Heaven/Hell. (Actually, I wonder what other people think about the After Life, I can't really prove that anyone wonders what other people think, especially when people are so locked into their own interpretation.)
4. Winifred read it before I did. Subsequently she sent a lot of e-mails. Here is an excerpt from an e-mail:

Who is the man in the yellow/gray slicker near the end of the book. Have we met him before?? I do not recall. I guess I cannot comment any further since KMH is going to read the book. I finished it Friday at work during a slow lull. One of the most enduring images in the book for me though is the finding of food jars in the abandoned farm house. I can see, smell, and hear the [FAMILY NAME] old farmhouse once it was abandoned.

4. I read it next. I liked it. It was grey, it was dark, it was cold, and it moved slowly. I liked that I was fearful that the next page would contain more cannibals, that this would be the last struggle. I liked that instead there was shelter, canned peaches, and an exploration into an unknown. There was constant misery, and the dialog was sparse, but it worked.
4. The King was not a fan. He wrote:

Well I finished reading The Road. I hated the book. I'm already depressed and this did not help whatsoever. Most depressing book I've ever read. Gave me no hope at all.

I tried to talk to The King about this, maybe get a little more, see if we could actively debate, but failed. He's not interested.
5. Charlotte and I feel kind of bad. Actually, I feel kind of bad, Charlotte is crushed by guilt and unenthused to recommend more books.
6. Seeing Charlotte last week, we discussed The Road before dinner. We had several unanswered questions about the cannibals. She posed the plot hole: how can a pregnant woman survive if she's eaten limb-from limb. If you harvest fetuses, isn't that a disappointing meat for end product? And, isn't that a lot of work to keep someone alive for the purpose of fetus-harvesting? Seems counterproductive. In the end I said I thought McCarthy was trying to just make the whole thing scary. Walking for miles endlessly in a nuclear holocaust is scary without raping, maiming, and exploiting women for plot devices, and we both ended the conversation kind of disgusted. So we talked about chicken and waffles instead.

AND ABOUT THOSE SOCIETIES
I need to blurt this somewhere, and my regular blog doesn't want to hear it. You know why? Because they want "happy endings." Also I've been screaming about this abomination since I found out it starred Will Smith. That was more than a year before the movie was released. So, well...I guess it makes sense that they don't want to hear about it anymore. Never mind.

I am Legend did suck. It changed the ending, never mind the location/setting and general message. The best part about these movies, for me, is when everybody dies. Luckily for me, the blogosphere spared most of my pain by spoiling the cinematic release (make sure you check out Baldwin's commentary in the comments). Richard Matheson's I am Legend spawned an entire genre, so its lackluster ending was a disgraceful excuse for film. It did in fact, give us Night of the Living Dead.
Because Winifred hasn't seen Night of the Living Dead, I'll give it away as a means of explaining why I am so angry. Brother and sister Johnny and Barbara drive to rural Pennsylvania (note location and symbolism) to pay their respects to their father's grave. There's some action in the graveyard, and some action in the general area of the town, and eventually we realize the area is besieged by zombies. Mayhem ensues, until there is only one uninfected person, and in the last scene of the film (really, I'm spoiling the movie) he exits his hideout, only to be mistaken for a zombie and is shot dead. And then his corpse is burned with the zombies. It's completely horrifying, and Romero is saying more than oops, I killed the hero. (The character is African American, the film was released in 1968, and sci-fi/horror movies are never about the plot on the surface which is what makes it so awesome.) This film has a tragic ending, which is what should befit I am Legend. Just like last year's Halloween, I am Legend doesn't say anything about American society, and It Is Supposed To.

The film is poised for its DVD release, which includes an alternate ending. This is still a crapshoot:



Because this ending sucks too, and still doesn't say anything. AAAARGH.
Sigh. So much angst. Speaking of the Portrait Gallery, a few days after we went, Stephen Colbert had his portrait hung there.



Don't you feel a little less irritated with me, now? What if I told you Night of the Living Dead is tagged on IMDB as "Tragic Ending" and I've found a loot of movies tagged the same way? This is a goldmine, Quimby family. You may remember how much Winifred loves sad movies.

You're Kidding Me, Right?

I want to preface the following dialogue by letting you know that I'm at work, in a computer lab, until 2:45ish, and that the vending machine, which is stocked with all kinds of goods (pizza flavored Combos, for one) and is not working. So I went to a building nearby, which houses the nearest vending machine, and it had nothing in it but "sweet n salty" Chex Mix. There's no salty in the Honey Nut Chex Mix and now my work area is covered in a fine-grain sweet powder. I demand satisfaction! (That's my mantra this week. It's been blurted from 711, to the MTA, to the photography lab. It's going nicely, thanks.) What I'm saying here, is that I'm cranky, rightfully so, so watch out, suckers.

In response to last night's post Winifred e-mailed (but refused to comment):

Good Morning!

Two things: I would like it to be known by the readers of this blog that while I was obsessed with the GMA Mac and Cheese Challenge, and outraged when my personal choice, Princess, did not win, I have not actually eaten one forkful of mac and cheese during this whole time of challenge. If I had someone in the home who would eat mac and cheese, I would like to try Princess's recipe.

Also, If I have time when I come home from work, [blah blah blah personal and unrelated information to this post.]

Love, MOM

I think demanding content is a little out of line from a woman who agreed to make posts here on her own. A woman who has an excruciatingly detailed how-to-post-on-Blogger manual taped to her cupboard. A woman with a lot to say. I'm the editor here! This is post #49, Winifred, and I demand satisfaction!
Winifred said she'd take me to Sofi's for late breakfast on Friday, so I'd better do what she says, or that $4 butterscotch crepe won't be mine. Alright, then. You win. This time.

In an e-mail sent last Friday and titled "NO, No, No!" Winifred wrote:

NO!!----The winning Mac and Cheese recipe on GMA should not be a recipe containing applewood smoked bacon! No bacon in a mac and cheese casserole! The winner should have been the woman named Princess!

Love, MOM

Charlotte (and Emily, I presume) thought from this title that Winifred was upset about Dubya (or the papacy). No, she's outraged that in an Emeril Lagasse-related challenge (which forces me to question her sanity and lucidity) Laura Macek won the challenge. Her win was determined by Viewers Like You Winifred for her "Best Mac 'n' Cheese Ever."
When I saw Winifred this weekend her major complaint--aside from the inclusion of pork--was that Macek didn't have a good story. It's just something she whipped up. Princess Thompson, who Winifred was gunnin' for, had some kind of family history with her recipe. If Macek had really thought this through, you would think she might have concocted some kind of story. Instead she let the recipe speak for itself, which worked for her (and I guess honesty is always important too).

