This One’s for the Girls

Tommy asked for a favorite memory from the past year. Here we go:

The man I am bound to for eternity and beyond listens to sports/talk radio. Recent topic: “Gifts for the Wife.” A caller suggested taking the lovely lady to a department store for an accurate bust measurement and then showering her with properly-fitting bras. The host agreed and said most women don’t wear undergarments that fit well and, as a result, damage their backs and shoulders. When did Oprah infiltrate the locker room? Anyway, my husband relayed this information while presenting me with a gift certificate I’d have preferred to blow on shoes and organic refreshments.

I decided to humor him. I thought maybe a few seconds with a tape measure would lead to a bra sale and I’d head back toward Kenneth Cole in less than twenty seconds.

Instead, Delilah looked at me for a full minute and yelled to her assistant, “Hold my calls. This is gonna take awhile.” Delilah’s badge read: Certified Fitting Specialist. I’m not sure what college or technical institution awards such certificates, but this woman knew boobs like I know rap lyrics. Delilah marched me into the dressing room and shut the door. Surprised at first, I quickly got over this invasion of my personal space when she gruffly commanded, “Take off your blouse.” I almost asked her to put on Massive Attack and compliment my eyes. Instead, Delilah groped like a high school boyfriend and asked my bra size. I said “34 C” and she choked back a chuckle.

“Stay here,” she said and walked out the door.

I waited and tried to avoid the not-quite-ready-for-prime-time player staring back at me in the mirror. Delilah returned with several selections.

“Turn around and take off your bra,” she said.

“Could you smile and talk about current events? There’s this guy I know…”

“Now,” she barked.

While looping the girls into a contraption resembling a straight-jacket, Delilah asked me to bend over and “allow gravity to do its job” before snapping me into place and adjusting the straps. I don’t like that position in the dark much less under fluorescent lighting. At the very least, she should have offered me a drink. Show a sister some love.

I stood up and smiled. Wearing a magnificent brassiere that fit like a seamless and very expensive glove, I thought, “This must be how Giselle Bundchen feels!” Skies opened and the love of the Lord was upon me. A fantastic moment that included singing angels until I screamed and blood shot from my eyeballs because I noticed the tag said, “32 DD”.

“There must be some mistake.”

The woman shook her head and looked as if she were handing down a death sentence.

“No, sweetheart, that’s what you get for nursing twins.”

Right hand to God, never told her I nursed anyone. She made what women in her line of work refer to as an educated guess.

“Ignore the cup and just be happy you’ve gone down a number size,” she said, delicately. “Most men could fit their hands around your rib cage and most women would love this kind of figure!”

Yeah, I thought, women who walk the streets at night charging a buck for a blow job. I stared at Delilah and swallowed a bit of vomit.

“The bad news is your boobs are now, officially, larger than life,” she continued because awkward silences are no way to close a sale, “so good luck finding bras anywhere other than the Internet. I had to search through five cartons in the back because most double-anythings are built for women built like Roseanne. Try some of the more popular porn sites for your size and stay away from silver-studded bustiers. Those can crack a tooth – trust me; I learned that the hard way.”

Happy New Year!

Year in Pee-Yoo – National Edition

Highs and lows of 2005:

--It all started Inauguration Day. I sat and cried, wondering why people voted for intolerance and fear. Gay marriage is frightening to people who willingly attend the Blue Collar Comedy Tour? Washington seemed a nightmare come true. Remember the pastor that day who said, "Respecting persons of all faith, I humbly submit this prayer in the name of Jesus Christ, Amen." When a Republican refers to everyone, the Protestant male really means everyone with a gold card and cross. How many people bought their boat of lies that day? How many of those same people are now surprised the boat is sinking?

--Donald Rumsfeld and Tom Cruise won the always coveted Please Make Him Go Away award.

--Hurricane Katrina was the real weapon of mass destruction, wiping out an entire region of the country. Didn’t Bush promise security? (I read your promises, your promises are lies.) Then he and his cronies did nothing to help thousands of people suffering in the south; instead, Georgie cried over pal Trent Lott’s mansion. George Bush doesn’t care about black people. Still.

--Quote of the year comes from Momma Bush about Hurricane Katrina survivors: “What I'm hearing, which is sort of scary, is they all want to stay in Texas. Everyone is so overwhelmed by the hospitality. And so many of the people in the arena here, you know, were underprivileged anyway, so this is working very well for them”.

--All the President’s Men: John Bolton, Jack Abramoff, Ken Tomlinson, Tom Delay, Bill Frist, and Scooter Libby. Mr. President, tell me who you go with and I’ll tell you who you are.

--Regarding Terri Schiavo and Republicans who tried desperately to win political points with her death, Jim Davis summed it up perfectly, "I never met anyone with a living will that says at the end of my life call Tom Delay or the Governor."

--We have over two thousand dead Americans due to our Iraq policy. Under-funding for needed supplies and setting forth an ineffective agenda hurts our soldiers overseas, yet neocons went after Murtha, Sheehan and other patriots who dared speak out. And what are soldiers dying for anyway - freedom of speech, an independent press, or privacy rights?

--Karl Rove. ‘Nuff said.

--Cheney beats out hemorrhoids in online poll titled: “Name Bigger Ass-ache."

