I'm swallowing the red pill

So last Friday I spent the better part of the afternoon sitting around waiting for a buff, patent-leather-clad Carrie Anne Moss to text "you're the one" to my iPhone.

[You're either following me into The Matrix here, or you're mocking my unexpected penchant for science fiction. If it's the latter, just know that you're only revealing yourself to be as of yet unenlightened; tune back into whatever it is McDreamySteamy's got going on at the hospital.]

Since there's only like two of you who actually know what the hell I'm talking about, what I'm trying to say is that the weirdest freaking thing happened the other day. My mom was rooting around in a bunch of boxes in the attic, searching for some long-lost dolls that had belonged to my sister and me. Instead she came across a couple bags of clothes, ranging from infant to about size seven. She rifled through, separating the dolly dress-up garments from the ones we'd save for Bugglegirl's future wardrobe (like my yellow tee shirt with the unicorn and rainbow iron-on from second grade!).

About halfway through the bunch, my mom pulled out a quilted vest, baby blue with tiny white flowers and white trim. It looked almost homemade, but for the tag sewn in at the neckline. A tag to which was taped another, makeshift tag bearing the bubbly, all-caps handwriting of my childhood. It read, simply: BUGGLEGIRL . And below that, GREAT COAT.

Consider this: None of my childhood friends were named Bugglegirl. None of my dollies were, either. There aren't any popular children's fictional characters by the name. Bugglegirl isn't even in the top 200 most popular girl's names. Plus, Bugglehub was the one who came up with it - the name wasn't even on my radar.

Or, was it?

There's no such thing as coincidence.

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.