On the banks of the Rio Grande

Almost as good as my last post

2009-10-10T11:38:00.001-06:00

Surreality

2009-09-08T20:47:00.005-06:00

Hi Blogosphere! I'm briefly dropping into my "virtual hang-out" to present you with a book trailer that my steadfast publisher has passed along to me so that I might share it with you, kind reader... or watcher, as it were. This video is hold-onto-your-pants thrilling, so consider yourself warned. It's also another one of those weird self-reminders that... WAY! I'M PUBLISHED!!

Book Video Trailer: Rosetta Stones @ Yahoo! Video

The case of the missing THING

2009-05-29T07:45:00.004-06:00

I used to have this THING inside me. The THING was like a metal detector except that it could care less about safety pins, old bottle caps, and 18th century coins. My THING sniffed out blog topics. And so I always had this storage bin in the back of my brain that housed everything from funny kid stories to political opinions to observations on the half-naked teenagers making out by my mailbox. My brain bin was always overflowing with crap because I never had enough time to transfer my blog topic collection onto the actual BLOG.

I still don't have much in the way of time, but lately I have felt as if my THING needs to be repaired. It will look at a perfectly good blog topic and not know whether to stuff it in the brain bin or smile at it and keep walking. Sometimes the THING doesn't even recognize blog topics anymore. It's like, I gave it a short vacation of sorts, put it in the closet for a few months, and now that I've tried to take it out and vacuum with it, it still wants to read a book and sip coffee, its feet propped up with pillows.

So instead of forcing it to do it's job, I'm going to make an announcement. Tomorrow (Saturday, May 30) there is going to be a massive collection of authors signing books at a place called Cookin' Books in Chama, New Mexico. The Fiesta del Libro is what we call this thing, and if you've never been to Chama... all I can say is, I'm sorry. And go. The weather will be in the low to mid seventies. The clean mountain air is fragrant with pine, and maybe a whiff of a nearby campfire and someone roasting chile. I will be there looking out for you and maybe you can help me figure out how to fix my THING.

Open letters to my high school and family

2009-05-14T18:39:00.006-06:00

Dear Family:

I. LOVE. YOU. Liz... Jan..., I know I approached you like a tornado approaches a trailer park. I came with almost no warning and POUNCED you with the idea that I should "launch" my book from none other than Deming High School. Here is where I blinked. TWICE, maybe. Before I knew it, you had arranged an event that had me holding a microphone in front of a class of creative writing students, several faculty, your social studies/NM history/art/AP/thingamawhatty students to tell them how I like to simultaneously embarrass myself and be my own best friend. Irene, you jumped in as my accountant/publicist/bouncer/speech coach and personal assistant who taps her watch and mouths words from across the room to remind me that I am wandering like a lost kitty in the streets of downtown Las Vegas. Mom, you called my wonderful aunties who all showed up to the mixer afterward and made me cry like a newborn. Aunties, you took pictures and gushed over me like I was said newborn. And, coincidentally, shared childbirth stories with me. Toni and Jonah, you helped Auntie Irene organize the people who wanted a book signed. And you sat there and LISTENED to Mom's speech for, what, the fifty-fifth time? That's medal-of-worthy in some countries. Sweet brother and Ashley, you read my book in two days. Uncle Larry, you read it just as quickly and wrote me the most beautiful email. Thank you all so much for puffing up my face and making my tear ducts ache for three days.

Yours forever,
C

Onto my high school.

Dear Deming High School:

As my daughter would say, you guys are the bomb-diggity. Somehow that just doesn't sound as cool coming out of my blogmouth, but what I'm trying to say is, THANKS. To Ms. Ayon's first hour class, you will always hold a special place in my heart. You were the absolutely first people NOT related to me to hear me talk about Rosetta Stones at length. If you freaked out during my brain cramps, you kept it well hidden. Luis, you need to consider stand-up comedy. Or therapy. You really HELPED ME. And so because of you guys, I felt lots more prepared for THE LIBRARY. The library people came in waves until we ran out of seats and several of you were forced to sit on the floor. If a cell phone rang in that room, while I began to read an excerpt from my book, nary did I hear a single vibration. You gave fabulous eye contact. You laughed at almost all of the appropriate places. And when I began my spiel, not a single one of you raised your hand at the end and asked an off-the-wall question of me, like, was Ms. Ayon born that way? By the way, yes, she was. She has always been righteously awesome. Anyway, thank you for your undivided attention. Thank you for not booing or shooting foreign objects. For those that sat so close you could count my nose hairs, thank you for not cringing. I didn't think I would ever say this about high school, but you guys made me want to come back again. Maybe for a day. So THANK YOU. Mr. Wilkin, lunch is on me next time.

Beyond Impressed With Your Goodness,

Mrs. Kriegel's and Ms. Ayon's Humble Servant

Salesmanship, Amazon, Contests, and Mama

2009-05-01T16:31:00.006-06:00

If blogging has taught me anything at all it’s that I’m really great at forgetting about my blog and not very good at administering contests. Because, unless you’re in radio, it’s probably not the best thing to set time constraints on a giveaway like, “The first three people to call in….” UNLESS you blog on a daily (at the very list biweekly) basis.

SO. My gal pal Lyn is getting a copy of Rosetta Stones because she’s an ANGEL INCARNATE. But I had to create a Plan B for the other two books. Plan B involved regrouping and trying my hand at contesting again at one of those regular-posting cool blog hangouts (Mile High Mamas). Plan B worked because now I have two other winners! YAYYY!! Congrats to Melissa and Melissa.