--Bush and Co. ended the year with Fs and Ds in report card on enacting reforms designed to make us safer, according to the 9/11 Panel. Again, didn’t this president run a campaign promising to keep us safe? The experts say, “Not so much”.

Okay, so it was mostly a list of lows. On a national level, did anything good happen this year? If you work for oil companies, banks, or Halliburton, 2005 was a rockin’ good time. More on that later.

Have Party; Will Travel

It’s almost here – New Year's Eve - the one night a year I stay out past 10pm. What to do? I’m open to any and all suggestions, but remember – events need to be located in the greater Tampa Bay area, require a reason to dress up, and involve people who can discuss something other than ways to fry dead animals. That's not too much to ask, is it?

In the meantime, take a look at the best homemade Chanukah gifts ever.

Almost Forgotten

Any NPR fans out there? They've had a regular segment for a while now where normal people, along with celebrities, flesh out what they believe in less than 500 words. I did my best, sent it in, and never received a response. I still can't believe my essay wasn't as good as the pizza dude submission.

Anyway, it's that time of year where I look back and wonder, "What was I smoking when I wrote that?" (Warning to Mr. C: It does mention my past. Sue me.)

I still think this one's okay; therefore I submit it to you instead:

This I Believe

I believe in me.

I believe in my students writing an independent newspaper and I believe in the homeless woman downtown shouting into a microphone. I also believe in the old man picketing a used-car dealership.

Back in college, I remember feeling aimless. I idolized heroes from my parent’s generation and felt out of touch with my own. There seemed to be no more worthy causes for which to fight. Then a friend took me to protest something called apartheid. My first political rally, I learned about injustice and cruelty an ocean away. Suddenly the appropriate movement presented itself.

I hosted fundraisers and gathered signatures urging businesses to divest from South Africa. I held signs outside such companies, yelling with friends that violating human rights would no longer be tolerated. I spent hours phoning radio stations berating musicians who still played Sun City. My car looked like a moving billboard with multiple bumper stickers calling for an end to legalized racism. Then something remarkable happened. Nelson Mandela was released from prison and the dismantling of apartheid laws began.

I helped make apartheid history. I did it – along with concerned citizens from all over the world. Oh, victory tasted sweeter than cynicism! I was hooked.

I organized boycotts against corporations testing cosmetics on animals and protested supermarkets that carried such products. It wasn’t long before labels became popular that promised “No Animal Testing”. Soon after, I campaigned for a progressive Southern governor who wanted to be President of the United States. Young people came out to vote in record numbers and Bill Clinton was sworn into office. Afterward, I rallied for laws that made it easier for people to stay home with sick family members or register to vote while picking up a driver’s license. I felt proud and important. It was a good time to be idealistic.

A wise woman once said I would learn more from defeat than victory. I’ve learned much from both and while the last few years have been challenging, I am more optimistic than ever about the role we play in our evolving planet. At a young and impressionable age, I experienced firsthand the power of the people. I will never forget it. And I will never stop believing that I can change the world. You can, too. My students and the homeless woman and the old man as well. We all make a difference.

Believe it.

So Many Choices

If you're like me, and who isn't, you like to listen to music while researching ways President Bush and Co. made 2005 the worst year ever. Forget Jingle Bells, try these Chanukah tunes. After listening for a few minutes, I could practically smell burning falafel on the streets of Tel Aviv. Ahh, the memories...

Which mistakes do you hold against our current administration? This could get out of hand, therefore please keep the lengthy list to this year only. Feel free to categorize in alphabetical, descending, or chronological order. Luckily, I have no space limitations.

Let 'em rip.

Eight Crazy Nights

A traditional Chanukah routine is the same each evening: light candles, sing prayers, open a gift, eat latkes, open a window and go to sleep. Eight nights in a row can get monotonous. So, in our house, we spice up the miracle of lights by assigning each night a particular theme.

--The first night of Chanukah is something to behold. Our house smells of organic latkes and olive oil, children get high on chocolate gelt and Mommy spikes eggnog so we all get along. The theme of the evening is fun which means my kids get a gift that has no redeeming social value. I try to think happy thoughts even as Furby snatches my last nerve. The eggnog helps.

--In an attempt to make up for the previous evening’s debauchery, we stomp on our boys’ buzz by pelting them with pants and socks for practical night. I get super-strength, industrialized undergarments and Marc smiles at a Target tie.

--Everyone gets a book on Day #3. One of the children picks at latkes with thinly veiled hostility and suggests a cookbook for Mommy next year. Eggnog still helps.

--We’re only allowed to exchange homemade presents tonight. I usually produce an editorial that incites an epic battle between family members. The boys make something that could be classified as interpretive art and my husband whips up a poem at the last minute like this classic from 1995: “Roses are red; Violets are blueish. If it wasn’t for Christmas, we’d all be Jewish.”

--The fifth night of Chanukah is reserved for those less fortunate. No, the Republican Party doesn’t count. Another buzz kill for the boys as we bust open piggy banks and demand twenty percent.

--By now I’ve served the last of the latkes and everyone receives a complementary tube of Tums. Our focus is on educational toys that will get the boys into Harvard. No pressure.

--“It’s still Chanukah?” We don’t want to see another potato until St. Patrick’s Day. Our gift this evening must benefit the entire household so I pretend to be overjoyed with steak knives and a few Calphalon pots.