This whole affair is gross to me. First, I don't like mac and cheese. Second, there's a lot of crap thrown into these dishes, and I dare say it's not mac and cheese, but a dairy-based pasta casserole. There! I SAID IT! One woman had muffins, but that's gross too. How about you leave my muffins alone with their fruit, unless it's chocolate, and move on.

Truth be told, Princess doesn't deserve to win anyway, Winifred. It's homemade mac and cheese, except she added some colby/jack--which are mild cheeses at best--to the basic Velveeta. Three cups of whole milk and butter and heavy cream are enough to give me a stomachache. Moreover, her recipe is titled "Smack Yo Mamma Mac and Cheese" which, offensive and vaguely disturbing (I'd like to see how Princess feels when her children smack her and yell, "MAKE ME SOME MAC AND CHEESE, WOMAN") lacks the punch she's promising. She's loaded all the mild a milquetoast eater can muster. Where's the "BAM!", Princess? The whole scenario has left me confused and considerably less hungry than when I started the godforsaken post ten minutes ago.

My friend K in Chicago makes Patti Labelle's Over-the-Rainbox Mac and Cheese. (K, is the name part of the reason? Be honest.) I think he owns her cookbook. It involved five kinds of cheese, which is up my alley, even in the mild, bland, cheeses. If there's anything I believe in cooking, it's mixing a variety of cheeses (instead of "one cup of cheddar" i'll take sharp cheddar, pepper jack, and something crazy, please; three ounces semi-sweet? how about two ounces and one ounce something more refined?). I learned this from Fitzwilliam. K is the kind of host who throws potluck parties, which is an impossible dream for me in Collegetown, and I've always resented his friends for 1) getting to go to a potluck party and 2) having a guarantee for his mac and cheese. I don't like it but he makes it sound so good.

I hate all of this mac and cheese talk. Hand me that box of Chic-fil-A nuggets, I'm hungry.

So...uh...

You know what rocks about college? The homework. I had to crawl out of my manhole, filled with sketchbooks, scraps of notebook paper, gluesticks, mechanical pencils, and textbooks to retrieve the following e-mails. I've been so busy I haven't shared this past weekend's adventure to Coney Island, the ensuing adventure to see B.B. King, and finally, Winifred's new inexplicable obsession with mac and cheese. The mac and cheese e-mail is a week old. It's still marked as unread in this blog's e-mail account. CRAP! I AM SO BEHIND.

I think it's best to take the cream off the top though, given this Lenten Season.
Pope Benedict XVI, which the family calls "The Rat," decided what the heck, some baptisms aren't legit! Gotta weed out those less legit members as a punishment for the less conservative clergy, eh. (Oh, but marriages are okay because once You Do It in the Catholic Church, you're married.) I was living in happy ignorance until Charlotte chimed in. Thanks.
In a more sophisticated language, she wrote by e-mail:

Have you seen the latest from the Rat? http://www.nydailynews.com/news/us_world/2008/03/01/2008-03-01_vatican_rules_some_baptisms_invalid.html Where are these churches, I ask? The Vatican has clarified that this does invalidate marriages entered into by those baptized with the unmasculine wording -- but they have not addressed how this affects the first five centuries' worth of non-Trinitarian baptisms.

Usually The Rage is from Winifred but this time it was from The King. Usually I try to keep mum about The King. He hasn't asked to get dragged into this blogging experiment, but The King's response brings so much joy that I'm going to break my own rule. In an e-mail from Winifred:

DAD: "This is crap. What bullshit. What nonsense is this? Did you click on the Vatican word--to see what other tripe there might be. This is just stupid. Is he saying God will not let you into Heaven with that particular Baptism? That's just crap." What more could I add to that--except to say that the rat might want to concentrate more on the numbers leaving the church. I will say that I am pretty positive all three of you were baptized with the father, son, and holy spirit.

I don't see what the big deal is. The Rat's just being a snob. Like The God is really that concerned. I mean, really.

Sigh. Well at least Suckabee isn't the Republican candidate. I'd like to elect that we rename the Republicans the Kremlin party. It's just a little more honest, no? You know what? I can't talk about this anymore. I have a portfolio review tomorrow. Also, Biscuit bought a new video game and I need to beat it as soon as humanly possible.

Quick Note

Hello Girls,

My, my, you know I am not a big fan of Jack Nicholson, but now he has a YouTube in his support of Hillary Clinton. I hardly know what to say, but I am ever so slightly warmed.

Love, MOM

Winifred hates Nicholson. I took a cab today (for $4) because my bus didn't come and didn't come and didn't come, and the cab driver asked who I was going to vote for. To my surprise he was with me, and on all points.
Here's the video:


I think it's kind of lazy editing, but whatever.

Lookin' for LOLKiddens on the Internets using the Googles

Henry was in Baltimore Tuesday night on another leg of his spoken-word tour. I live in Baltimore. I bought tickets. I went with a friend this time, sparing Winifred from his stories, and as Henry explained the process it took for him to visit Syria, he said, "...So I got on my Internets," and a small tremor of laughter traveled through the crowd. Well, I know it's not really said like that, he explained, delving into how Internet is a singular word, but Bush, well, Bush adds an "s" to the word and Henry thinks that's "just so cute" that as a tribute to Bush he has joined the fray and says "Internets," too. And whenever Henry said "Internets" he giggled, just the tiniest bit. Then, just for fun he said, "Googles" and whenever I hear "the 'net" or "Internet," I hear Henry Rollins giggling, "I got on my Internets and used the Googles."
Really, you've got to have a sense of humor, or the next 10 months will pass excruciatingly slow.
ANYWAY here is a semi-relevant e-mail. About words.

Hello Girls,

One would think that a presidential candidate who has a degree from Harvard, who is widely touted as being very intelligent, and has several debates already under his belt, would be able to properly enunciate the word, "Clinton". A five year old girl pronouncing "kiddens" is one thing, the deliberate enunciation of "Clinnon" is extremely irritating.

Love, MOM

I'm the one who wasn't about to say "kittens." I'm better now.

I See

The entire body of an e-mail sent last night:

There are two very appropriate uses of the word moist. One is as is moist ocean air, the other as in the moist crumb of the cake.

