I can't stop thinking about tomorrow

I thought I'd jump briefly onto the political bandwagon since, let's face it, apparently they're letting absolutely anybody into the club these days. And since I can't seem to get away from being trapped inside affluent little bubbles of conservatism - having grown up in one and now straddling the border of another, a rare anomalous pocket of liberal Los Angeles - I resolved to give the Republicans a fair shake. After all, this is the party of Jefferson and Lincoln, right? I have these vague recollections from high school government class that conservative and Republican used to represent decentralized, limited rule, with an inclination toward independence from foreign influence. Sounds pretty good to me.

I tuned into the convention in St. Paul with an open mind, ready to be wooed by the guy everyone's been calling a rebel. And though I have to give props to John McCain for being able to pronounce the word correctly, he lost me as soon as he declared nuclear power to be a cornerstone of his energy policy. This not ten minutes after proclaiming his belief that we can't leave our children with the legacy of our irresponsibilities. Um, it's called nuclear waste. And like, they totally have no idea where to stick it (I have some ideas).

But the real deal-breaker came when the speech was over. When the applause was thundering. When the well-kept blonde wife and various other VIPs were sauntering onstage. When that appallingly heinous 1970's rock music came blaring over the PA system. BARRACUDA? Really? He may as well have busted out a little Styx, perhaps even one of the geographically inclined bands of the era, like Kansas or Boston. It's pretty obvious that they were going for that maverick sort of theme, made even more apropos by the choice of a rocker chick duo - a little homage to the vice presidential candidate Bugglehub refers to as a hot little nugget (no secret who he's voting for).

I honestly never thought I'd miss the Clinton-era Fleetwood Mac days. And now, I don't have to, because both those damn seventies songs just won't get out of my head.

The heart of it all

Greetings, people. I'm coming to you live from the still-verdant hinterlands of southwestern Ohio. Carted the kids here via airplanes full of way too judgmental people who don't appreciate the nuances of a well-honed, double-ear-infection-induced screaming fit. Let me tell you it's bad, really bad, when jelly bean bribes prove fruitless.

But we're here! And it's like I'm on vacay in the Seychelles. Who tans these days, anyway? I went jogging this morning BY MYSELF. I was like Forest Gump out there, not having to stop to scoop up steaming piles of dog crap off the sidewalk. The Bugglekids played all morning with toys my mom's been saving since the seventies (now there's something to be said about the virtues of non-degradable plastic).

The most ambitious thing I did all day was take the kids on a field trip to the library because I have to read John McCain's book while I'm here (the things I do for my book club friends). Buggleboy had a massive tantrum because I picked him up when he wanted to climb the non-fiction stacks. This dramatically decreased my ability to recall exactly how the Dewey Decimal System works, so the reference librarian simply disappeared into the depths of library shelving and retrieved the memoir for me. I'm contemplating doing all kinds of shopping with a screaming child in tow. It's really amazing the way people scramble.

Should I roll the dice?

Well, well, well. I knew there had to be an upside to limited readership. Last week I was positively bombarded with requests (two!) to fill in for busy, back-to-school-night bunko moms. I actually accepted a position, only to be forced, at the eleventh hour, to resign by reason of head cold. Thereby relegating myself to an even lower neighborhood mom caste: from alternate to flaky alternate.

They must be simply desperate, because then I received an email addressed to "Bunko Alternates." Seems there's a spot opening up on the coveted roster and, shockingly, I'm in the running. If I were from another planet and could shoot my own dinner, I might say I know exactly how Sarah Palin feels right now.

Who, me?

I'm still here, yeah

I'm not apologizing for the delay. What, was there some danger I'd lose the two of you who comprise my loyal readership? Please. I've been up to my eyeballs in various back-to-school related preparations as well as navigating the heretofore uncharted waters of eBay. I've made almost two hundred bucks. Target is quivering.

Plus I've been working on this essay for Real Simple magazine that someone (you know who you are, and you've locked all your doors) challenged me to enter. No, I wasn't writing it the whole time I've been M.I.A. But it was occupying the better part of my parietal lobe so get off deez nutz, as the Bugglehubbizzle would say. I was going to put it up here but then I had visions of being disqualified for "publishing" it and losing the three thousand dollars that we are going to blow together on cocktails. Unless I take that vacation I've been deserving.