--By the eighth evening, I’m letting our boys balance lit menorahs on their foreheads. Go to town, kids. The gift this last night of Chanukah is anything of their choice which usually means more action figures. These same action figures will disappear within a week, not to be found again until I plop down on the sofa one night at just the right angle. I’ll yelp, sounding like a Pomeranian getting porked, reach underneath to find Hans Solo and his strategically placed light saber.

Finally, a gift we can all enjoy.

Happy Christmas

From me, circa 1970, to you. Have a good one and go easy on the 'nog.

Oh Come, All Ye Faithful

This topic has been done to death, so I promise no more "War On Christmas" posts. After this one, I mean. Then I'm done. Promise.

If you can get past the curse words and any alliegance for Fox News (seriously? still can't think for yourself?), read this funny and informative piece on the controversy. Click on links provided for more proof that this co-called war is simply designed to distract.

And now for something completely different: My beloved uncle sent me this article to chew on. I not only chewed but swallowed and, so far, no indigestion. In the spirit of the holidays, I'd like to share it with all two of my regular readers.

As always, joyful and triumphant. You?

Oldie but Goodie

My children, and subsequent conversation with friend Beth, inspired this rant last December. The Tampa Tribune published it and the rest is history.

How things change in a year.

Instead of coveting lights, my oldest now feels the need to tell everyone he doesn't celebrate Christmas. I mean everyone - a clerk at the ice-skating rink, our lawn maintenance man, the neighbor down the street. My youngest quickly adds that we celebrate Chanukah instead. Could it be that he doesn't want anyone to think we're Fox-watching fundies trying to shun commercialism? Who knows the thinking of two opinionated kids? I can barely keep my own thoughts straight. I'll tell you one thing: just going to the store with these two kids is an adventure.

In case you haven't read it, here's my piece of mind from December 2004.

And we thought we had a rough year...

The boys at JibJab have summed up 2005 as only they can. Go here, click on "2-0-5", and have a laugh.

Year in Pee-Yoo

The following is our family newsletter we send out with holiday cards. And by "we" I mean "me". If I don't have your street address, consider yourself lucky:

2005 - We made it out alive. Husband has less hair, I've acquired strange behavioral ticks while the boys poked another hole in our house and psyche; yet we're alive nonetheless.

January: Our boys turn five and their parties just keep getting bigger. Who knew so many people would drive to Cow Country just for cake and ice cream? Between separate preschool classes, sports lessons, Hebrew school and neighborhood friends - the crowd could fill two professional football teams with at least one kid left to fetch water. Next year we'll only invite kids whose parents laugh at my jokes. That ought to narrow the field considerably.

February: We sue our builder because mold was found after nine or ten hurricanes drenched the house. As Democrats, we firmly believe negatives can be turned into positives with the right trial lawyer and book deal. Fingers crossed! Little League begins and I'm thrilled to find two other moms in Pasco County who don't chew tobacco or pray in public.

March: Husband endures yearly check-up and physician discovers small right kidney. Within weeks, we are told he was "probably" born with it, but not until a dozen doctors grope his groin. Condition is harmless and anonymous rumors circulate about my man's possible future in porn so win-win situation for the Robinson household.

April: Convinced by husband and over-eager parents that another baby would be fun. I forget about toxemia, carpal tunnel syndrome and stretch marks. We begin cleansing for a healthy pregnancy - no alcohol, caffeine, or political chat rooms. I rethink "no booze" clause after inviting fifteen guests to Passover dinner. No one in our house even knows how to cook. I start drinking by noon.

May: Travel to NYC and perform duties as matron-of-honor in Becky's Million-Dollar Wedding. This includes a session with professional stylists and near-arrest for wearing a Vera Wang gown in public without a bra.

Good times. Sister Michele, New Brother-in-law Scott, and I share a room the size of a small closet - surprised we leave on good terms. Later that month, my boys graduate from preschool and their Grandpa gets busted in a yarmulke.

June: Summer vacation begins along with swimming lessons. The boys like water by now so last year's screaming and subsequent therapy sessions are avoided. I finish classes and tests to become a permanently certified teacher, which in Florida is just one step above dog walker.

July: Family trip wraps up and highlights include: Grand Canyon - heart failure when boys run for edge cause “running is fun”; Sedona - thinking positive thoughts as Father-in-law careens around cliffs while fidgeting with satellite radio that can't keep a signal; Colorado Springs - staying at Becky and David's compound where we leave bread crumbs to find our way back from the toilet; Denver - peeing in car while visiting Rocky Mountains; Michele holds up a coat and imitates waterfall to help out.

August: My children leave warm and protective arms of Jewish preschool to begin kindergarten. I need a sedative, but the boys enjoy their new experience. I transfer to another high school, leaving the warm and protective arms of a competent faculty for a principal who smells like moth balls and prefers teachers who coach football. Since "good penetration" is lost on me, I slowly wonder if hauling trash would be a better career move.

September: Replace T-Ball with tennis, but Wesley Chapel social options remain limited. A new pregnancy is put on hold when blood tests reveal alarmingly low platelet levels. I start writing "funny" eulogy and plan personal End of Days - release forms illicit awkward silences from friends and Clive Own doesn't return my phone calls.

