The Most Enjoyable Way To Engage In American Politics

I was in Colorado Springs for a work meeting in early August - and as I took a taxi from the airport to my hotel, I made dialogue with the cabbie, like I do.

I'd been before, but this time I got to stay for longer, like a whole night! I asked the cab driver what the weather had been like, what was walking distance from my hotel, where he was from, how long he'd been driving a cab, where he got his shirt (what it was a nice shirt), and the who's who and the what what of the Springs. It was days before the Olympics so the competing Olympians had left the training center, leaving just kids who'd come there for camps - and a senior golf tour outside the city. Aside from a Chipotle within walking distance, a whole lot of altitude and clean air, and an asphalt convention at the Hilton, there wasn't a lot rocking a town more known for it's winter months. "Besides the convention, it will be a slow summer here."

The asphalt convention, I presumed.

I continued to engage my cab driver (it was a long drive and I was paying him - he had to talk to me). From what I gathered there were 2 years he wasn't living in Colorado and to which he couldn't explain. Jail I thought securely - but I didn't press it. He was nice enough and was driving me to where I needed to go so I made due pleasantries.

As we drove and spoke, I had to ask, how big was this convention? Were there that many people in the business of asphalt and concrete? Over cocktails at the pool just weeks ago my friends and I discussed just how many conventions there are. There's a convention for everything. Just this morning I heard an advertisement for the North American Reptile Breeders convention. I can't keep all these conventions straight. But I just didn't think based upon the number of people he said were coming in to town, we were talking about an assembly of asphalt men.

What convention is this in late August?

Um, the Democratic National Convention.

Right. That little one. That would bring in a fair share of who's who and what's what.

Unlike the asphalt convention at my hotel, the Democratic National Convention is televised live. Unfortunately at the gym, it's live with no sound. So last night I worked out and watched, watched and worked out, breathed and drank water, and just imagined who people were and what they could be saying.

I discovered by end of highly productive workout this really could be the most enjoyable way to engage in American politics.

I gathered notes after watching night one of the Democratic National convention on mute. Obama may get my vote based solely on his wife's incredible taste in the color blue and a stunning broach. I was mildly confused why the guest of honor was there via video. I came to find out that this was night one of three, which made a lot more sense than my make believe reasons. NBC has really nailed the close-ups of minorities and women about to cry. People wear really weird hats. And political speakers make as much sense on mute as they do when you read the the actual transcripts the next day.

Also, I now want to appear by video screen at all my social engagements if that's at all possible.

On to night two.

Dodger Dog-Marciano Cherry-Chicken Nugget-Cupcake-White Castle Slider Cleanse

I've done a lot of travelling as of late. World traveler, if you will. Although I have met a person or two who don't think going to Omaha Nebraska is world traveling. I decided this summer would be all about a tour of the flyover states. However after 2 weeks in Eastern Nebraska, as I combed through the invite to my cousins wedding in middle of no where Kentucky in early August "hell to the mother fucking no" sort of represents how I felt about that plan for my life. It was time for a new plan.

My new plan was a plan of staying put. Being, as you can call it. LA is a magical place with perfect weather, adventures abound, and all my favorite pals. Being a fan of LA has somehow become uncouth. But I'm not ashamed to say it, I like it here. There are the obvious obstacles in which to navigate around, of course - the $8 valet parking at the dry cleaners, "the scene," "the business," "other various pronouns," and the flavor diets of the day.

I've always refused to diet. Opting for dodger dogs in reasoning I've entitled part "I do what I want" and "I'm more fun than those skinny bitches." But I've amassed enough knowledge that doing a body good is in my best interest to having more energy and most obviously in an attempt to outlive my rivals.

As I noshed on chocolate covered raisins I googled various cleanses: master cleanse, vegan cleanse. While I am sure I will be awesome at any of them I choose, I just need one a little more tailored to me.

So I google Dodger Dog-Marciano Cherry-Chicken Nugget-Cupcake-White Castle Slider Cleanse - and it came back, with zero entries.

Looks like I will need a new plan to outlive my rivals.

Decathalon Is For Wimps

Giving hope to disabled israeli turtles looking for love everywhere

Foxnews.com
Disabled turtle gets skateboard & finds love
JERUSALEM — Arava the disabled turtle is using her new set of wheels to get around in more ways than one.

Officials at the Jerusalem Biblical Zoo say the 10-year-old spurred tortoise has begun mating since being fitted with a custom skateboard to overcome paralysis of her hind legs.

The 55-pound turtle is unable to move herself forward with her front legs alone. So the zoo's staff built her a metal board with two wheels that can be strapped to her stomach.

Arava arrived in Jerusalem a few months ago from a petting zoo in southern Israel with the unexplained handicap, and found no reptile romance.

Zoo curator Shmulik Yedvad says it's not that Arava has come out of her shell with her unique new wheelchair, but that a particularly amorous 10-year-old male has been after her.

Giftedness, Cats, Household Chores, And Learning New Things

Sometimes life is about growing. Sometimes it's about preserving. Self preservation. Clinging to a buoy as to not get swept up in the storm. Sometimes it's just about being. And still sometimes it's about learning new things.

This blog is about new things I've learned.

In the 2nd grade Mrs Lipton, looking at my state exams, told my mother she should take me out of the gifted program. "Rebecca is not gifted."

