Skip this if you like Sarah P.

Associated Press

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I don’t mean to be rude,  Ms. Palin, but last I checked, it was Nov. 14, that’s exactly 10 days after the election. Please be a good sport and go home. You have children who need you, including a special needs baby.  You have a state to run. You have to plot your course for world domination. Best you do that in Alaska where the air is cold and pure. You need to get out of those stuffy TV studios.

Once again, the election is over. There will not be a recount. Please stop with the campaign talking points. Stop saying “Bill Ayers” and “Joe the Plumber.” Stop defending yourself and replaying every offensive and defensive move over the last two months.  Whatever about the clothes. You’ve said your piece. Take a cue from John McCain and lay low.

I’m trying to be neutral about you. To not dislike you. But you are overexposed. Does the name Kato Kaelin mean anything to you?

I’m done.

Dear Mr. President-Elect:

The long road to the White House is over. You have made it up the Hill. No matter what happens next, you are an historic figure. A first.

Now, go get yourself some rest. Mourn your grandmother. Have yourself an inauguration and then I have a few simple requests:

Can I send you at least two e-mails a day?

Can I ask you for help when my personal deadlines are nearing?

Can I count on you for at least a $25 donation to help me meet my goals?

Will you wear my badge on your shirt? Plant my sign on your big White House lawn?

Will you call all your friends and family urging them to come out and support me when I visit your town?

Just wondering …


On pins and needles

In light of all the talk-talk that will be going on today over the water coolers and the airwaves, I feel brevity is in order.

I volunteered.

I waited in line 1 1/2 hours. I voted.

Now I am in bed. The covers aren’t over my head yet, but they are up to my chin. I’m recovering from bronchitis. Good news: A few days of rest. Bad news: There will be no celebratory champagne or drowning in sorrows once the returns are in.

Damn those antibiotics.

Now, I wait. I pray. I hope. I hand it over to a higher authority.

The freakin’ Electoral College.

Blog for change


Two things have me fired up today:
One, I participated in a campaign survey by phone the other night in which the caller spoke in a very thick accent. So much so that I could barely understand her questions. On top of that, the static on the line was so pronounced I imagined a frayed wire stretching from my home in the Midwest all the way across the Pacific Ocean to the country to which this work was outsourced. Please tell me I’m wrong about this. Disturbing to say the least.

Two, while strolling the booths at our city’s final art festival of the season last weekend,  a pre-teen boy with a clipboard approached me, asking in earnest: “Would you like to volunteer for Obama?”

I set down my iced tea and grabbed the clipboard to give the flier a cursory glance. Then I gave him the most honest answer I could: “I’d love to but I just can’t. Really. I wish I could.”

As our group moved on, I felt my face grow hot. What kind of lame-ass answer was that?

“You know, I’m just not a knock-on-doors kind of person,” I said to my friend and her college-aged son.

We all nodded in silent agreement and pressed on through the crowds. But it’s been bugging me ever since. I know how much this election year has been bothering me, gnawing at my conscience and worrying me.  

So it is with an odd sort of kismet that I found this today.  Read this post.  If you are enlightened, pass it on.

Obama, larger than life

There are not many things that will motivate me to get up before sunrise, drive into the city and stand on line for more than two hours in the blistering heat. Especially not things that are a long shot.

But apparently this tall man whom I’ve never met, who wants to be our next president, has found a way to light a fire under my butt. So, Husband and I, in a moment of certain insanity, decided to attend the Labor Day rally in Detroit, featuring Democratic nominee Barack Obama.
We got up at 6 a.m. Took Girl from the East to grandma’s house and then paid exorbitant rates to park our car in the city. We raced to the riverfront on foot to find an already-long line that seemed to have no beginning and no end.
We found the beginning somewhere near the state line. As we attempted to gauge our progress in this line that wound around city blocks and twisted back onto itself so many times, we didn’t know if the people next to us were ahead of us or behind us. It was starting to feel like getting inside the plaza where Obama would speak would be a long shot.

Enter the bubble burster.
“You don’t have a yellow ticket? You not gettin’ in,” declared a somber woman in a baseball hat with some kind of unreadable badge around her neck. She seemed to take distinct pleasure in bursting balloons up and down the line.
Ticket?! Many of us were there based on an open e-vite from Mr. Obama himself. It clearly stated no tickets were needed. Later we learned the yellow tickets were given to all participants in the annual Labor Day Parade, who automatically earned line-jumping points for representing organized labor. Even later we learned that in order to get in to the rally, we should have been in line at 4:30 a.m. Oh, holy hell, no.
No matter. It was one of the biggest crowds we’d ever seen in Detroit. More than Thanksgiving Day. More than the Red Wings’ Stanley Cup parade. Geez, I guess we weren’t the only ones willing to sacrifice sleep for a chance to be a part of history. If nothing else, it was exciting to be a part of this wave, this movement, that was sweeping through this beaten-down town.

As always, I love to people watch. And this never-ending line offered a feast for the eyes. We saw a group of hung-over college girls who thought it was an underwear-optional rally. A little old lady wearing a large flowered hat, long flowing dress and leaning on an elegant cane. Lots of families with babies in tow. Lots of union workers. Lots of suburbanites with their Starbucks coffee cups. An older man stomping around on a walking cast. Religious zealots with loudspeakers. Drummers drumming incessantly. Black. White. Latino. Asian.

After waiting two hours and not even reaching the halfway point in the serprentine trail through the city, we received word: We didn’t make the cut. Surprisingly, the crowd simply turned on its heels and headed back to the waterfront. We positioned ourselves under the searing sun and in front of a large screen.
Oh, and there was Miss I-Told-You-So in her baseball cap and badge, shaking her self-righteous head at the foolish herd of sheep. 

Hope motivated us to continue to wait. As the crowd thickened. As personal space thinned. As deodorants failed. After what seemed like an eternity, Obama took the stage and the screen came to life.
His talk was short and sweet. His planned speech was cast aside to reflect on Hurricane Gustav and its victims, and the need for brother to look after brother here and around the nation. 

And then it was over.

Happy Labor Day, America. Good luck in November.