October: We drop lawsuit against builder because retainers don't grow on trees. Husband and I remind each other that mold was never a problem in Boston. Turns out all we needed were a few gutters. Information that would have helped us before torrential downpours.

November: After bone marrow biopsy fails to live up to the hype (hurts less than a Brazilian wax - trust me), docs discover platelet count has no cause or cure. Downside: no more babies; Upside: drinks on me!

December: Transfer to yet another high school in search of Fulfilling Teaching Position and try defining "oxymoron" without pharmaceutical intervention. Travel to NYC with Durkin women and drink, shop, drink, see a show, lob insults, drink, roll our eyes, drink, roam, drink, change the subject, and drink some more without killing each other. At the end of our weekend, everyone is still invited to the next family reunion. Now that's a Chanukah miracle.

“Don’t call me a liberal. I’m not that conservative.”

Jay Marvin got me through college.

So did a fake ID and battery-operated Magic Banana. But that’s a whole other story.

In the early nineties, I studied political science at USF by day while serving drinks and kraut at Mr. Dunderbaks by night. (SIDE NOTE: Only in America could an Irish-American girl work at a German restaurant owned by Lebanese immigrants.) Anyway, I would drive home surrounded by yellow ribbons and pro-war ideology and wanting to puke. One night, I turned on the radio and discovered Jay Marvin. He spoke for me and the other liberal in town and I loved him for it.
I became a huge Jay Marvin junkie. I called his show almost every night – he always indulged me and my Frank Zappa references. We’d talk for what seemed like hours even though it was probably only five minutes. (I still have tapes of those aired conversations. How sad is that?) Jay encouraged stalking tendencies by inviting me down to the studio and lending me Jack Kerouac books and Che biographies. I was the perfect pupil – lapping up attention like a lovesick puppy.

Then one day, Jay disappeared. Walked right out on me and talk radio fanatics from Largo to Lutz. No more nightly lectures about the evils of television. No more ranting about conservative values ruining our town. I had no idea what happened to him. At one point, rumors floated that he was running a commune in Vermont. Turns out, not so much. He’s still fighting the good fight - this time on Colorado airwaves – drawing in anyone with a radio and a conscience.

Yesterday, I’m tooling around town listening to Air America and guess who’s subbing for Jerry Springer? My old friend Jay Marvin. So nice! Just like old times, I avoided elderly drivers while listening to a passionate progressive rail against President Bush. I almost burst into tears right there on Bearss Avenue. I rushed home and sent him an email. What did this Big Shot do? He responded right away and I'm in love all over again!

If you have access to Air America, tune in this week from 9am-noon. Jay Marvin. My hero. Still.

War is Over (If You Want It)

Local corporations are under attack. People are angry and calling talk radio to rant about the injustice happening around us. No, these businesses are not employing children in third world countries. They are not in trouble for paying workers a substandard wage nor have they been caught dumping toxic waste into our water supply. Instead, companies are courting boycotts because they’ve put up signs and told employees to say, “Happy Holidays” instead of “Merry Christmas”.

The nerve!

When I was young, I’d yell at clerks who dared presume I was Christian. “Happy Chanukah!” I’d shout defiantly. Since then, I’ve mellowed a bit. Now I’m happy just to get a salesperson to smile during this harried season. They could call out “Happy Festivus” for all I care. I’d smile and say, “Same to you.”

Not everyone is as easy to please.

Editorials have been printed, complaints mailed, protests planned. Paranoia is at an all-time high with the publication of a new book, The War on Christmas, calling on Christian soldiers to defend their faith. I’m amazed at the anger of our moral majority. They behave as if under attack; in reality, Christian conservatives control most corporations, media outlets, and each branch of our government. They’re everywhere – large and in charge. Yet they insist their days are numbered.

For years this argument has surfaced during the holidays. Keeping people on the defensive, even when there is no attack, ensures a fragmented society. Who really benefits from such a perceived problem? Long ago, people would claim that the Jews were trying to destroy Christmas. Misguided media hacks claim the same thing this year; they just call us by a different name: liberals.

Yes, some non-Christians are Jewish. However, there are also Muslim, Hindu and, although it pains a few to hear it, Atheist Americans as well. Are we to exclude all of them, too? Stores want to bring people in. Their primary motivation is money; however, the added benefit is a cohesive community.

Christians could have a conversation amongst themselves regarding trends that take Christ out of Christmas. Rage toward those who reach out during the holidays to include everyone reeks of anti-Semitism and threatens to erode everything this time of year is supposed to be about. Letters have scornfully cried that this is political correctness gone too far. Many vow to wish everyone, regardless of faith, a “Merry Christmas” whether they like it or not. That’s the spirit?

We hear what we want to hear. When someone says, “Happy Holidays”, Christians hear “Merry Christmas”, Jews hear “Happy Chanukah”, other faiths hear “Peace be with you” and Atheists, “You’re included, too.” Unity, it seems, is a message conservative Christians can’t get behind.

Didn’t Jesus, this Savior who is honored each December, encourage peace and goodwill toward others? Didn’t he believe we are all God’s children and teach lessons about loving our neighbors as ourselves? He embodied the true meaning of the holidays without ever once uttering, “Merry Christmas”.

