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Archive for October, 2008

Just kidding.  Tomas and I went downtown to pick up the Volvo, and the Voter registration place was not far from the Volvo garage, but we were tired and had about a million errands to run that day, so we said we would give them one more day.  If it was not in the mail when we got home, then we were going to start raising hell.

It was in the mail, yahoo.  I have my voter I.D. card, tucked safely away until Nov. 4th.  I really was gearing up to be sent to jail for barging through and voting come hell or high water, but alas, alak – my little Irish drama queen scenario got squashed.

 

On another funny/odd note, my blogs and Tomas’s web page have been visited numerous times from a place in the San Fernando Valley called Phillips Graduate Institute.   I only know one person who works at Phillips Graduate Institute – I wonder why she is spending time at her job, on their computers, obsessively surfing my blogs? She took her money – unlawfully took SSDI money, at that.

 It is a good thing I have a printout of how much time she has spent at work doing this – I may have to send it to Phillips Graduate Institute if she does not stop it, along with proof of stolen SSDI funds.  I do not think they would think too highly of one of their employees surfing the net on their nickel.  Neither would Pierce College.  She might want to think about that……………….

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Tomas and I recently moved to Pennsylvania, along with the family, Bobby the Crow, and Vinnie and Vito the cats.  Back in Los Angeles, we lost our other two cats, Fritty and Monkey, and in Ojai our rabbit, Billy “the Bullet” Mahan, died.  So our family is a little light, and we miss our other three every day.  Fritty and Monkey died within two weeks of each other.

So, in making our trek across the country, our hearts were heavy only for our animals, and we were a bit nutty when it came to making sure that Bobby and the brothers were safe and comfortable on the trip – at the expense of our own comfort at times.  Totally worth it.

The reason I give backstory is because we were heading into unknown territory – we had an idea of where we wanted to live, but in the meantime we were camped out with friends and family quite far from our destination.  We finally found our house, and it took a bit of  time to get settled. We left Ojai, California at the end of June, 2008, and got somewhat put together in our house in September of ’08. Once we were, the issue of registering to vote was NUMBER ONE on our list.

Here is where it gets weird.  In September, we both filled out the voter registration form, and trotted off to the local post office and mailed it.  One week later, an official envelope arrived with not one, but two voter I.D.’s in it.  However, they were both for Tomas.   Nothing for me.

We called the Downtown Voter Registration office, and they said I was nowhere to be found. I resigned myself to the fact that we were going to have to drive downtown (it’s a five minute drive, a forty-five minute loop-de-loop to find parking), and fill out another registration form right there at the Voter Registration Office.  Tomas also brought along his TWO voter I.D.’s asking if it was normal to receive two.  They said no, and took one back.  They then looked me up in the computer, and said I was there, even turning the computer screen so I could see.  I WAS in the computer, ummmm, twice.

They promised me there was no problem, and I should be receiving my voter registration I.D. in a matter of days.  This was Friday, October 3rd.  I have as yet to receive my Voter I.D.  I called on Monday, Oct 13th and spoke to a very nice woman named D. She looked me up, and again, I was nowhere to be found.  I shared the details of what had transpired on October 3rd, and very nicely voiced my confusion and rising concern.  She gave a very loud sigh, started to speak, then said, 

“Never mind, never mind, let’s just see what we can do…,”

“No, wait, you were going to say something,” I answered quickly. “What was it?  It will be our secret, promise.”  I tried to keep my voice light, but it felt as if she were on the verge of telling me something, and I wanted to know.

“Oh who cares, I work here,” she said, annoyance in her tone.  Her voice then dropped almost to a whisper.

“I do not know what is going on – we are registering people, and when we send it to the Federal database, they are kicking a whole bunch back with no explanation.  It is weird, and I am getting tired of it.  Here, I am going to put you in right now to receive your Voter I.D,” I could hear here furiously typing away, “oops, nope, they wont let me, I just have to process you again, I am so sorry.”

“That’s okay,” I answered, “Let’s just do it again, no problem.”

We went through my information, and she said I should be receiving my card that week.  It is now Saturday, October 18th, and no Voter I.D. card has arrived in the mail.

 

(I just came from Helen Philpot’s blog, where she is saying that at 83 years old, she is tired and does not have the energy to fight anymore (I am paraphrasing), and she is urging us “younger folks” to fight.  Well, I have to say, I am 46 years old, and this shit is wearing me out, but I refuse to let it wear me down).   

Back to being on the phone with D.  