I’ve been trying to hook up with the public in non-blogging ways and so far this is what I’ve finagled:

I’m gonna participate at a book signing in Chama, New Mexico on May 29th and 30th. It’s the annual Book Fiesta that I love so very much for the awesome scenery, the engaging company, and the late-night parties.

Then on June 27th my local bookstore The Narrow Gauge Newsstand is going to host a book signing for me here in Alamosa, Colorado.

OH!!! And if you were one of those charming human beings that went to Amazon and clicked to pre-order my book DESPITE the fact that the estimated date of delivery said September, you may be pleased to know that, INDEED, they lied. I'm pretty sure my husband was the first person to place his order and he just got the confirmation email that said, in no uncertain terms, that Rosetta Stones is on its way. Can I hear a WOOT WOOT?!?!

Confession: I’m about two shakes away from hiring my mother as my publicist because this “selling yourself” business is EATING MY LUNCH.

AND DINNER.

AND ALL THE SNACKFOOD IN MY TOP LEFTHAND DESK DRAWER.

But I'm working at it. I've sent e-cards to everyone in my address book who hasn't already been harrassed by a pleading phone call. I've made some business cards and bookmarkers and spent two hours at the post office mailing copies to important people. I'm even TWITTERING occasionally!

I still need work with my awesome Webmaster to update and fix stuff at catherinedix.com but, first and foremost, I think I'm gonna go ring Mom.

Happy weekend, everyone.

Can you spare $14.95?

2009-04-08T19:04:00.038-06:00

Before I get lost in the reason for this post, let me just start by saying that I'm not quite done getting repaired or making repairs or drinking my wine to forget that the repairing indeed EXISTS. But because many of you have inquired as to the status of my well being, allow me to formally announce that, YES, I am okay. And by okay, I mean that I'm still not making my bed regularly, but at least I get out of it. I didn't kill anyone. And, by the grace of The Flying Spaghetti Monster, nobody killed me, either!

I've been working very hard to fix all the things that are broken, including but not limited to my second novel. Things are in a state of FLUX, and I am still not sure I have the requisite time or energy needed to manage this blog. The problem is that I'm chock full of MATERIAL!! It's bleeding from my every pore and begging to be smeared across a blog page. I know my publisher would appreciate a shout-out as well. So this is me acquiescing to the MATERIAL. The loud, marvelous, scary, against-all-odds MATERIAL.

Rosetta Stones. Remember that old thing?

Let me refresh your memory.

You can go to Amazon.com and pre-order this almost mythological novel that I toiled over for a decade of my life

For reals. Evidently, I'm not schizophrenic. I didn't just IMAGINE that I wrote a freaking novel. But be forewarned: It will tell you that the estimated date of arrival is September. I don't believe this to be true. It's in the hands of a distributor RIGHT NOW and word on the street is that you'll get it by May, worst case scenario.

I've got three copies that I'd be willing to part with for the first three bloggers who can promise to read it, blog about it, and tell me where this book mostly takes place.

HINT: Go to Amazon.com. You might find a PRODUCT DESCRIPTION.

OH! And for anyone who's curious about what it says on the fuzzy picture of the back cover or for those who need a really good reason for investing in an unknown author's precious inanimate child, here is backup:

"A beautifully written and wonderfully imagined contemporary coming-of-age story." ~ Tony Hillerman

"Beautifully written; this book deserves a prominent place in Raza literature. It's one of the best books I've read, offering insightful gems to our unique beauty." ~ Jimmy Santiago Baca

"Rosetta Stones is a thrilling and magical roller-coaster ride set in the hauntingly beautiful New Mexico landscape. Dix artfully weaves together a fast-paced plot, spit-fire dialog, and a dynamic cast of characters whose search for truth in the midst of loss, family secrets, and a hot psychopathic killer will keep readers on the edge of their seats. I had a hard time putting this book down. Teens of all backgrounds will enjoy this tantalizing mystery." ~ Malin Alegria, Author of Sofie Mendoza's Guide to Getting Lost in Mexico (Simon & Schuster, 2007)

"Rosetta Stones is a fine first novel, skillfully constructed with pitch-perfect dialogue. The story is intricately woven and fast-paced with carefully drawn characters who experience a staggering series of life-changing incidents and revelations. It's a haunting novel you will not soon forget." ~ Bob Cherry, Moving Serafina

So if you want that free copy to blog about then tell me where you think it mostly takes place in an email sent to catherinedix at catherinedix dot com. I will announce the three winners when you beautiful bloggers send me that email.

OH! And email me if you'd like your copy signed. I'd be more than happy to snail mail you a signed bookplate if you give up your address.

Jennifer!!! Beautiful, wonderful artistic Jennifer. Thank you for the fabulous cover, love. And thank you, Central Avenue Press, for your constant faith in Rosetta Stones.

Shut Down for Repairs

2009-02-23T13:34:00.001-07:00

Little Boys 101

2009-02-15T12:39:00.008-07:00

For anyone new to this blog, I have four kids... three girls and one lonely little boy. Coincidentally, I grew up in a house with three sisters and one lonely little brother. What these two things mean (and, believe me, this can mean MANY MANY things) is that I have a very limited knowledge and understanding of little boys. As an older sister, I basically let my brother exist in his Inspector Gadget world while I existed far far away in my Young and the Restless one. I can't do that with my son if I want him to, you know, not sniff paint, beg for food or abuse small helpless animals someday. It's kinda my job as his MOM to be an active member in the Inspector Gadget world... or Chowder and Flapjack, as it were.