His followers should take heed and enjoy the season. Let everyone else enjoy it, too.

Grownups "No" Best

***Cross-posted at Sticks of Fire***

Many area high schools have clubs encouraging alliances between different types of students, whether Jewish and Christian or gay and straight. Parents determined to do away with such tolerance and cooperation showed up at last week’s Hillsborough County School Board meeting with a wagon of petitions and a busload of moral indignation.

Their chief complaint centers around the idea that clubs “sexual in nature” are inappropriate for school campuses. A friend of mine sponsors a Gay-Straight Alliance and to suggest the club is sexually-themed is a myth probably started by someone who never attended a meeting. These kids discuss intolerance and bullying that occurs in classrooms, hallways, and cafeterias almost on a daily basis. They find solace and support each other through what can sometimes be a harrowing teenage experience. The upside? Many incidents of discrimination disappear once these clubs are formed because there is strength in numbers.

Since “Gay-Straight” anything seems to scare simpleminded grownups, a suggestion has surfaced to change club names to incorporate tolerance or something equally inclusive. Why continue giving in to conservative pressure? I’m tired of accommodating people who don’t even bother getting informed before getting involved. Some high schools even require parental permission to join these clubs while other activities require no such consent- and even that isn’t good enough.

The School Board, in typical fashion, will look at all clubs now to determine which should stay or go. I hope members learned something from the holiday debacle and decide against removing all interest clubs not academically-themed. Students deserve a safe haven from harassment. It’s too bad these clubs can’t protect them from bigoted adults as well.

Oy to the Wrold

Cynics, roll your eyes. Naysayers, scoff if you will. I remain hopeful despite pessimistic peeps. Mark my words: within a decade or so, Chanukah will become as commercialized as Christmas.

A lofty prediction, I know, but look around. Like global warming indicators, the signs are hard to miss. Unless you’re a Republican with your head up your ass. Then I can’t help you.

Below are some gifts and other ways to blow your wad this holiday season. Go crazy:

Universal Studios presents “A Universal Chanukah!” From December 23-25, this popular theme park will celebrate the first night of Chanukah with merriment and menorahs for everyone to enjoy. Upside: Shitty food replaced with kosher cuisine. Downside: music includes ultra-Orthodox singer Gad Elbaz, the Jewish Elvis, whose music “draws on Arab rhythms, Backstreet Boys’ harmonies and the ballads of Whitney Houston and Celine Dion.” Ouch. In other words, don’t forget your iPods.

Jewish Baseball Cards for 2006 are available and quite popular. Who knew so many nice Jewish boys played ball? The set includes current yummies Youkilis, Kapler and Stern from the Red Sox (so nice!) and ancient players who hid their Hebrew hottiness for fear of anti-Semitic backlash. Thank God that’s no longer a concern. We’re so “in” right now and all.

A dear friend lives in Teaneck, NJ who still retains her Israeli citizenship, sends her kids to Jewish day schools, and knows every Yiddish curse word by heart. Yet even she’s not Jewish enough for that town. Teaneck is so dialed-in. (“How dialed-in is it?”) Two words - Gali Girls. Rachels and Sarahs all over the world no longer have to beg for half-naked dolls who look strung out on ecstasy now that this alternative exists. They’re Jewish dolls - no tongue rings or mid-drifts for our little princesses. Gali Girls exhibit values like kindness, respect, honesty, and request a Tiffany engagement ring before going all the way. Just the kinda gal I hope my sons score one day.

...no, not at the same time.

Shining Twins

“Come play with us, Danny. Forever. And ever. And ever.”

The boys’ school had a Holiday Program this week. We all know what that means – ten to twelve Christmas songs and one token Chanukah tune that no one understands. Okay, I exaggerate. There were two Chanukah tunes and Husband and I understood them. Good job kids!

Last night, I asked my children to sing part of just one song and they chose "Welcome Christmas." Jeez…I want them exposed to other belief systems; I just didn’t think they’d get submerged.

New York

No one likes vacation pictures. However, these aren't bad. I searched through dozens and picked these for one obvious reason - I like them. The photographer is my sister-in-law Chelsie. We'll keep her.

********************************************************************************

My favorite area in Central Park:



View from inside the limo:

Arty Central Park:

Arty Rockefeller Center:

Good Night

I used to say supporting the death penalty and disavowing affirmative action made me more of a moderate as opposed to a liberal. Now those two issues are overshadowed by my commitment to civil rights and concern for the poor.

I’m a liberal after all.

Imagine my surprise at finding common ground with Governor Schwarzenegger. Quite pleased he didn’t give in to famous friends and racist ideology when deciding that Stanley “Tookie” Williams, founder of the Crips, deserved to die for brutally murdering four people in 1979. Proving once again there are no atheists on death row, Williams’ recent change of heart and good deeds don’t matter. He murdered a life and therefore doesn’t deserve his own.

This isn’t the first time I’ve agreed with a Republican governor. Remember Karla Faye Tucker and arguments that she should be treated differently due to two breasts and a vagina? Slightly sexist, don’t you think? People suggested clemency ought to be offered to the lady. If someone takes an ax to a fellow human being, gas ‘em up or shoot ‘em up. Allowing murderers to live, cultivate relationships, smile and breathe in and out is an affront to us all.