Love, MOM

I'm not sure what prompted this, but I can confirm that for a time, Biscuit and I were mildly obsessed with the word "moist" and how gross it sounds.

It's ON!

My Aunt, who the sisters, my roommate, and I, refer to as "Aunt Ina," is a warm, gentle woman who had been providing her co-workers with cookies. The moniker is occasionally confusing as The Real Ina may be on at any given time, and finding her on Food TV often results in Biscuit proclaiming excitedly, "Aunt Ina's On!" and though I know she means Garten I sometimes think about my Aunt, living in Middle America Where Cookies Are Not Appreciated.

I worked for Target one summer, stocking the shelves with toys and sports equipment during the day. This has been my only job that included a break room, but if one of the women I worked with had made a plate of cookies and left it out during the day, she would have returned the next morning and found it covered in thank you notes; cards from the store, cards from Hallmark, and scraps of napkins inscribed with sonnets would cover the plate. I know what you're thinking. You think that the 1,000+ Target employees weren't used to hospitality. HA! Once a week, and usually more, the management team shared goodies. Often the overnight team was plied with pizza and goodies, and more often than not, the overnight team made an effort to leave the morning employees more than stale remnants. We were spoiled with surprise presents in the form of liter bottles of soda, fresh veggies, and warm cookies. Still, we loved it, it made our day, and homemade cookies would have changed the efficiency of our perfect store tenfold.

These people are fools. Just look at what they did! In an e-mail she sent last week (personal details have been omitted):

Okay, I am giving up taking cookies to work. we brought in desserts today for Valentine's. I brought in a container of my delicious heart shaped sugar cookies with cinnamon hots on them. Other desserts included pumpkin cake, cherry pie, red jigglers, berry lemon bars, Rice Krispie treats, large decorated chocolate. chip cookie from the store and a package of fat sugar cookies from marsh that iced with red sprinkles. People raved about those cookies! "Oh, I love these cookies!" and "These are my favorite!" About 3 people asked who made the heart sugar cookies and I said "I did. Have one, I make good sugar cookies." I did not count them but I don't think any were eaten, if so, only a couple. Bought those too thick cookies from Marsh were a hit! All the desserts were left for tomorrow so I'll see if any disappear tomorrow. I would have brought them home because I have eaten all the ones I kept here, but who knows who touched them and how clean their hands were. I didn't want to bring them back in the home. I have made oatmeal cookies, oatmeal rolled cookies, p.b.cookies, and now sugar cookies, and have not been met with the reception I would like, so I am done baking cookies for that office. My p.b. cookies are also extremely tasty but it seems that people like store boughten ones or choc. chip. I do not usually share choc. chip as when I make them I make dough balls and freeze them and make only 4 at a time.

I've had her peanut butter cookies. They are amazing. I mean, the nerve of some people. This e-mail was preceded by others, all detailing the process and selection of which cookies to bring. Aunt Ina was also responsible for organizing this sordid holiday affair, and supplied party supplies out-of-pocket. I say, remove the pink napkins from the whole lot of 'em! She also put a lot of detail and thought into getting and arranging platters, which I think further proves her personality likeness to Garten. A woman who will arrange a meat tray is a woman who can plan. I am not a woman who can arrange a meat tray.

All of this talk about cookies makes me hungry. Winifred was here on Saturday because she missed me, I think? And she brought cookies, which are pictured above with a bottle of Bubble Up, which she shared. We don't have Bubble Up in Baltimore, and Aunt Ina sent a private reserve to her sister for Valentine's Day. I was hoping to expound on the weekend days ago but I think that will wait until tomorrow. Thankfully the oatmeal and fizz has gotten me this far!

Oh! Lest my real job stumble over here, I should add that there are often days where people crowd around the table and fill themselves on food. One day, a day I was called in, my friend and I brought lunch to find out that there was lunch downstairs! We waited for the crowds to go before us as we are terribly awkward and nervous people, and then our supervisor urged us to go now before it was too late. We ambled to the kitchen downstairs where a giant turkey and ham were joined by homemade mac and cheese, vegetables, cookies, fresh baked rolls, and fudge cake so obscenely large that only Ms. Trunchbull would dare conquer (though someone must have, it was almost all gone). We arrived maybe ten minutes after the lunch announcement and as we hemmed and hawed the office ladies hovered so they could reclaim their wares. Previously, one day in the summer, everyone gathered outside to eat fried chicken and picnic fare just because it was summer. I'll make sure Aunt Ina's lousy co-workers never darken my workplace doors.

I'm going to bed, disgusted. If I move to Middle America I'll think twice before sharing my Jell-O salad.

Last night's politically themed e-mail, minus two paragraphs about colored sugar and sugar cookies.

Hello Girls,

Captain, I keep forgetting to tell you that there is a new character on Friday Night Lights--for the last 3 weeks. It is LOGAN, from the Gilmore Girls. He is the same creep, with the same, I want to smack the grin off your face, smile he had for the Gilmores. He plays a Christian with a radio talk show. Has a rich ranching family. Ish.

Captain, don't forget this Tuesday you will, for the first time in your life, be able to vote for a woman for President. This may be your first presidential election, and you are young, but voting for a woman is HUGE, and a right for which women have fought for FOREVER. Think of your grandmothers, who of course never voted in Russia, taking their grandchildren out of class into the voting booth with them. I can only assume they would have been delighted to pull the lever for a female. I pray this golden opportunity will not be your last. Dress properly.

Democratically Yours, MOM

P.S. Suckabee was just on the newscast. Dad: "He looks crazy. Look at his eyes." He looks CRAZY." (Let me point out how many idiots say how "down home" he looks!) You have to love your Dad's ability to cut right through the crap with a perfect one liner.

Some personal details from her day were cut out of this re-posting. They were irrelevant to this post, so I think you'll understand.

Friday Night Lights is irrelevant too, except that I HATED Logan. He was condescending in the way he treated Rory, always calling her "Ace" but never really believing she was capable of being anything but his sidekick. In the end, I was right, he wanted her to give up most of her dreams and settle in California; at one point he argued there was a writing job somewhere near him, even if it wasn't what she had worked so hard for. He bargained with an avocado tree, and while I can agree that picking and eating avocados in my backyard sounds like a dream come true, never at the expense of my individual freedom, jerkface. I was always on Team Jess anyway. Partially because I'm defensive about the boy I dated when I was sixteen, who had a lot in common with Jess (except in the end we broke up because he was dumb and not "bad") but ultimately because, hello, he's smart, nice, makes his own living, and writes a zine. (The final ending though, free and single, is still preferred in the Stars Hollow Universe.) Matt Czurchry is cute but he's forever tainted as playing Logan Huntzberger.