I don't always relate to my own kind. In fact, I'm confounded by the behavior of the members of my gender, myself included, on a regular basis. But some things generally remain the same. For example, we don't get thrills out of finding a small helpless woman and throwing her purse into the Men's Bathroom and then lifting her by the scruff of her neck and tossing her in there to go retrieve it. Not even in the second grade do I remember that kind of bizarre torture occurring. And yet this very thing occurred to my son just this week, except that it was a backpack instead of a purse. Sure, he was upset for a day, but he did what most GIRLS I know could never do... he dusted himself off and immediately got over it. I wasn't there. I wasn't involved, and I'M still not over it. But when I demanded that we talk to the supervising adults, he stoically insisted that it wasn't necessary. He could handle it, he said, while lying on my couch with his foot propped up on a pillow, his swollen ankle being iced.

"Boys will be boys," a co-worker of mine says. "Parental involvement makes it worse with boys. You're gonna label him a wuss for life. Let him handle it. Those boys that threw him in the bathroom are probably his friends. They were PLAYING AROUND. That's how we do it. We throw each other into the Girl's Bathroom to get a good look around."

I don't want to encourage my kid to fight. But I want him to be able to defend himself so, call me reactionary, but I've enrolled him in taekwondo. In the meantime, we invited his best-good friend-Andres-from-way-back to come over. Jonah showed off his mad cooking skillz by frying an egg for Andres. Andres showed him an easier way using the microwave. They had farting and burping contests. They wrestled. They took turns trying to break their necks by flailing themselves down my stairs. When I took them to rent a movie, they walked the aisles and squealed "EWWWW!!" in unison every time they passed a DVD cover with a scantily-clad woman on the cover. Or kissing. God forbid they saw any kissing.

I still haven't memorized the User's Manual for little boys. I disagree with three-quarters of what's in there. But this much I do know... grossing out over sex on a DVD cover will be the first thing to change.

A gift to my fellow writers

2009-02-11T11:44:00.002-07:00

Yes, it's 20 minutes long. Go make a sandwich, pop open a refreshing drink and have a seat. I promise, it's worth one half-hour lunch of your time.

This would all be moot if his favorite holiday was something normal like CHRISTMAS

2009-02-02T17:30:00.004-07:00

I warn people in my bio that my memory cannot be trusted. But that sentence is actually a public acknowledgement made for the benefit of my husband's world-weary eyes. I really don't forget EVERYTHING like he'd have you believe if given the opportunity to discuss the topic. As a matter of fact, I have some very lovely memories tucked in the nethers of my vacuous head that I enjoy retrieving quite regularly. I cradle them in my arms, petting them gently as I admire their precious clarity and staying power. But I concede that if my memory were made of cloth, mine would probably be cotton, possibly a little sun-bleached, definitely marked with notable holes of varying breadth. It wouldn't do much in the way of keeping you warm through the winter, to be sure. But there'd still be some SUBSTANCE.

Having said that, it's unfortunate that I forget protocol every single Groundhog Day. Protocol involves first REMEMBERING that it is Allan's favorite holiday. Then it involves REMEMBERING when said holiday occurs. Then I must remember to say, "Happy Groundhog Day!" Lastly, it involves remembering that the joyous occasion is celebrated in the form of a day off from work.

This might be a non-issue if we actually lived together and had small talk wherein both parties could exchange those oft taken for granted trivialities like, "You know, I think I'll celebrate Groundhog Day this year by installing curtain rods and vacuuming the basement." But, alas, we don't live together and phone conversations are like time with a lawyer whose being paid by the hour. We need to CULL THE CRAP. Because don't you just know that someone will invariably need a pencil pulled out of their eyeball if we talk on the phone for a few hours. So barring any emergencies, there are two real phone calls --morning and evening. I've taken to keeping a notepad handy so that I can remember something remarkable I'd like to share later... something like, hey, I unclogged my bathtub's drain without the aid of a plumber! WOOT! We don't do text messaging, agreeing that it's probably meant for people with young, fresh eyes and nimble fingers... Email is not a reliable way of exchanging information with him, either, because he might go two or three days without checking it -- which we all know may as well be a LIFETIME if you wanna share something relevant to TODAY. He's not into online social networking or things like instant messaging... So the notepad it is.

Late last night, my buddy the notepad reminded me that Groundhog Day had arrived. It reminded me that I needed to call him and wish him a Happy Groundhog Day. But it forgot to mention that I should call him on his cell phone because he wouldn't be at work this morning. Luckily, I backed up my phone call with an email just in case he thought to check it before our children awoke. He did. He retrieved the message at six o'clock then responded with the following:

Thank you!! For all the exciting details go to: http://www.groundhog.org/

Feel free to check out for yourself whether or not Punxsutawney Phil saw his shadow. I'd just come out and tell you ... if only I could remember.

I know it's basically over now, but Happy Groundhog Day, everyone!

It could've been worse. He could've said, "Isn't that how you commit robbery?"

2009-01-31T09:40:00.004-07:00

This morning as I was doing my Saturday newspaper's crossword puzzle:

Me: Strong-arm... what's a five-letter word for strong-arm?