Color or gender doesn’t matter. Isn’t that what we always say? That's my message and I'm sticking to it. No matter the circumstances.

Vogue

I’m grading papers, trying not to look nauseated, when a student saunters across the classroom. He stops, stares at me like I’m related to Satan, and says,

“What are you looking at?”

Oh, what to say to such a question…

--“I’m trying to figure that out.”

--“Hoping you avoid a felony today. For a change.”

--“I’m watching you. That’s my job. In ten years when you’re smiling at people who enter Wal-Mart, that’ll be your job.”

--“Pardon my amazement. You look just like a toilet at Taco Bell.”

--“Memorizing every detail for the crime scene sketch artist.”

--"The person I'll blame if I ever vote Republican."

While Away

Some accounts of the Florida Democratic Convention, held this past weekend in Orlando, indicate the event was a rousing success. Party faithfuls seem revitalized and optimism ruled the day. Hopefuls for the 2008 elections were working the crowd as well. Florida, as always, remains an important battleground state.

Hopefully, everyone left Orlando ready to get to work.

That's Just Wrong

Things so inappropriate, I wouldn't even do them:

- Taking pictures of the Dakota walkway where John Lennon was shot.

- Eating a bucket of prunes and then climbing into bed with my sister. Oh, wait. I did that one.

- Singing Imagine a cappella in Central Park at top volume in front of impressionable children.

- Giggling as people bust ass on the ice.

- Trying to dissect the socio-political commentary of a Broadway musical with relatives who would rather go to sleep. Oh, wait. I did that, too.

- Laughing as an aunt curses over inadequate sleeping arrangements. (I heard someone from my suite mumble, "At least you don't have to room with her.")

- Talking above a whisper at Ground Zero.

- Walking up to a tourist group comprised of young seminarians and saying with a wink, "Come here, boys. See what you're missing." Oh, wait...

- Not thanking my mother for a weekend I'll never forget.

- Not thanking Husband for guarding the home front that allowed me to shirk my responsibilities and have fun with the girls.

- Not hugging all three of my boys later this afternoon and telling them no matter how much fun I had, it's good to be home.

A Weekend in the City

My relatives and I are still alive and talking to each other.

Yesterday, after many delays and re-routings, Durkin women from sea-to-shining sea arrived alive in New York City. Note to self: Keep martinis flowing. After just a few drinks, my aunt and mom bypassed a five-minute wait for taxis and hijacked an available limo instead. We drove around Times Square and the rest of the city in style.

Later that night, my mother took us to dinner at Matsuri, a yummy Japanese restaurant able to accomodate sister, sister-in-law and my own vegetarian sensibilities. Gotta love the cojones on cousin Jamie, who shows up for dinner in a fur coat. I sat back and admired her just a little. If Michele and Chelsie had each ordered a second glass of wine, they weigh a combined total of one hundred pounds and redefine the word "lightweight", I'm sure they would have busted out with a PETA-style lecture. As I explained later, to everyone's relief, we are big-tent kinda gals and pro-choice across the board. There's room for everyone in our little world.

We had a great time; however, I can understand why cousin Jimmy decided he'd rather watch paint dry that join us for several hours of discussing how to rid the body of unwanted hair (Brazilian wax. Big fan.) and the benefits of organic lubrication.

At the end of the night, tired yet rejuvenated, we went to bed content that a good time was had by all. No one cried and we're all still invited to the family reunion next summer. So far anyway.

Talkin' Bout a Revolution

If you're interested in news about the Florida Democratic Convention, connect with Matt over at Jim Davis' new blog.

It won't be quite the same as my accounts. Matt won't be telling you how hot Barack Obama is or rant about scoring free drinks with his baby blues...but that's okay. Since I'll be tearing up the Northeast, we're going to rely on Matt to take us through the convention's highlights and recount all the ways we're gonna rock the house next November.

Look Out Below

This morning, all over the country, women are boarding planes bound for New York. Loud women. Obnoxious women.

Durkin women.

My mom loves her girls. She spends a ton of money so my sister, sister-in-law and I will enjoy a weekend in the city. In return, I promise to play nice. There will be no scoring weed or jazz musicians in Greenwich Village. Damn it. I actually get optimistic and look forward to long walks through Central Park followed by expensive food and enough beer to kill a linebacker. Then my mother announces that several other relatives are joining us and already we’re gonna need more booze and pharmaceutical intervention.

I love my aunts and female cousins. We have a history together. But I’m always afraid someone is going to piss me off. Or a more likely scenario - I will alienate everyone within ten minutes. Let me break it down for you: opinionated women plus an unlimited bar tab can be ugly. I just know someone’s gonna watch Bill O’Reilly, regurgitate right-wing bullsh*t, pass it off as an original thought and send me into orbit.

I’ve got two male cousins who will hang with us as well. One from Philadelphia and the other from Columbia University. What are they thinking?

“I can’t miss conversations about mammary glands and afterbirth. Sign me up for a facial!”

The men in my immediate family are thrilled to be without us for a few days. Just last night, my youngest said,

“I’m so exciting!”

He means “excited”. When I look slightly sad, he says,

“Don’t get mad, mom. We just have our own rules during Boys’ Weekend.”