Oh, and for those wondering, this is my second election. I voted for Kucinich in my first primary and Dean Kerry in my first Presidential election. Not that you're surprised.

This is a Post That Isn't About Politics

By popular demand I am hear to talk about Lent. Huzzah, it's time to buckle down and fast by giving up something for six days, reveling in the sin every now and then to feel guilty about relenting, guaranteed pizza once a week, plus at much gloating as possible. I mean suffering piously! I'm sorry, do I sound sarcastic? That's because I went to Catholic School.
So did my parents, who instigated this family-wide weeklong discussion about today's day of fasting suffering, Ash Wednesday.
Ina (if I may identify her commentary), wondered what we think about the regime of Ashes, going to work as a marked person.
The King was raised to believe, Winifred says, "That is the point--you are supposed to be marked, proud to be a Catholic, and go out to convert others."
I think that's total crap. First, I was only ashed in the presence of 400 other blackened foreheads. Second, Catholics are so not into conversion. Or, my Catholic upbringing wasn't. Ashes were about who was the Most Catholic. Outside in public, it made me a marked girl. I was already wearing a uniform though, so really, at that point the stares weren't noticed anymore.
Let me tell you about my version of Lent: First, everyone in school had an ashed forehead after the school wide mass. Inevitably my small forehead was ashed by the priest with the biggest thumbs, smearing a thumb print from one end to the other, covering my skin in ash. Sacred ash. I spent most of the nineties with fringer that covered my head and tickled my eyelashes and as a result, was targeted during pre-scheduled bathroom breaks as "hiding God." I was also a smudgy fidgety kid and, wouldn't you know, 3/4 through the sermon I really needed to itch my forehead? And get black dust all over the pew? Sorry Jesus, but my forehead itched! Talking about it makes my hairline itch.
Scratch scratch scratch. Oh, that feels good!
By recess, laps around the asphalt kickball field meant that my ashes had slowly disappeared, as had the most athletic and/or dedicated boys. Of course, they were so pious, but I was still asked, didn't I believe? It's a sin you know, to wipe off your ashes. It's like wiping off Jesus. Ew, can you believe a nine year-old would say that? Like I really want to think that Jesus is in the cinders on my face.
In the excruciating weeks leading to Lent in third grade we went around the room and announced what we wanted to "give up" for Lent. We were told that we would give up something important to demonstrate our Love for Jesus who spent 40 days and 40 nights in the desert without water or food, deep in prayer, or, in fisticuffs with Satan. Satan does a lot of third-grade style taunting, suspiciously similar to my pious classmates, and Jesus, you know, doesn't give in and stuff. This month of waterless fasting in the desert is never mentioned in his List O' Miracles, which is unfair. I mean the guy didn't die from dehydration. How long will I make it in the desert without H20? Maybe Jesus drank his own...nevermind.
So. All 25 of us announced our intentions. Chocolate, candy, pizza (this elicits gasps, as pizza is Friday's lunch in the cafeteria and dinner at home as it is a meatless entity that can be consumed and enjoyed when land based meat is forbidden). Eventually a smartass announced brussel sprouts or homework and we collectively suffer through a lecture about how this is not a way out of something but a way to suffer for Jesus, and we all suffer for someone else's sin.
I spent seven years in the front of the class where I was forcibly placed with the most talkative and simultaneously least motivated student, going last in these "discussions."
"I'm going to do something nice," I announced fearlessly, "instead of giving up something easy." This does not go over well with a former nun. It does not go over well in second grade with the almost nun, and years later, still falls into a dangerous category. I am breaking the rules! I am a thinker! No wonder I declared myself an anarchist in eighth grade.
"It doesn't work that way," I'm told one year, "You have to give up something. For Jesus." I argue that my mom says it's okay, and isn't this a more positive thing to do? Looking back that was very Lisa Simpson. Because we have an endless amount of weeks to consider, this continues until the teacher relents. Meanwhile, one of those athletic boys says, "I'm going to be nicer to my little brother. He looks up to me and sometimes I think it's annoying." Do you know what happens? Everyone think this is so nice. He basks in fake piety and he begins to glow in the praise that is showered. He becomes a hero.
In high school I am best friends with one of those people I have to sit next to in the front row. For many years she gives up "soda," distinguishing diet/caffeine free, root beer, and orange from Coca-Cola and Mr. Pibb. She suffers vocally, constantly, while I use my spare change on Fridays to buy a Cherry Coca-Cola every Friday when we talk around the corner for pretzels to celebrate the weekend. In high school she suddenly changes from soda to Ketchup because, "she needs it on fries." She is loud and raucous about this, convincing that the more we know, the more she is redeemed in the eyes of God. My senior year she tells her boyfriend that she is giving up sex to instigate a fight. He is Jewish and disturbingly devoted. She misses her morning classes on Ash Wednesday to go to Church and when she arrives during lunch, she is gloating, puffing her chest, making conversation about her ashed head. (Later, she accuses me of lacking integrity for not missing spanish and math to go to class. I tell her that mass starts at 6 and she didn't need to miss class.) When she meets the lunch table the sexually active girls are dying to know what her boyfriend, in a high school forty minutes away, thought. They met in the parking lot for a rendezvous between classes.
She's angry. He said, "That's okay. I respect your religion." This infuriated her so she punched him in the shoulder sand said, "You're supposed to be angry!" He didn't understand, and she confessed that she just wanted him to get mad. This hurt his feelings and he sulked the rest of the night. The irony, that she is an Awesome Catholic, but engaged in an absurd amount of premarital sex, is lost on her. I stop giving up serious things that year, realizing nothing will top TV in eighth grade, that there's no effort needed anymore in doing nice things, that doing nice things for Lent obscures doing nice things because it's the right thing to do.
In college, Charlotte suggested I give up really outrageous things. Biscuit and I considered the following: knives, pre-marital sex, smack, words ending in [letter], studying. Nothing beats the year Charlotte gave up utensils, so we stick with smack. It's counterproductive because we never used smack anyway. Ew.
This year I thought I'd convince people into sinning. I tried to convince Winifred into brewing beer, as it is a male dominated business, but she doesn't drink beer and is uninterested. On campus I saw one forehead, and she looked bored. She was bored because she was going to class.