Jonah: Wait. Isn't that the name of the guy who landed on the moon?

Me: No, baby, that's ArmSTRONG.

Jonah: Oh yeah. Darn, that's too bad 'cause his first name has five letters. Glenn.

I didn't have the heart to tell him that it's actually the four-letter word NEIL.

My heaven is now. But so is my hell.

2009-01-26T19:37:00.003-07:00

Every other weekend I get into my car, pop in an audio book, and traverse through an often treacherous mountain pass to be with a portion of my family. A hundred and twenty miles later I am greeted at an old Victorian door by my husband who is holding out a glass of red wine for me while my two smallest children scream BE THE MONSTER!!! The two-hour drive gets old, as you can imagine. There's the inclement weather to contend with. The critters, frozen and dead, and those that are debating about whether to become frozen and dead. There's also the RVs. The darkness. And, UGH, the speed limit. But the smiling faces and squeals of delight upon my arrival at Allan's Victorian door.... THAT is like Bon Iver music, freshly-brewed coffee and my Grandpa's way of singing "wa wa wa wa wa..." in that it NEVER EVER gets old. In fact, it always makes me get a bitter swill of guilt in my mouth for a few moments, remembering my last two hours of driving and all that filthy-mouth bitching that I SPEWED at the top of my lungs, the same mouth that is now planting kisses on my babies. But all I have to do is remember the semi-truck that wanted to race me at 11,000 feet elevation on the highway at next-to-zero visibility and I immediately forgive myself my verbal indiscretions. I'm magnanimous that way.

Anyway, this is how my bi-monthly visits begin. I readily accept this because then for two straight days I am in heaven. I eat Allan's delectable meals -- pot roasts, turkeys and stuffing, homemade chili, chicken soup -- and I savor my favorite wine and the stimulating adult conversation that he so kindly offers. I chase my kids along the river walk. I play with fluffy puppets at the library and twirl in circles to The Kinks and Emmylou Harris and Billy Joel and all of Allan's other CDs until I literally wanna puke. Sometimes I eat breakfast at Nana's. And then I play monster some more and get writer's cramp from three-plus hours of coloring with nubby little red, blue and purple crayons. And I read stories about foxes in soxes, and I take naps flanked by two little girls that wriggle and squirm and make my neck hurt. Then I look down at my watch and ABSOLUTELY BEG time to please crawl, crawl like a turtle with four broken legs and a two-ton shell on its back. At least until I get back to my other two kids at which point I will humbly beg time to crawl once more.

But it never happens. Time. It relentlessly ignores my humble supplications. In fact, if I didn't know better, I'd say that time actually refuses to even walk for me, jogging steadily on Friday evening and then getting a second wind by about noon on Saturday wherein it then dashes for Monday morning like a contestant on the Amazing Race. I find myself pouring more wine when I feel this happening, working hard to stave off the WHY ME beast that is so SKILLED at luring me into that gorgeous, comfortable, satisfying cave of SELF PITY which is cleverly disguised as ALLAN'S BED. I've actually gotten quite better at resisting the beast over the years.

To my complete and utter surprise, yoga really has helped. I also need to be on a steady diet of Oprah, Eckhart Tolle, Pema Chodron, Obama, Dooce, David Sedaris, Rob Brezny, Martha Beck, Elizabeth Gilbert, my kids and any other inspirational, non-dogmatic Teacher of Life that gives me warm fuzzies and life-sustaining PERSPECTIVE. I know it's unthinkable to many, but I could give two shits about a nebulous, far-away heaven. I don't care about my next incarnation, either. And I have absolutely no fear or respect for a portentous, Old Testament-style hell. I'm pretty irreverent about next month, if the truth be told. I've mentioned it before... religion isn't for me. I understand DOING and I understand BEING. I don't understand WORSHIPPING. What I really need is just to get through this moment. Right here. Right now. I'm only self-piteous when I start futuring. If I start thinking about walking back out the Victorian door, back toward the highway where I'll once again dodge the deer and try to not hate the people driving SO slow that fifteen cars are piled up behind them begging them to PLEASE just get a flat tire already, then I will lose my footing on whatever bit of stoicism I've grabbed hold of in regard to my nontraditional familial situation. When I stop and calculate how many days out of the year I actually get to be with my babies and husband, I have to seek out My People in desperate search of a pep talk.

So far it's working. This is what they say: Breathe in. Breathe out. In again. Out again. Listen. You hear that? It's the birds chirping, they say. Smell that? It's rain. That coffee your husband prepared? Isn't it, like, the best thing that the universe ever created?? And, mmmm.... this coat.... it's so good at it's job, wouldn't you agree?? This is the stuff that matters. So be here. Listen. And smell. Taste. And touch. BREEAATTHHE. Accept. Oh, and maybe you can be of service to others in lieu of wallowing in the bed. It's the surest path to inner peace, which is what you're REAALLLLY after. Check your motives, while you're here. Are they okay? No? Motivated by aversion, greed, or ignorance? Forgive yourself already. But then tweak. Adjust. When you think you know it all, remember that the truth you believe and cling to makes you unavailable to hear anything new. And go ahead and flatulate! But go to the bathroom first. DUH. Just relax. Laugh at your body's disgusting audacity. And then move on. For crying out loud, MOVE ON. But not so far ahead that you lose sight of right now. Now is where it's at, Cat.