"She got 2 out of 4 total math problems wrong. I think this hardly makes the case she's not gifted," my Mom would say.

Most of what happened in the next 10 years of basic education was my parents trying to prove Mrs Lipton wrong pushing me in programs that were clearly too difficult for me. Mrs Lipton was old and found no more personal spark in teaching, but she taught our class about dinosaurs, and she wasn't wrong about me. I wasn't gifted. I tried hard and I had natural aptitude for reading and writing and talking when I should have been working, but math most certainly was never my gift, and neither was giftedness. Years later I would open up that letter from the IRS pointing out the mathematical errors on my 2006 returns and give Mrs Lipton her due props.

Mrs Lipton died when I was in high school. I remember my mom telling me smuggly. "I bet they carried that nasty old woman out of that classroom. She refused to retire."

My mom never quite got over that blow to her darling 2nd grader.

I wasn't gifted and I'm reminded of that at unusual, nonideal and unfortunately painful times.

Like when vacuuming.

Vacuuming is fun. It not only feeds my obsessive compulsive tendancies, the sound is soothing, you start with something dirty and you can see by very real tracks in the ground you have made a difference. I have made a difference. I vaccuum often. When I can't change the world outside - I can vacuum. You know who doesn't like to vacuum? My cats. So holding one and starting the vacuum would probably result in one of those painful reminders.

New life lesson: don't hold a cat while starting a vacuum.

This is Not Another Article About Michael Phelps.

This is not another article about Michael Phelps. Nor will this be another article about what an amazing feat 8 golden medals in a single olympics is or being part of the annals of history. This will not be about what clever/inspirational thing Michael Phelps said today to Bob Costas, his billionare status, how many facebook friends he has, or how awesome he is. Not a mention of Bob Bowman, Baltimore, his mom, sisters, world records, sponsorships, Morgan Freeman narrations, Sportscenter commercials, the size of his feet, or what he ate for breakfast this morning. This will not be about any of those things. And not just because "annals of history" is sort of hilarious to me.

No, this is an article about my Saturday night.

I have regular size feet, somewhere within the range of the avergage American female. I also have most normal sized hands, good for things like writing and pointing and brushing my teeth. I have zero appearances in any Sportscenter commercial and while I enjoy a Morgan Freeman appearance in just about every movie I've seen in the past year, he hasn't yet narrated anything related to my life. I have never been to Baltimore and I don't even think I know anyone named Bob. A Robert, a Bobby and a Rob, but interestingly no Bob. Note to self: make a friend named Bob.

Just about the only thing Michael Phelps and I have in common is our fish status. I enjoy the water. Always have. And while I can't get back and forth in a 50 meter pool in quite the same expeditious nature, I admit winning lots of gold medals hasn't really been my dream. Yes, just about the only thing Michael Phelps and I have in common is liking to swim - and our Saturday night.

While Phelps was winning gold medal of the games number 8, I was drinking a Jim Bean and a diet soda at local bar The Green Frog. The deliciousness to which they make alcoholic beverages is only matched by the perfection of the decor. It was there that I saw gold medal 8 and met sketchy guy number 1 - the white pants, the purple silk shirt, the long braids.

It's in frequenting LA's bar scene that I'm reminded, God is a funny SOB.

I crossed the street to another bar. Another Jim and diet later, I found myself at the juke box.

Pounding on the juke box.

"Make it stop. What is this garbage?"
"It's Oingo Bongo."
"I'd like it to stop thank you."

When I was told by now guy 2 and 3 and then 4 the music was beyond my time, I said the only thing I thought would make sense. "What? I'm 42."

I'm a terrible liar. But when the mood strikes me, and I'm on a roll, the lies keep coming.

"I'm 42."

"Yes, that girl there, that's my daughter."

"I'm English. Yes, Northern England, the Leeds and Manchester areas."

"I'm a flight attendant. I'm leaving on the 10:20 to Phoenix tomorrow."

The lying has a snowball effect. But as the lies continued, so did the influx in truly comical men who came to harass me and my friend. The lies were comedy to keep them at bay.

By nights end, as the ugly lights flashed, and last call was called, we counted them up. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. In braids and white linen pants, with strange accents and creepier motives, eight in all. One night. Eight weird suitors among us. So all I have to say,

Michael Phelps eat your heart out.

My-Betsey-Johnson-You're-Too-Fabulous-To-Marry-The-Wrong-Guy-Ring

In the fashion of Sex and the City and Carrie's famous, "Hallmark doesn't make a 'congratulations, you didn't marry the wrong guy' card," I, today, made a purchase.

My first love, after many years, I broke up with, moved on, and have never looked back. He had also moved on, to several significant relationships, and yesterday, called to tell me that he was engaged.

In a showing of surprising maturity, I congratulated him and was, truly happy. By that evening, and the following morning, I no longer felt the same way. I was funky and generally ornery and I didn't know why. My life has been more fabulously fabulous since him than I could have imagined and I know when the time is right I too will find my partner. But he was my first love.

Love how I loathe you.

Today I remembered my favorite SATC friend Carrie's words. Maybe I should be celebrating making a really positive decision and not marrying someone who I knew was not right for me.

I saw the above ring at the mall today and bought it. I call it my 'Betsey-Johnson-you're-too-fabulous-to-marry-the-wrong-guy-ring.' It's a mouthful, and I wear it proudly.