Here is what Charlotte had to say, with more clarity and less words:
I try to respect the idea that leaving the ashes on one's forehead is a way of a) showing deference to the sanctity of the ashes themselves and/or b) a way of keeping one's thoughts centered on the meaning of Ash Wednesday throughout the day. However, I cannot shake my irriation with smug people who sport the ashes to show just how observant they are. Having read about many a saint, I always thought that one should examine oneself for scrupulosity. I'm pretty sure that Jesus told people to fast in private.
I am of course uncomfortable with evangelism. Where is the difference between showing pride in belonging to a group and letting other people know that they are not part of it?
I do think that it is all too fitting that a nun would think that a good way to bring people into the faith is to tell them that we all must remember that we will return to ashes.
Way to pull people in with misery. Wouldn't the pancakes or donuts be a better sell? God created pleasure here on earth -- it's yours to enjoy before you turn to dust? And while you're at it, maybe you should share your pancakes with someone else who may not have any, because she's on her way to dust herself?

My grandmother is the most obedient and devout Catholic I've ever known. She and my grandfather are not ones to bend the rules, but that doesn't mean that she wasn't quick to remind me that the rules can be bent. Out with my friends at the skating rink Friday night and accidentally ate a hot dog? Eat a chicken nugget at a friend's house? Pick another day and go without. It's a system of check and balances from the most devout woman to grace the planet. Take that, third grade!

Finally, this is what Winifred had to say this evening. She said it was unpromted, so I'm thinking whenever she thought, "Wow I could go for a piece of chocolate between meals," she prayed for strength so as not to break the fast between lunch and processed fish square from McDs, to show reverence for Our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, Amen. (I just ate three Hershey kisses! They melted all over my molars.):

Hello Girls,

Here's the deal: If Easter is the very highest, most important holy day of the year--and it is in the Catholic church, then Lent, the preparation time for Easter, ought to be a joyous time. Perhaps one can reflect in a joyous atmosphere.

Love, MOM

Happy Lent, Ya'll! Have a good time suffering. If you need me, I'll be over here, snacking between meals and eating meat by the pound seven days a week.

Thank God, the Wait is Over

E. Asselbeck has "returned," or at least appeared again, on The View. While her involvement is mentally devastating to 98% the world's women containing a functioning brain, I managed to live in happiness while she co-hosted these last few weeks. I floated in a simple, uncomplicated life, unknowing that she has returned to her stomping grounds of oppression.
What's more devastating is that I didn't know until I saw her in a clip on The Soup (I was serious about round-ups and countdowns people). I've been dormant, waiting for Winifred to reference Asselbeck or at the very least, Sherri Shepherd's infuriating lack of knowledge (first the world was flat, now we elect a new president every year). Winifred hasn't commented about Shepherd, probably just so I can stew some more, but has finally opened up, albeit briefly, about Asselbeck:

Obviously Senator Clinton won the state of New York without Asselbeck's vote. When Asselbeck went to the polls to vote this morning, she was given a Democratic ballot. She got to the booth, realized there were no names on it for her to vote for, and had to go back to the desk. She was peeved. I was amused. You'd think she'd take it as a sign.

Love, MOM

I Hope You're In Your Sunday Best

Because once you read this e-mail you can skip church, Amen, and go to brunch.

Sent last night to her lovely daughters:

Hi Girls,

Ina claims that whenever she brings in cookies to work--or has brought them in, no one likes them. This is the case of classic family cookies, such as the rolled oatmeal cookies. So she stopped. This week she cleaned out her freezer and found a Nestles brownie breakup. She baked them and put them in the kitchen there. Someone asked her who made them. She replied--boldfaced--"I have no idea." The nurse said, "They are delicious." I teased her for lying as she so rarely lies. Then I asked her if she had told Grandpa that her hospital has golf cart type vehicles to transport patients etc. She went to the hospital pharmacy to pick up a prescription and an old man, a volunteer like Gramps, told her to hop in. She said she could not tell him because he does not know she has a prescription--blood pressure. I said she had to because he would love to have such a cart at his hospital. So she said, "Well, I guess I could rearrange the details." !!!!! So none of you have to lie again--just rearrange the details.
Love, MOM

The point here, said the Word of Winifred, is to rearrange the details. My Aunt, whose real name isn't Ina, doesn't lie. I'm still shocked that an office would be so unappreciative, because not only does Aunt Ina remind me of Ina Garten, but she does make tasty baked goods. That's crap. Let's discuss over hash browns. I'll see you at Ihop in five.

Happy Day After Groundhog's Day!

Illustration from Cat and Girl.

Groundhog's Day was frustrating to me in my early digits until I realized that six weeks of more winter was the same thing as six weeks left of winter. Oh, you mean either way it's six weeks of unbearable cold and unfulfilled snow days? Gee willikers, I wish I hadn't wasted my angst on an oversized rodent. Now it's closer to a sad realization that this cold has only lasted 31 days and not 31 weeks.
I think adopting New Year's Resolution for the sake of following in line is completely bogus. So do the perfect Quimbys--Charlotte spent a month traversing across Europe, so there's nothing left anyway, Emily is a modern day superhero, and The King has already talents in wit, smarts, and responsibility--leaving Winifred and I to grasp at qualities to better ourselves while our family scoffs.
Or they should. I doubt anyone scoffs at Winifred, except me (today she called and asked if I was watching the America's Next Top Model marathon and I scoffed and said, "No, I'm watching Real Housewives of Orange County).
It's not the bettering of one's life that is bogus but the need to adopt it on a predetermined date. Instead of, you know, right now. You think, I should de-clutter my life! So instead of cleaning up two weeks before Halloween you wait until January 2.
Winifred decided to keep her mouth shut. ("This year I will keep more opinions to myself.") There was also some tie-in about being nice to people with different opinions, by which she means, when someone says they're going to vote for Obama because they hate women, she'll only launch a verbal counterattack for ten minutes instead of 60. This was a crushing blow for someone trying to blog about her but 33 days into 2k8 and she's failing miserably. (This is the 39th post on The Gospel if its any indication.) See, look here:

I just heard on the news that Caroline Kennedy has
endorsed Obama! This was a POOR time to make such an
asinine resolution--though I really meant it more on a
non-political scale.

But wait, there's more!

Having read Suckabee's quote I realize this is the worst possible year to enact that type of resolution. How ridiculous to have made it. I will attempt just the kindness aspect of the resolution.[Editor's note: the other Quimbys have taken to "#$%uckabee"]

Seriously. Given that I write three other blogs and can't keep my mouth closed, I think we both lack the genetic infrastructure to support closed mouths. Winifred will persevere, but I remain victorious!