The teachers are getting through to me. The Crazy Beast is dying a lot slower than I'd like. But dying nonetheless. Speaking of the beast, today I had an epiphany. Mid sentence. As it was happening. I realized that my husband can't win. And, truly, I am sorry, love. According to M.J. Ryan, this means that I am officially AD HOC, which is better than post hoc but not as good as pre hoc. M.J. RYAN.... she's the latest addition to my list of teachers.

Anyway, you packed me a lunch and brought me coffee before I'd even gotten out of bed at 5:30 AM today, Allan. The part of my brain that you always accuse of being "prone to suggestion" was totally under the influence of The Beast at that particular moment. (Cut me a break, it was 5:30.) But as you already know, I saw the lunch and the coffee at 5:30 in the morning as a sign that you were kicking my ass out. No, seriously. The Beast is quite the storyteller and the story he generally tells me is that I am not worthy. So OF COURSE you want me to get the hell out. You've got crap to do. You need to return to your regularly scheduled life, he said. The BEAST. He can be just as pragmatic as you are and even more convincing. I was in the way, he said. BUT!! At the exact moment that I accused you of getting rid of me based on his assessment of the situation, I realized that it is physically impossible for you to win because when you DON'T pack my lunch or bring me coffee, I ALSO take that as a sign that I am not worthy and, therefore, you want me to get the hell out already so that you can return to your regularly scheduled life.

It's crazy, okay? I'm saying it for you. But M.J. Ryan is convinced that it is also progress. Because there was a time when I drove away with coffee and lunch and cried all the way back home, convinced that we were history because.... lunch and coffee??? That was just bad juju. I mean, who does that??

But I caught it happening today. Today was different. I'm even trying to make my drive back home a more positive experience. Sunrises are nice. And I appreciate the guys that clears the snow from the road. And traffic is fairly light at 5:30 in the morning, I must admit. David Sedaris is cracking me up, too. I even realize that the fact that time is passing quickly is a good thing. My childhood lasted 20 YEARS longer than it should have. Which means that the only time that time crawls is when it sucks. Which means that my life is the ANTITHESIS of sucks. Before you know it, I'll merely be eating my lunch and drinking my coffee while complaining that you used too much onion and were stingy with the half and half.

Baby steps.

The Purple People Eater Part II

2009-01-23T15:56:00.004-07:00

The Huffington Post is trying to make sense of what happened to my sisters and the thousands of other people who were trapped in the Tunnel of DOOM. See my last post if you're the least bit confused. (By the way, the majority of you should be very well confused seeing as how this is NOT news anywhere on this side of the universe as far as I can tell.)

In the meantime, I thought I'd leave you with a bit of optimistic footage from the Purple Tunnel of DOOMERS.... those angels that tempered their anger and disappointment because we were about to be bestowed with a leader that conjures feelings of HOPE and FAITH IN GOVERNMENT and who just so happens to be extremely easy on the eyes, on top of everything else that he represents.

My tired, shocked, confused, heartbroken sisters were here!!!

The Purple People Eater

2009-01-20T18:50:00.008-07:00

Before I tell a truly terrible tale of woe, let me first say, YAY! Science is going to be returned to its rightful place!! And, oohhh, he paid homage to the non-believers, too. Progress... How I missed thee! And thank you, Marty Kaplan who never lets me down, for echoing my thoughts so eloquently.

I prepared an Inaugural Post myself a few days ago that's posted at MHM today. This was written BEFORE I knew that my sisters, who traveled from New Mexico to DC with 15 high school students, were going to end up trapped in a tunnel for five hours. Had I known that this was going to happen, I would have written a post directed at the Inauguration Party Planners, begging them to place port-a-potties inside the tunnel, or maybe a security guard, a policeman... a hot-dog vendor might've been nice. I would have asked them to drill some holes in the walls and give them air and sunlight. Or provide them with lawn chairs and send in some eye candy, someone who can sing a few songs, tell a few jokes, do some impromptu hypnotization on all those people who began to panic upon the realization that they were TRAPPED with an estimated 25,000 other people, just waiting for someone to light themselves on fire or get an explosive case of diarrhea. This was the plight of the purple people. That is to say, the people who had tickets to sit in the PUPRLE AREA but, instead, were corralled inside the Tunnel of Doom. FOR FIVE HOURS.

Before I get overly dramatic, let me just say that my pregnant sister and my short-tempered OTHER sister and all their small swarm of students made it out okay. A little hungry, a little thirsty, but OKAY, nonetheless. They (my sisters) didn't get to hear Obama's beautiful inauguration speech, nor did they see Aretha's fancy hat on an oversized screen. But they didn't get killed by the crushing crowd, either. Which, all in all, made the day victorious. I was compelled to tell you all about it because neither of these girls has a blog outside of myspace. And, man oh man. The story needs to be told. It could have ended badly. I could have been writing a post about my frantic trip to the emergency room IN DC. I can't even let my brain go further than that. So you inaugural party planners out there! More port-a-potties!! No tunnels without a paid uniform to keep the peace!! And maybe a secret escape hatch for the babies and pregnant ladies!!

By the way, say what you will about Facebook, but they are on the CASE. Two different groups have already been created for all you Purple People to vent some more. Share your stories and photos. Tell the Washington Post to suck rotten eggs for supposedly guesstimating 5,000 people were in there.

I dunno.... it kind of looks like more. The people in there SWEAR it was half the population of Alaska.