I asked her what should I do if it does not arrive within the week.  She told me to call again or come down.  I am going into the building on Monday, and if I am in the computer, I am going to request a printout.  If I do not get my card, at least I will have the printout.  

The printout will not be enough to get me into the polls, but if I do not have my Voter I.D. by November 4th, I am taking every shred of evidence that I have to prove I am eligible to vote, and if I am turned away, I am going to raise holy hell, and will most likely spend the night in jail.

I do not mind spending the night in jail if it brings voter tampering in Pennsylvania some media attention.  I will make damned sure it gets media attention.  I have a big mouth, an Irish temper, and I will go to every newspaper, every blogging site, the headquarters of both parties campaign, and I will not shut up until my vote is counted.

 

To everyone out there – I am prepared to fight for my vote, and make sure you fight for yours, too.  Do not let voter intimidation scare you, do not let voter tampering stop you.  Press through the corruption and get your vote in, even if it means spending the night on a smelly cot.

 

I am ready to do it, and I hope anyone else out there is ready, too.

Bobby just cawed loudly, showing his support.  He is ready to spend a night without his parents if that is what it takes.

 

Obama/Biden  ’08

 

P.S.

If anyone reading this post questions it, go to this article in the Washington Post.

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I finally have to scream it, I cannot take it any longer.  The ceremonial “Puck Toss” in Philadelphia two nights ago was the final capper.  No matter how loud the band played the music, the boo-ing was a roar over it as Palin came out, smiling and waving.

She is an adult, and an adult can handle someone boo-ing at them.  However, she was with two of her children, her daughters Willow, 13 years old, and Piper, 7 years old.

Now maybe the 13 year old can handle it, but a 7 year old?  Sarah Palin is going into a city that is solidly Democrat, and it is Philly,  for crying out loud!  To quote USA today, in 1968 at a football game,  “Philly, the reporter said, “This is the city that boo-d and threw snowballs at Santa Claus”.

Maybe the 13-year old could handle it, pre-teen’s are getting pretty brittle these days, but the 7 year old?  To put a 7 year old in that position, where she is still young enough to adore her mother, is beyond abominable.  It is heartless, ruthless, and it is not good mothering.

And to add insult to injury, it is not mothering at all when the whole event was pre-planned.  At a fundraiser before the event, Palin told the crowd she was going to put her 7-year old in a Philadelphia Flyers Tee-shirt, to stop some of the booing.  That is not motherly, that is a political ploy.  Using your 7 year old to further your own political ambitions. 

Sarah Palin, expert on both foreign and domestic issues, obviously does not know a Philadelphia crowd.

My disgust with her “mothering” started at the Vice Presidential debate, where, as we all know, when it was over, the poor little 5 month old baby was dragged out and passed around.  What is that baby doing up at 11 p.m.?   Especially a baby with special needs? A little baby, being passed around as if it were some unique little toy for everybody to grab.

Another video showing Sarah and Todd Palin getting off a plane, Sarah in front, striding towards a small group to shake hands, with Todd trailing behind her, holding the baby, who looks like a limp little rag.  The baby does not look like he is sleeping, he looks like he has passed out. There is not blanket over him, he is just hanging in his fathers one arm as Todd makes his way down the stairs behind Sarah, with the ever-sullen Bristol lagging behind.

That poor baby is going to die if he is dragged around as a prop much longer.  

Someone could accuse me of having no idea what I am talking about, as I have never given birth.  Well, I was a step mother twice, and I knew when bedtime for a 3 and a 5 year old was, and I knew that if my husband at the time and I wanted to catch a ten o’clock movie, we hired a babysitter.

Tomas and I have animals, and they need a schedule.  Bobby the Crow has a big cage on the balcony outside (given to us by our wonderful landlord), and when it starts to become dusk, he is brought inside. I would never leave him outside in the dark, hearing the raccoons and the deer rustle around, even though he is up very high and in a very safe cage.  It does not matter, if he were left outside, he would be afraid!

The cats have a sleep schedule, and we do our best to make sure they are mellow and comfortable and in their respective sleep spots when they are ready.  Basic responsibilities to creatures that we are considered the parents of.  

The parent of a human child, a woman who extolls her virtues as a “hockey mom” is using her children as political props, doing lord knows how much emotional damage.

Back to the “Puck Toss” debacle, when her trick of using her 7 year old as a human shield did not work in Philadelphia, she snarled afterwards, ” How dare they boo Piper!”

What planet is this woman living on?