I debated on a couple of ideas before Christmas. I thought I might "use more condoms" after accidentally watching a Tila Tequila special on MTV. "From now on, I'll use more condoms," a Frat boy solemnly promised, and I wondered why he wasn't using them regularly to begin with. Given that I'm a chaste woman, I thought this was especially ironic. Then I thought that I might "do less smack!" as Biscuit gave up smack for Lent one year (she's not Catholic or an intravenous drug user). Neither of these can be repeated to Winifred so I decided that I'd try and lessen my envionmental impact. I have 365 days to change my ways and a year and a half of residual guilt from buying an Ikea plastic bag and intending to reuse it on my consumerist-based shopping trips.
I'm a little smug when I say I've made serious progress.
I decided I'd start right away though. I made serious efforts to read the following books:

1. The Green Book: The Everyday Guide to Saving the Planet One Simple Step at a Time by Elizabeth Rogers and Thomas M. Kostigen. Unfortunately with a forward by Cameron Diaz (and William McDonough) short essays from Martha Stewart (pretending I’m Martha: Well I have SOOOO many horses I fertilize all of my organic vegetables—enough to cater my HUUUUGE parties—myself!), Owen Wilson (pretending again: I was like whoooah duuude the environment’s not popular so I’ll tell people I’m not sensitive to those issues when they ask about my Hybrid from Toyota! It’s cool now though because I’m in this book!), Ellen Degeneres, and other MTV-friendly celebrities.

All of it is made from recycled paper, which I think I like the most because it seems ironic and counterproductive to buy a book about saving paper among other strategies. That said, I'm never getting an electronic book because the collector in me needs to savor the space bound novels take, and my love for reading type and paper will never be satiated by pixels, no matter how revolutionary the technology becomes. I knew it would be easier to read a book that waters down the facts (though this is trying: the solutions are calculated without mathematics for readers but instead , "Every additional ten pounds per traveler requires an additional 350 million gallons of jet fuel per year, which is enough to keep a 747 flying continuously for ten years.") Still, the other small tips help me make small gradual changes. I'm already turning off the sink when I brush my teeth, my thermostat is low, and I dry most of my shirts on a rack instead of in a dryer.

2. The Live Earth Global Warming Survival Handbook: 77 Essential Skills to Stop Climate Change by David de Rothschild

The truth about this book is that I found it in Daedulus on clearance when I was supposed to buy Harry Potter during Harry’s midnight sale. It’s also the truth that I liked the book’s design: as an instructional manual for the globe’s untimely doom the illustrations mimic flight disaster plans and I think that is so cool. But the results of Live Earth are so head scratchingly frustrating—the amount of energy output and trash produced is dumbfounding—that I feel dirty owning it. I went to last summer’s Oregon Country Fair where everything was recycled and vendors did not offer plastic utensils. Silverware was used, washed at the nearby high school, and returned clean for another use. I like that the tasks are rated by time, personal financial impact, overall global impact, and effort, but I hate that the last twenty or so items are impossible (#68 Buy a Camel), that the least frugal have the least effect (#47 Install a Windmill; cost has declined 90% and I love wind power, but it's not happening Rothschild), and the residual hipster-related guilt.

aforementioned recycle center

Speaking of guilt, this cause is increasingly popular. Ew. Today's Washington Post style section listed environmental friendly alternatives to Valentine's Day (may require log-in) and American Eagle is taking up the cause with hand bags urging to recycle and ride bikes. See?


The hideous bag is intended as a 3-in-1. The last looks cute in Easter baskets of lapsed Catholics, Amen.
Whenever I feel dirty I read The Simple Family. I don't have kids and Rachel (who I do not know) is putting in far more effort than I am, but I need to see someone eschew this corporate smiley face plastered among recycle signs, flowers, and unicorns.
Ultimately, I've recycled more (there's no pick-up here, so it just piles six feet high) and bought more biodegradeable chemicals. I've had a 70% Ikea Bag increase, and today I told the checkout girl at Target that I didn't need a plastic bag for my detergent and handed it back. She was dumbfounded but I had one less thing to throw away and lose sleep for at night.

Ultimately when it comes down to it, I'm going to vote for the candidate protecting my rights other the candidate who wants to use paper over plastic, proving I'm not ready to move to Oregon. (Ha, GET IT?)

Too Young to Party: The Blog of an Over-enthuse Jaded Something Something

Hello Girls,

Dad and I are watching Two Weeks, wherein Sally Field is dying and her family has gathered around her. Neighbors and friends are bringing casseroles. At one point, one of the sons opens the refrigerator and says, "There is no food in this house that was invented after 1967." (There have been numerous casseroles involving cream of mushroom soup.) Despite the death theme of the movie, there are very funny portions!

[There is more but it's ommitted for relevance. I'm the editor and publisher I get to do that.]

Winifred's "vice," unabashed media anchor, are films and books wherein people are dying. Sally Field is also a big draw, living or dead: The Flying Nun, Brothers and Sisters, ER. She really brings the emotional pain with her viewing choices (still haven't forgiven you for Backstreet, Mom) and the irony, the irony is that she is watching this on her date night with The King after vowing to watch happy movies. Blood Diamond and The Last King of Scotland pushed her over the edge this summer and she dove headfirst into Cary Grant land. After she'd seen several romantic comedies I begged them to watch North by Northwest "because even if it's suspenseful and frustrating it has a good end!" (It bombed. Their interest in seeing it at The Charles this spring has waned. Baltimoreans, you can come with me instead.) Anyway, this woman. She hates blood lust but she loves the sadness. Bring it on, she subconsciously cheers as she settles into a TNT marathon of Beaches, Terms of Endearment and her all-time favorite Steel Magnolias. Even my cold heart can't handle that. Actually, I tried watching Beaches a few weeks ago and I couldn't do that because I knew how it was going to end, and despite 50 previous viewings, started to tear. I found comfort in Tim Gunn elsewhere. Yet...