Reading through the Facebook comments, these poor people who came from every corner of the globe were HEARTBROKEN. And STILL, so much optimism. It makes my heart crack open reading them saying things like, "Well, I met some nice people, anyway." Or "Thanks so much for not rioting" without a HINT of bitter sarcasm, mind you! In fact, I'd venture to say that they were as sincere as Linus out in his pumpkin patch a couple of months ago. Even my pregnant sister who broke down in tears as she recounted the details to me over the phone... Even SHE put a positive spin on this ordeal saying, "At least nobody went totally apeshit. At least people were positive. They were chanting 'YES WE CAN!' Although I think it was in reference to getting out of the tunnel.'"

*sigh*

Nothing seems so bad anymore. Even at the height of scary, the height of chaos, things feel like they're gonna be okay. Sweet mother of all that is holy, THANK YOU, Mr. President.

And get home safe, America.

30 Somethings

2009-01-06T21:03:00.008-07:00

A couple of things first... I'm keeping my last slideshow post up, but I took off the music so as not to give you legitimate reasons for avoiding my blog. I think it's quite enough that I occasionally wave my liberal flag in the faces of my conservative friends. Secondly, happy new year! I forgot to say that to you in my last post. But I was tired, you see. As it turned out, there was nothing "simple" about putting up a simple slideshow. I'm not even joking when I say that I dedicated the first two and a half days of the new year to POSTERITY. Do you know what two and a half solid days on a computer does to a slideshow ignoramuse's shoulders? It makes them morph into grumpy old men who SCREAM with annoyance at any and all movement. They even scream with annoyance at NO movement, come to think of it.

So my new year's resolutions go something like this:

1. Leave things like slideshows to those people smart enough to own a Mac.

OR

2. Learn the art of massaging your own shoulders because a) two-hour massages are pricey and b) there are no offers that my family members can't refuse in exchange for a little deep shoulder rubdown for a few hours. NADA.

OR

3. Screw Posterity in the form of technology.

AND

3.5. Get busy with the photo album thing, the old fashioned kind with sticky pages and cutesy captions and definitely no musical genres to sift through with esoteric lyrics to ANALYZE.

So I started the new year and already I'm learning. Lesson One: If you want a powerpoint presentation on the benefits of nutrient management, I'm your gal! But I SUCK at musical photo slideshows. This is a nice little segue into what I had ORIGINALLY planned to post about which is a list of random things that I learned in the last year.

1. Kyra will allow me to meticulously apply lotion to her face after a bath because she "wikes" me.
2. She also tolerates cold weather, hand-me-downs, the Boomerang channel, and most of Emma's bossiness.
3. But NOT leaving the library. That's just going a bit too far.
4. Emma doesn't like spaghetti anymore.
5. But only after the first serving.
5. She'll put up with it after seconds and thirds.
6. She's not a huge fan of dance class, either. Not like Kyra.
7. But she'll withhold complaining if you promise her a pile of bacon and potatoes afterwards. And maybe swimming.
8. They unwittingly believe that they are twins.
9. What this means is that I have to go out and buy a scarf for ONE if I casually and unthinkingly give an unused scarf to the OTHER.
10. Speaking of scarves, Toni doesn't like them.
11. Or hats. Or gloves. Or WINTERWARE for that matter.
12. Who cares that we live in one of the coldest places in the continental US, that stuff is damned ugly!
13. But she has great taste in friends and they can come trash my house any day.
14. Although, I have to quit offering slumber parties in exchange for straight As.
15. Because Jonah has a hard enough time avoiding the estrogen he's surrounded by already.
16. And when the DVD player is broken and your mother doesn't have cable and these GIRLS are taking over the computer, one has to resort to things like READING and... well... god forbid such nonsense take place while on vacation.
17. Did I mention I can't do a musical slideshow in under two days?
18. And that I'm lucky?
19. And I can't fly fish.
20. I have a love/hate relationship with Stephenie Meyer books.
21. I can survive a salmonella-in-the-water outbreak.
22. And, evidently, another year of living two hours away from my husband.
23. But only barely. Like, right now its kinda iffy. My shoulders are SCREAMING for him.
24. Winking politicians give me the eebie-jeebies.
25. And I'm capable of reading AT LEAST 32 books in one year. You have no idea how huge this is. Last year I thought 18 was something to brag about.
26. I'd watch Mama Mia again. No, seriously.
27. I'd procrastinate all over again for Obama.
28. No more cutting my hair in contemporary styles. Contemporary haircuts are for the ambitious and the hot iron savvy. Neither of which are me.
29. No more raffles tickets in my future.
30. And definitely no more all-nighters on a desktop. (But all the rules change if, you know, a laptop miraculously sneaks into my life.)

So what did you learn last year?

2008 in less than five minutes

2009-01-04T13:09:00.004-07:00

This is the best I can do right now. Back soon.

Catherine, Winner of Everything

2008-12-18T01:17:00.001-07:00

It's official. I can no longer call myself The Winner of Nothing. I thought the cow was a big ol' fluke... like when Allan and I call each other at work and we're actually at our desks. But then there was this bit of amazingly good fortune. And NOW the beautiful, wonderful Jennifer has gone and awarded me this here Superior Scribbler Award. Incidently, it was for THE COW post and my personal tribute to You Know Who that won me this honor.