The rules for Girls’ Weekend are there are no rules. But what happens in New York won’t necessarily stay in New York. I’m gonna rant about everything right here. And include pictures.

Just to add some more fun, God threw a blizzard our way. My flight got canceled so now I’m stuck on the same flight as my mother. I called my sister, brother, and Becky with Final Instructions.

“If this sh*t goes down in the drink, find my husband a reliable woman with a mom who doesn’t charge a dime for babysitting.”

Michael wasn’t comfortable with several aspects of the conversation. I brought Becky down and Michele hung up in tears. So did I.

I can just hear Tommy now, "Jeez, Kate, as your plane is flaming toward the sea...if you could find time to call and give me my third scoop of the week, I'd sure appreciate it."

I kid. I'm a kidder. *sigh* Do they serve cosmopolitans on flights this early in the morning?

Working Class Hero

“Some say he farmed his best in younger years, but he’d have said that roots grow stronger, if only he could hear.”

Twenty-five years ago today, John Lennon was shot and killed. I can't think of a more important progressive musical voice and the tragedy of his violent exit still leaves me teary-eyed. As a young, wannabe radical, I waited in line for two hours by myself to be among the first to see Imagine on opening night with about a hundred old hippies. My friends, even my sister, thought it was a wacky way to spend a Friday evening.

Tomorrow I'll be in New York and plan on stopping by the Upper West Side entrance to Central Park where the Imagine tribute remains decorated with flowers from fans. Maybe I'll add my own.

***LOCAL NEWS***

The St. Petersburg Times came correct and gave credit where credit was due. Sticks of Fire broke important condo news earlier this week and today is gettting a shout-out from MSM. Way to go, Tommy! Could it be that journalists are finally catching on?

Yup, yup.

Hear This

Commissioner Kathy Castor wrote an excellent op-ed piece last week about the need for developers to have schools in place before new subdivisions are built. Local schools are overcrowded and bursting at the seams. This county’s growth plan allows the Hillsborough County Commission to delay new projects until classroom space is available and it’s time the commission started utilizing such a provision.

I wrote about this subject for Sticks of Fire.

Today, The Tampa Tribune printed my editorial in praise of Commissioner Castor’s commentary. Read it here. (Scroll down a bit to "Schools and Growth".)

Let’s hope the rest of the Kathy's colleagues are listening.

Read All About It

Feeling way more important than I am…

Jim Davis is launching his new site today at 10:00am; but you can see it now before the rest of the world. Why? Because I know people who know people.

Seriously, take a look. Jim is the only candidate with such an active blog and insight into issues that must be addressed. Get to know our next governor, understand why his progressive views are so desperately needed, and help his campaign reach every single Floridian so we can win this thing next November.

Lots of people can tell you to vote for Jim because he will protect our coastline, improve education, and make health care more affordable. I echo their sentiments and can tell you something more.

As a lawyer running for the State House back in 1988, Jim Davis reached out to a group of college students and asked for help. We were a lofty crew, more interested in international issues than local races. Jim agreed that problems affecting our planet were important; he also talked about our community and the nobility of helping neighbors in need. It was a fun conversation. I railed against politics, considering it a members-only event for the elite. Jim didn’t buy my cop-out and encouraged deeper thinking. We talked for a long time that day. Jim looked past unruly hair, tie-died shirt and patchouli-stained Birkenstocks. He saw a future activist, educator, and writer. My family raised me to believe I had something to contribute. Jim was the first one outside our gene pool to see it, too.

His idealism, work ethic, and moral strength kept me opening mail as an intern in his district office all through college. I saw firsthand what a brilliant politician and the most caring staff in the world could do to make a positive difference in the lives of those around us. Years later, he’s still working hard for the public good as US Representative and candidate for governor. He still sees the best in people and he’s still encouraging me and everyone else to give it our all. Therefore, the time has come for us to give him our all. Not just for this campaign, but for our home. Florida needs him. And he needs us.

We’ve got eleven months to go, people. Visit his site, roll up your sleeves and get to work.

Baby Got Clean Back

Okay, I’m not one to judge. Well, maybe just a little. However, this soon-to-be recipient of plastic surgery can’t help wondering how far is too far when perfecting ourselves.

According to my brother, this trend is sweeping Los Angeles. And you know what they say…as California goes, so goes the nation.

Put That in Your Pipe and Smoke It

When kids used to pick on me, I never knew what to say. No, this quick wit you enjoy is a recent development. As a child, I’d just stare straight ahead and feign sudden loss of hearing. If I went home and complained to my mother, advice was quaint and ultimately ineffective.

Me: Sean* was mean to me today.

Mom: What happened?

Me: He says I’m ugly and no one is ever going to marry me.

Mom: You tell him he’s wrong. Someone is going to marry you.

Me: Who?

Mom: John D. Rockefeller’s nephew.

The next day in school, I was a laughing stock. Sean* had never heard of John D. Rockefeller, was not at all impressed, and told everyone I was going to marry Bert and Ernie.

A few years later, in junior high…

Me: Tony* was mean to me today.

Mom: What happened?

Me: He keeps calling me “t*tless”.

Mom: You tell him ladies don’t respond to such coarse language.

The next day in school, Tony* said I wasn’t a lady until at least a “B” cup.

