I sometimes suspect that Sarah's whole "Hockey Mom/PTA President" persona is going to backfire. Those of us who have or have had school age children know that kind of woman. She's the Room Mother who bullies us into producing 48 cupcakes with a day's notice. She's the PTA President who's obsessed with only having the "right" kind of books in the school library, or who wants to keep "those kind" of people out of the classroom. She's the parent screaming obscenities at the coach for not letting her little darlin' play more often. We know her, and we loath her. I had her pegged when she first opened her mouth, and immediately had the visceral "When pigs fly!" reaction to being asked to vote for a ticket that included her - make of that Pig reference what you will!

Well actually the dog woke me up to tell me there was a CAT! In the HOUSE! As there has been for the past fifteen years. Oddly, she doesn't object to the new one, it's the old one she barks at. But rather than going back to sleep, I went out and bought gas. Because the gas stations were freakin' insane yesterday. Cars lined up around the block, and all honking like crazy - as if that would get them to the pumps any faster. I haven't seen anything this bad since Carter was President.

The gas station was limiting purchases to ten gallons. No problem: that filled my tank nicely, since I drive a small car. I'm almost sorry that I didn't line up yesterday, so that I could indulge in a bout of Schadenfreude: "Sorry about your Hummer, dude". Smirk, smirk.

Picture from the front page of the local paper showing party of McCain supporters last night...



Party I attended on night of Obama's address to DNC...


(I'm the Caucasian woman in the back row wearing white)

At the time they were calling it a Category 3, and I remember thinking "Holy shit! If this is a "three", I don't wanna know what a "five" is like!" We'd taken in everything that wasn't nailed down, but that wasn't enough. I remember looking outside and seeing satellite dishes being blown about like so much chaff, just before the window shattered when an orange from a neighbor's tree hit it. The wind hit the trees so hard that the earth beneath them rose and fell as if it were breathing, a truly eerie phenomenon I'd never even heard of.

Once you've lived through something like that you respect the power of nature. All of South Florida came to a virtual standstill for weeks. Power lines were blown down, trees blocked almost every street, and the roofs of buildings had peeled off like so many post-it notes. Amazingly, only one death occurred in the US as a direct result of Wilma - a lady standing right next to window was killed by flying glass.

After Andrew we Floridians take hurricanes seriously, thank the gods. At least during Wilma no fools were trying to surf or holding parties on the beach!

When the Big Book Thumpers dogmatically proclaim that if something upsets me, it's because there's something wrong with me. Excuse me? I'm not raping and mutilating children in Darfur. I'm not using the Bill of Rights as toilet paper. I'm not clubbing baby seals and bulldozing rainforests. I'm obviously not making a mint shipping jobs overseas.

These things still upset me, though I'm not likely to drink over them, as I might be by personal setbacks. But then I remember that part of the Serenity Prayer asks for courage to change the things I can, and for me that means political activism.

That my niece - who is black - is probably more "American" than the rest of my family, including me. The rest of our ancestors came over during the last century: hers have been here many, many generations.

McSame and his followers have a really warped view of what an American is. I'll clue them in: they're more than the small slice of country club and stock show attendees that make up the bulk of the Republican party. We're all kinds of colors, and we belong to all kinds of religions. Some of us weren't even born here, and we speak other languages besides English. But we're all in this leaky boat together, and I don't care what color a person is or what God he or she worships (or doesn't) or which gender they're attracted to, as long as they keep bailing out the bilge along with me.

The guys sitting in the Captain's chair and giving orders have been there too long. We're lost at sea, and we're foundering. It's time to turn over the helm to someone competent, and the Republicans are anything but.

I almost called the cops on my way through the parking lot just now - thank the gods I understand Spanish! I saw a large man struggling with a woman who was flailing about. When I yelled "Need any help?" she yelled back at me (in Spanish) that she was pregnant and her belly hurt. I offered to call an ambulance, but another neighbor gave them a ride to the hospital. I hope she's all right - I'm not even sure where they live.

Well, at least I know now that people in this complex look out for each other. But I'm still shaken.

As far as I was concerned, Anna was a shallow airhead, and Vronsky was the Upper Class Twit of the Year. Sure, her marriage was a loveless sham, but Vronsky? Sheesh, his horse would have been a better conversationalist, and been more ethical to boot. You can only spend so much time between the sheets - no matter how young and horny you are. Eventually you're going to have to say something to each other, and the moment Vronsky opened his mouth, I would have kicked him to the floor. "I'm into gambling, binge drinking, adultery and cheating my tailor". 'Bye. At least he had decency to marry her, but that marriage was even more of a disaster than her first. This is a woman who learns nothing from experience.

So her husband divorced her, and she's lost custody of her son, and is no longer welcome in high social circles. Get over it. She was still young, healthy, good looking and had more money than she knew what to do with. Dump Vronsky, move to Paris and open a Salon - the French are much more sophisticated about sexual indiscretions. Volunteer at a hospital, start a battered woman's shelter, open a school to teach peasants how to read, do something besides stay at home feeling miserable.

My own diagnosis was that Anna was clinically depressed - that train bit was the clincher. These days we'd advise some Prozac and cognitive-behavioral therapy. But she just wasn't that interesting a character, so when the miserable wretch finally killed herself, I gave a sigh of relief.

Given the times, Anna had to "pay" for her adultery. Anything else would have been beyond scandalous - Tolstoy could never have published the book. But she and Emma Bovary took my prize as the least sympathetic women in literature. It wasn't the adultery: it was the character. Stupid.

That advertises "Christian Auto Repair". That always makes me scratch my head and ponder. Does that mean they won't work on Buddhist or Hindu cars (well, I guess that rules out Hyundais and Tatas)? Do they hold prayer circles for your busted manifold? Lay hands on your burnt-out alternator? Put holy water in your radiator? Baptize your rebuilt - or should that be "born again" - engine?

In case of the Rapture, does your car ascend and dump your heathen butt in the middle of the road to be run over by some Believer's unmanned Lexus?