I feel like I'm on Candid Camera or something. Co-workers are telling me to go out and buy Lotto tickets. I'm getting rubbed for luck. LUCK. ME. CATHERINE. Quick, someone check and make sure that the sky isn't falling. Tell me that 2 and 2 still equals 4. Yellow and blue make green, right? Fried pork is deadly in large quantities. And Obama is STILL going to be our presidnet next month. SAY IT!!

So, yeah, the cogs in the brain are rearranging as they try making peace with the fact that I am, in fact, a WINNER. All together now... Catherine is A WINNER!!!!

Thank you, Jennifer and Sweatpantsmom and Lawrence (who as of now, does not have a blog that I can link to, only directions to his ranch which I'm sure he'd appreciate me not sharing).

But back to the Superior Scribbler Award. As a WINNER, I was asked to pass this on to five people whose posts I deem worthy of the honor.

Here are five:

Lori is a new Mile High Mama blogger and she just BLEEDS profundity and wisdom. Lori's posts are like therapy without the requisite inquiries about that dratted bedwetting phase. She's who I want to be when I grow up.

Marsha. And NO, it's not just because she just bestowed me with all kinds of Disney Swag. The woman is WIT personified. Holy Moses, she's funny. AND she has interviewed the likes of Paris Hilton, among many, many other celebrities. I feel a little bit more important just typing this!

Cameo. I know this about Cameo without never having met her... she will kick your ASS. And yet she will blow you away with her fierce love and kindness. I love her.

Lyn. How many women served in the House of Representatives, you ask? Lynilu knows. How many bacteria live on your feet? Lynilu can school you about it. What are the oldest, most cultivated nuts in the world? Ask Lyn. On top of being a wealth of information, she's so very sweet and has a small pack of beautiful Shih Tzus whose lives are fun to follow.

Last but not least, MARTHA. Martha is "a good thing" for WRITERS. This post is just one example of how she inspires. But her blog is like a box of chocolates.... a variety of delicious treats for everyone. It's like she says in her masthead... Ask for help with what you've written • Submit audio/video of you reading your work • Learn where and how to submit your stories • Connect with other writers. If you are a writer, you want to be sure and bookmark her and get to know her better. She is the real deal... as genuinely giving in person as she is on her blog.

So for anyone who's game, here are the details on how to pass it on:

*Each Superior Scribbler must in turn pass The Award on to 5 most-deserving Bloggy Friends.

*Each Superior Scribbler must link to the author & the name of the blog from whom he/she has received The Award.

* Each Superior Scribbler must display The Award on his/her blog, and link to This Post, which explains The Award.

* Each Blogger who wins The Superior Scribbler Award must visit this post and add his/her name to the Mr. Linky List. That way, we'll be able to keep up-to-date on everyone who receives This Prestigious Honor!

*Each Superior Scribbler must post these rules on his/her blog.

Oh, and did I mention that I am a winner? Sorry. But I'm pretty sure I'm gonna have to say it at least 500 more times before it feels natural.

OOOH! Look who thinks she’s a novelist!

2008-12-08T20:12:00.005-07:00

Anyone ever notice how one day my masthead changed from “The Virtual Hangout of Catherine Dix” to “The Virtual Hangout of Novelist Catherine Dix”?

There’s actually a halfway interesting story behind it that I feel compelled to share with you. Maybe, not halfway… a quarter way? One sixteenth?

Alow me start at the beginning...

When I picked a new template not so very long ago, I decided that I wanted a font that was funkier than, say, Comic Sans or IMPACT. Cuz lordy knows my blog and I are all about the funky! So after three days (in dog years) of combing the internet, I settled on a font called "2Peas Platform Shoes" which you see above, and which I found at one of those cool Deluxe Fonts R Us websites we all love so much. I then started playing around with what I wanted to say via Platform Shoes and this is a sampling of what I came up with:

The Virtual Hangout of Catherine Dix

The Virtual Hangout of Novelist Catherine Dix

The Virtual Hangout of Recycling Nazi Catherine Dix

The Virtual Hangout of an Aging, Tired Woman

The Virtual Hangout of Four Kids and a Lady

The Virtual Hangout of Catherine Dix, Winner of Nothing, Loser of Wallets

…Although that last one’s not true anymore, what with my cow prize and all. But you get my drift.

I finally decided on the first one because it seemed safe and non-offensive to winners and those that don’t recycle. The hard part was over. Then it was just (sort of) a matter of cutting it out of my Word document, pasting it into my blog template and BAM! my masthead work was finito.

More recently, though, I was doing something in my template (which I can’t recall just now) when I noticed that my lovely daughter Toni was hovering behind me as I carefully opened my page and surveyed the premises, trying not to break anything. That's about when she told me the truth about how she thought the font of my masthead was SLIGHTLY too big and looked like it could be ever so SLIGHTLY smaller. I snorted. OOOH! Look who was suddenly an expert in blog design! And then I knitted my brows, cocked my head like the confused puppy that I was, and decided that maybe she had a point. Luckily, I had saved all my “playing around” mastheads so I opened the Word document where they resided, highlighted the first one, changed it to a SLIGHTLY smaller size, did the cut and paste thingy again, hit save and was ready to REFRESH and move on with my life.

But, alas, that’s when I saw that I had cut and pasted the one that had the word NOVELIST in it which, OF COURSE, had been at the top of the page since I had cut and pasted the LAST one which didn’t have the word NOVELIST in it. Are you still with me?