This is Shanna. She won't wake up. Shanna, Shanna, wake up!
I am my mother's daughter (but with 50% more panache and a higher serving of flippancy!): I have this "problem" wherein I'll see any number of teen actresses on television and yell out the plot of a horribly depressing Lifetime movie the subject was in before hitting the bigtime. It's horrifying for anyone that is indirectly involved. Growing Pains on PAX? I'll conjure the scene where a skeletal Tracey Gold is giving a hoarse monologue on the family couch where she is almost-dying. (There is some respect here, given Tracy's personal history, and you know, eating disorders are not a laughing matter.) Sleepover airing on ABC Family while channel surfing? Not only will I repeat the entire plot of The Party Never Stops: Diary of a Teenage Binge Drinker (misleading: she's a college freshman, not a high school sophomore bummer) but I'll renact 56% of the movie, starting with one of the last scenes where Jesse Tanner desperately shakes the cold dead body of her freshman roommate, Shanna, and work my way back through the interesting parts of the middle. (I want to go on record that I did not make a character page for Jesse Tanner. But only because I don't have an IMDB account.) I gloss over some of the verbal content with the frat ladies and gentlemen, but only because I was so flabbergasted; I saw the last twenty minutes before I saw the beginning.
Except Winifred is more respectful. She thinks these movies are "touching portrayals" of people's lives. She won't play a role in a dramatic re-telling of Odd Girl Out and is probably ashamed at my lengthy diatribe sharing my intimate Lifetime secrets. (She has a point.)

There's a little of this plot ruinage in The Sisters. Emily loves a good one; Charlotte and Fitzwilliam suffering residual angst and suffering from She's Too Young. But the never rise their voices to falsetto. Yet they seem slightly less involved in the tears than Winifred. Charlotte will take a good noir any day but is less impressed with the Italian male weepies post WWII (I sobbed my way through the one about the suicidal man and his dog, leave me alone). Emily is neither embarassed or 'shamed. This is a part of life, a love for surface entertainment, and she does it with grace and poise. What, this is normal, she says, and then she flips to Martha for the monologue before making her own brown sugar from scratch. And there I am, playing the role of Shanna's dead body on my living room floor while her mixer whirs in my phone.

The thing about Winifred is that she doesn't cry. Death is a part of life. Beaches will easily ruin the rest of my sunny afternoon, but Winifred is probably in bed watching late night television right now still giggling about the mushroom soup based casseroles and their inevitable servingware of white ceramic bowls and colorful Tupperware.

From an e-mail titled "And one more annoying thing...."

Hi Girls,

Have you noticed Suckabee's walk?? I don't care for that type of walk. The only person with a similar walk that I DO like, is Leonard Slatkin, conductor of the National Symphony Orchestra. He has a very good reason for his walk/posture, having held the baton for so long. Did you know Mrs. Suckabee has jumped out of planes? I will leave that comment and my successive thoughts on the subject to your imagination.

Dad is UP IN ARMS at the possibility of the reflecting pool being removed/covered up/ or in any way changed to accommodate attractive grass during public protests. ...

You know, I'm not sure what she means about the Mrs. I'm too hung up on Mrs. Romney's creepy past. Ew.

Then she gave away the ending of The Road, which I am reading right now. Which is unfortunate, since it's a suspense novel about a dystopian world, and you know, maybe I don't want the end given away, even though I ended up stressed out near page 50 and had to flip near the end and see if this was like I Am Legend the novel (spoiler: HE DIES! Goodbye, modern civilization!) or I Am Legend the movie (spoiler: Will Smith finds the cure for AIDS, lives, and gives hope that in time, civilization will return to as it is now--but probably better). Also, I just want to say that Charlotte's copy is not emblazoned with stickers for Oprah's Book Club (HEY GIRLFRIEND!) and that Oprah's advice is not what has forced me into the nightmares I'll endure of looking for civilization with the help of my last boyfriend who is, by and large, fairly incompetent and lacking in common sense and survival skills. (And then I had a dream that Ted Leo was performing on Capitol Hill and after everyone left he was going to join my family and friends at the bar when a tiger the size of an elephant lay seige to the city, but as hard as I try I can't blame Cormac McCarthy for that. And, what's weirder? That Ted Leo is going to save us or that my subconscious thinks Winifred and the King totally want to hit some Hill aide watering hole and shoot the shiz with Ted?) She asks a lot of questions really, because Charlotte read it first, and I tend to skim past it. BUT NOT THIS TIME. When I finish I'll post her commentary since I can't rely on her to do it. I'm clearing my throat for emphasis. Faux emphasis, since I'm not that upset.

Pancakes For All!

Biscuit and I are under the weather. As such, we have been in front of our television all day (10 a.m.-8 p.m.) watching Six Feet Under and parts of a Project Runway marathon ($45 flight to Elisa's homeplanet on HotWire.com, going fast!!) and dreaming of better times...namely the weekend. Sharing these dreams with Winifred, she replied by e-mail.
Keep in mind I use gmail so when I get the e-mail I see only the first line. Making it all the better for me:

YES, go to IHOP !!! I can put money into your account to finance this operation. I think it is still all you can eat pancakes--though who could eat more than three anyway??

Love, MOM

ALL YOU CAN EAT? Good Lord I hope I feel better soon.

AND THE HITS KEEP COMIN'

In an e-mail sent seven minutes ago:

Hello Girls,

At first I could not believe Michigan voters would vote for Romney. Then I realized the people he helped to put out of work are not Republican voters. On another note the AARP is endorsing Obama. Why? Because he "was raised by his grandmother so he will understand the needs of the elderly and retired." The real reason in this crock of crap is because the AARP has a significant number of old white members who are not going to vote for Senator Clinton.

On still another note, no one makes a better lemon meringue pie than I do. No one makes a better lemon tart than Charlotte does.

Love, MOM

I don't know about you but my favorite part is the pie.