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Last night Tomas and I were up pretty late, working on the house, writing, etc.  I suddenly had a salt craving, but I was not hungry.  As I passed through Bobby’s room, he barked “Hello!” at me and I thought I would give him a few sunflower seeds as a treat.  Sometimes he likes one or two roasted, salted, unshelled ones.  As I doled them out, I ate a handful, which only intensified the craving.

Nothing but a pickle would do.  Thank god we had some thinly sliced dill pickles in the ‘fridge.  I dove in, holding myself over the sink so that pickle juice would not drip all over the place, when my long ago friend Lali Lugassy popped into my head.

As I had written a post on my other blog ‘What Happened’, Lali was by best friend from 6th grade until I was around 30 years old.  We did not get into a hassle, we just started drifting into different worlds.  

I received an e-mail from her daughter a few weeks ago informing me that Lali died in May.

I have been grieving in my own way, not only for her, but for whom she has left behind, and I am full of regrets for not picking up the phone when I had thought about her, which was so often, in the last ten years.

Last night, as I was chowing my pickle, I got hit with a hard jolt of memory – – and non-memory.  The non-memory part really bothered me.  I, for the life of me, cannot remember what she craved when she was pregnant.  We hung out quite a bit when she was pregnant, and I saw her daughter being born, but this particular memory eludes me.

 

I remember her insisting that we home dye her hair, even though pregnant women are not supposed to dye their hair – she was determined.  It was the late eighties, and we all had to hang on to our jet black punk dye job, even if a comet was hurtling towards the earth, we had to have our hair right.

I remember her sitting in a chair in the kitchen in the apartment in Venice where she and her husband Joey lived, carefully applying the dye, waiting the required 45 minutes, only to have her scalp turn jet black and her hair not take the color at all.  We were horrified, but still hysterical with laughter.  She kept screaming, “my HEAD!  My WHOLE HEAD is black!!  What are we going to do??”

There was no Google back then, so we could not just jump on the computer and type in the question, we did not have enough money to go to a professional and have them fix it, besides, it was a Friday night at about midnight.  We called Mundo, a hairdresser friend, and he was stumped, saying, “I guess you are just going to have to wash your hair alot until it fades….”

 

I remember coming over one day, and Lali was busy putting up a crib, or a changing table, placing all sorts of baby items around the small apartment.  She was being very efficient and bustling about, a bit of a departure from her usual laid back self.

“What are you doing?” I asked, a bit taken aback at the pregnant tornado that roared by me into the bedroom.

“I’m nesting,” she said firmly.

“You’re what?”  I looked at my seven month pregnant best friend, with whom I had cut school with, road around on a motorcycle with, raided her parents refrigerator with, sat in detention with, blazed on acid with, too many things to recount that did not fit in with, ahem, “nesting.”

 

I started laughing uncontrollably, and she stopped buzzing about, fixed me with her classic Lali stare, folded her arms, and snapped “What? It is what all the book say happens in the seventh month.  I can’t help it.  Since I am the one who is pregnant, would you like to shut up and help me?”

That just made it worse – I had gone to the sink to have a glass of water and stop laughing, but for some reason, her new and rather sudden mother lion attitude just killed me, and I wound up spewing water all over, out my nose and mouth.  My best friend was being possessed by hormonal nesting syndrome, and frankly, I didn’t and still don’t know nothin’ ’bout birthin’ babies, and I certainly was clueless on how to “nest”.

 

But, I pulled myself together, and let her be a drill sergeant, and we “nested” the day away.  A rather atypical day for two hellraisers.

When that memory surfaced, I had a physical recap of the day, started to laugh, and pickle juice spewed out of my nose.

But for the life of me, I cannot remember what she craved.

But I am going to keep trying, because when I try, memories like those above come up, and I feel Lali close to me, and we are our young fool selves, laughing until we wet our pants, all over again.

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You know, the bird and I were discussing the many different kinds of “moms” out there.  There are “working” moms, “stay-at-home” moms, and the combination of the two, the “soccer moms”.

Then there are the animal moms, I do not know what they call us.  Weirdo tree-hugging lefty commie american hating elitist bastards, I think.  Something like that.  It has to become an acronym soon because I know it is pretty long.  Even the acronym would be long.

But after watching last nights V.P. debate, and marveling at the seemingly deft, yet utterly obvious manner in which Governor Palin dodged questions, never giving a straight answer but going back to what she really wants to talk about, well, gave me no choice but to come up with a new kind of mom.

The Dodge Ball Mom.

And I bet a lot of us out there have them.

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