Which brings me to yesterday when I took the kids to a birthday party at Malibu Grand Prix. You have to be from Tampa to fully appreciate the horror of the situation. Malibu is a whole lotta Redneck Fun – with batting cage, mini-motorway, miniature golf course, thawed pizza, and arcade all available for children and the occasional burned-out adult.

SIDE NOTE: My first double-dating experience occurred at Malibu back in 1987. Sharon and I went with guys who refused to pay and ended up sticking Sharon with the bill. I believe I still owe her ten bucks. Good times.

At any rate, I’m supervising my children through the putt-putt experience when another partygoer steps to my son. Gets all up in his grill. My son looks at me as I pretend to get something out of my teeth. I thought he should probably try to handle it himself before calling in the big guns.

My oldest used his words, “Step off.”

So proud.

The kid kept at it and my son finally said, “Mommy, he’s hurting my feelings.”

I looked at the bully, his nineteen year-old mother hitting on a maintenance man, and whispered in my son’s ear, “Tell him at least you have a daddy.”

What? I’m trying to teach my children that words, used properly, are more powerful than punches. This will make high school a hell of a lot easier. Would you feel better if I told you I gave the kid a death glare and he backed off? Something kicks in when you’re child is under attack. In fact, my motherly advice has gotten me into trouble before. Back in preschool, my youngest had problems with a little boy several days in a row. Finally, while eating dinner at my parent’s house, I had heard enough.

Son: Nathan* was mean to me today.

Me: What happened?

Son: He wouldn’t let me play dinosaurs again.

Me: You tell Nathan to quit wetting the bed at night. Between that and the thumb – he’s got bigger problems than dinosaur games.

My son smiled and all was right with the world. Then I looked up and noticed Husband and my mother ready to stroke out. I should have known something was wrong when my dad offered a high five. Sorry, but advice like “Take a long walk off a short pier” is gonna have to come from someone else.

At least I haven’t taught them how to curse. Yet.

Checkin' it Twice

Progressives on your shopping list? Here are gift ideas to mull over:

--An official Countdown Calender for everyone counting the days until we boot Republicans from office.

--At your next dinner party, whip out this board game to enlighten and enrage. Don't worry about depression - pass the martinis!

--Al Franken's new book: The Truth. I can't put it down.

--Are you a fan of the Tampa Bay area? Why not support a local blogger with t-shirt, coffee mug, or thong. Upside: Even conservatives love Tommy's site. Added bonus: I'm a contributor so the promotion helps us all.

At any rate, when buying products, choose companies that put their money to good use. During this important time of year, why not vote your values with your wallet? Let progressive-minded companies know you appreciate their liberal lean.

Take a Deep Breath

“I don't know why Cletus drug your tired old bones in here, he musta owed you somethin' fierce. Fact is, mister, you start screwin' up this team, I'll personally hide-strap your ass to a pine rail and send you up the Monon Line!”

To borrow a saying my dear friend Cathy used and vary it a little: McDonald’s wine list is longer than the amount of sh*t that gets me worked up enough to yell.

I’d shout if my children were about to dash into oncoming traffic. Once or twice they have bickered away my last nerve, which warrants a raised voice. If anyone, loved or otherwise, were driving over a small animal, I’d risk a strained vocal cord. My cousin almost voted for Bush and I shouted, “You’re gonna get screwed!” Desperate times call for desperate measures.

Yet I’ve never screamed at someone to get his head out of his ass because the team is depending on him. You’ll never see me on the sidelines, sweating profusely while yelling, “INTENSITY!” I’ve never grabbed a kid’s jersey and hollered so loud blood began to flow from my eyeballs.

I guess that means I could never be a high school coach.

Last night I took my children to cheer on my school’s basketball team. Within ten minutes, I almost approached our coach with chamomile tea and a soft pillow. That guy needs to relax – he’s one foul shot away from heart failure. Many of the parents were no better – screaming at him from the stands to “focus”.

Is everyone bananas? They should be charged with inciting a coronary.

If you read about a local coach treated for a blown brain cell – well, you heard it here first. And over a game.

It is a game. Isn’t it?

'Tis The Season

There are several sentences a son can utter that strike fear into the hearts of Jewish parents:

- "I bought retail."

- "This is my friend Adolf. He has some great ideas."

- "Meet my fiance Mary Margaret McShane."

My oldest son laid this one on me yesterday, "Mommy, can I sing you a song about Santa?" It's that time of year again, folks. Except my children aren't in a Jewish preschool anymore. They're in...cue up scary music...public school. So that means they're coming home with pictures of Santa, Christmas trees, and Jingle Bells.

What's a Jewish mother to do?

I listened to the song and afterwards asked the boys how they felt about singing Santa songs when they didn't believe in Santa. My youngest looked confused and said,

"I thought Santa was real. He's not real?"

Warnings went off inside my head. Abort! Abort! Abort! I don't want him to be that kid - the Boy Who Ruined Christmas for everyone in school. Like any good mom I changed the subject, but we've got another month of these issues.

Look, we all know the kids who were taught at home or in a cushy prep school. They grew up isolated and were never any fun at parties. I know the boys need to be around different kinds of people and learn about other cultures. We do synagogue and Hebrew school plus Adam Sandler songs this time of year to instill a whole lotta Jewish pride.

Is it enough?