#$%uckabee

At the urge of my supervisor, Winifred has taken to calling Huckabee "Suckabee"; this is unlike Winifred (but not so much The King, who has, to my enjoyment egged her on and found other more profane nicknames) who has, to date, eradicated the following words from her home: fart, snot, sucks, and pissed. (I am in so much trouble now.)
Winifred is a woman of many articulate words, but she must be frustrated to fall into the King's traps and break her silence on using "Suck." You know what? She's not just frustrated. She's angry.
Any chocolate-lover who crosses her may in fact, be going down. Any woman that is overheard saying they don't think they can support Hilary will find herself in the cross hairs. One woman said she would vote for whoever would make "the country safe," and I realize now that she probably meant terrorism but I was thinking street crime which finally launched my own homegrown/anarchist safety-and-change-begin-locally harangue. This can only mean one thing: Winifred has expounded on her frustrations so much that I am no longer amused. I have cracked.
We met with Charlotte downtown wherein Winifred Lost It again, and began a long harangue about politics, and why is it women won't vote for a woman just because she's a woman, and why am I the only one afraid of Huckabee, and, seriously, people are behind Ron Paul, and why is Obama so much better, isn't he just the same? And then I walk to the next room because, well, truth be told, I'm burned out on "candidates" when I know I'm going to hate this president as much as the current one.
Hi, I'm Captain, and I was so excited to see Anti-Flag I went by myself, and even knowing that the mom next to me was rolling her eyes, giggled when Justin Sane announced, "IF I HAD IT MY WAY WE'D MARCH TO THE WHITE HOUSE AND PAINT IT BLACK!" It's very nice to meet you.
I told Winifred, with the museum patrons and Charlotte present, it was time to step into her anonymous power and post these issues herself. Not because I am burned out--I enjoy her tangents, her complaints, her grievances--but because there are others who feel the same. And given my inability to discuss politics online with getting exasperated, it's probably better that she takes this cause.
She's still shy, though. Even knowing I'll do all the work for her, I'm left to share these bits of e-mail:

The tv is full of crockpots. My annoyance with John Edwards had to do with his criticism of Hilary's war vote. I want McCain to just go away to wherever it is old soldiers go to.
2/23/2007

I am here to tell you that this election, more than any other, is going to drive me absolutely crazy. If I see one more woman on televisions saying how she would loooove to have a female president, just not this one I think I will shoot out the screen. God knows I would love to not have this man for president either! On top of all this, the news just showed a jackass teen from NH who registered to vote today so he could vote for Sen. Obama. Why you might ask? "Well, peer pressure had a lot to do with it. All my friends wanted to vote for him." Ok, so where are all the girls and their peer pressure to vote for Sen. Clinton? Undoubtedly following the boys. You see, I am going to lose my mind.
1/8/2008

Today she forwarded an e-mail of Charlotte's, which included an alarming quote from Suckabee:
Terrifying quote of the week from *&^uckabee: "I have opponents in this race who do not want to change the Constitution. But I believe it's a lot easier to change the Constitution than it would be to change the word of the living God. And that's what we need to do is amend the Constitution so it's in God's standards rather than trying to change God's standards so it lines up with some contemporary view of how we treat each other and how we treat the family."

Oh wait! That's it. I guess Winifred should step up her game, then. Because with a modern, feminist, up-in-arms, mother of three daughters, vet must have a lot to say, no?

I wanted to link more, but I grew angry. As for readers who disagree, I hope you'll stick around despite our differing opinions.

With These Ice Packs Removed

I'm a busy girl. I have big city jobs to go to, big city jobs to apply for, blogs to write, French fries to eat, films to articulate, and trains to catch. I am not exactly running after men--I am not trying to bag a boy, net a husband, or tackle a suitor. At a comment through a family e-mail--made by a non-family member--that someone, somewhere, anywhere, was, I responded, at large:

It's not like I have sneakers strapped to my feet so I can chase down a man. UGH.

I mean, puhhhleease, homegirl has things to do! And The King, recognizing this, set out December 19, 2007, the night the e-mail was sent, to find me a pair of sneakers for Christmas.
...Because the Quimby's celebrate a woman's singlehood, mmmhmm.
The King is not one to settle. No, he showed refined taste as Winifred suggested various options, which were too bland, not red, not bright, not Captain, unable to balance on a skateboard, too flimsy, incapable of allowing flight, etc. A pair surfaced, not red, but sturdy and most decidedly Captain in its prominent use of plaid (and its name "BEAR KITTY") wad especially fitting.
The streets in the city grew wet the following weeks, and running after a train and a bus through puddles and over hills, slogging through damp detritus, and parading around a sullen town seemed inappropriate for the inaugural outing of shoes that were purchased for that very use.
So they lived under my desk until yesterday, when suddenly everything went seemingly right.

First, the sky opened to reveal a bright blue sky. It beckoned 60 degree weather and a number of spontaneous adventures with Biscuit when my work was unexpectedly finished in little more than an hour: lunch at the Ikea milk bar (we wanted to be more European), an odyssey of Consumer joy through clearance minimalist mass produced products, a secret ninja mission within the blue and yellow walls, unrestrained fantasies of our adult lives beyond college (real jobs, benefits, motor vehicles, painted interiors, unabashed freedom, albeit more bills), a film screening, etc. The earthly joys of 20 somethings. But the air was filled with the promise of good things, and I knew it was either the shoes, still squishy in newness, or, it was The Cake.

We celebrate Three King's Day in Winifred's C + E Catholicism, the results of which yielded a batch of carrot cupcakes and fluffy cream cheese icing. Inside Winifred baked a small, round blue stone, which I received in my cake, theoretically promising a year of good luck. ("A Red Letter Year," I sleepily mumbled on the return trip to Baltimore.) Offline I am not a believe in superstition but...it was either the cake or the shoes. I thought I'd see what happened when I wore other shoes in the printmaking studio.
You know where this is going from the subject, don't you? Everything went horribly awry. Far past so-bad-it's-funny-years-from-now. I'll be bitter when I'm 82 about January 8, 2008. Long after everything went wrong, I accidentally sent my fingers through a printmaking press. They didn't break, but my spirit did, and I bounced from grumpy to near-yarking/sobbing through the rest of the day.
Winifred made me promise to slowly back away from the keyboard, find a couch or bed and TV remote, and reconnect with an ice pack. I did, and later, I reconnected with Chipotle's burritos with carnitas sour cream, rice, corn, and salsa. She also said to wear The Shoes.
Later, to show her camaraderie, Winifred dropped a steak knife, slicing a sizable gash in her foot. The King bandaged her, and I hope, dried her tears. He used Band-Aid brand big band aids, not that sticky stuff from Target that gives me hives, and is probably looking into steel enforced house slippers.
Tomorrow I'm wearing The Shoes to class; if disaster befalls, I'll probably have to wait for another six years before I get another Red Letter Day; either way I'm owed a crown for my Epiphany win, Winifred. That's what Wikipedia says. In return I'll host Candelaria Day next month and serve whiskey. Unless you were dying for Atole?


(Thankfully I already started to type this post last night. Instead of nothing you get a 2-for-1 special!)

Quote, Unquote

Winifred, in an e-mail this month, in regards to GWAR:

Hope you have a good time tonight [Captain]. It would seem that the throwing of blood at a concert might not be the best way to evoke musical feelings for a tune.