So this is where I panicked. Because how many of you would see this and scoff, “Not yet, Missy!” Probably not many, seeing as how there are a SLEW of sweethearts out there that visit me quite regularly. But no matter. There are a few amongst you that don’t make yourselves known with a comment who could very well scoff at me ON THE INSIDE. And that was enough to cause me to chew on my “novelist” lip and twirl my “novelist” hair with my “novelist” finger.

As you can imagine, I screamed, “I have to fix this before the scoffers see this, Toni!” And that’s when Antonia Josie grabbed my arm, looked me straight in the eyes and said with the firm sincerity of a grandparent: “DON’T.”

“WHAT?!” I said. “Don’t change it???”

“Mom,” she began. “You wrote a novel. You got paid. They printed one. You’re a novelist!”

“Yeah... there was that ONE," I said. "But... I... I was just putting silly words into a pair of Platform Shoes. It wasn’t REAL. And… and doesn’t Novel-IST imply that you’ve written more than one??”

“You’re writing another one,” she insisted. “And you have another story lined up after that. And… even if nobody pays you for them, you write novels. I think that makes you a NOVELIST.”

“Maybe. But I’m also a Recyling Nazi! I’m an Aging, Tired Woman! I’m The Mother of Four Kids! Maybe I should use one of those ones!!”

“NO,” she said, squeezing my arm. “Will you just… be proud this one time? And quit making fun of yourself?”

Sometimes I forget how my little girl has, like, an EIGHTY-year-old soul. The way that she does her homework without my pleading. The way she is brushed, dressed, and sitting in my car at quarter after seven patiently waiting for Jonah and me to eventually join her. The way she walks over to me and says, “Mom, throw those jeans away. They’re so old I can see the yellow polka dots on your red underwear.”

Sometimes, I think she is MY mother. And then I remember that she still needs a night light and I feel a little bit better.

I’m telling you this story, not just because I’m awed by my oldest child but because it's time for an update on that infamous "novel."

Allow me to digress a little. The shitty thing about blogging is that once you start to tell your story to the world, you have to finish it. When I set up this blog at Technorati, it asked some questions like, “What’s this blog about?” At which I melodramatically said it's “A blog dedicated to documenting my adventurous journey toward publication!!” I never knew the journey would be so long, so uphill, or I would have answered that question quite differently. I might've said: It’s about the insanity that comes from living 120 miles away from your husband. Or. It’s about tonsils.

Hindsight is such a weasly little snit.

In the meantime, I’ve made peace with the fact that this book may be published postmortem. And I apologize to the five of you that keep checking in with me for updates. If I can get my hands on a prepub copy, I’ll get it to you for all your lovely interest. Feigned or not, I love you for all your beautiful interest. I've got some beef I can Fed Ex, if nothing else. I hear it ships okay with a little dry ice and styrofoam? Email me if you'd like more details... catherinedix at catherinedix dot com. Or, better yet, come over. I've got some Gouda to go along with my whine.

For now, I'm keeping the masthead up. Because Toni's right, published or not, I sold a book to a great publisher and I'm proud about it. But I reserve the right to refer to myself as a Winner of Nothing in the future.

A Total Eclipse of the New Moon at Twilight

2008-11-25T18:05:00.011-07:00

Most of you don't know this, but I've actually written TWO posts since my last one. Which means that neither do you know that each of them took me about ten HOURS apiece to write. The point, you ask? The point is that coming up with a coherent thought since November 4th has been a lot like what I imagine climbing Denali would be like.... in heels... pregnant. And so instead of expending energy attemtping to write, I've been reading and reading and listening to music and watching movies (By the way, each of these deserves a review post in their own right but I am SO not capable yet. Maybe next month... when everybody's tired of all things Stephenie Meyer. Ha! my daughter says. I'll still be reading Stephenie Meyer when I'm eighty nine!).

In between our Twilight series obsession, I have fallen head over heels in love with MY BED. Yes, again. I went through a downright outrageous phase of dormancy wherein I was waking up groggy-eyed after nine+ restful, uninterrupted, dreamless hours in bed. I would kiss the children goodnight and promise myself a TEENSY TINY nap before getting up to throw out the trash (since it hadn't been done in something like two months). But I never really DEFINED teensy tiny and, as such, I would wake up from the nap at 7:30 in the morning and then scramble to get the kids and myself out of the house to our respective places of responsibility SECONDS before someone important counted us tardy. Allan, who RARELY makes excuses on my behalf, has kindly chalked this up to the time change and the darker days.

But I think I have finally made peace with the fact that this is how I operate:

WORK WORK WORK WORK
REST REST REST REST REST REST REST REST REST
A LITTLE MORE REST
MAYBE JUST ONE MORE NAP
and then back to WORK WORK WORK WORK WORK...

Those familiar with this blog know that I throw the word WORK around here like it's made of rubber. It can mean anything from trying to write a book to, more recently, trying to get my favorite politicians into office. But it can also mean surviving the the soccer season, a tonsillectomy, NANOWRIMO... Or searching for my lost wallet AGAIN. Currently, I have pulled myself out of The Slumber Stage to work 'round-the-clock on an audit at the day job. Sadly, this particular piece of work is going to ruin my Thanksgiving and birthday. If I could think coherently I'd tell you all about it. But I'm not there yet. I'm kind of hoping that the brain damage caused by this past election season isn't permanent. Surely it can't be!

Anyway, I'm thinking that the Bella/Edward fascination which arose where my Obama Obsession slightly subsided has now totally been quashed by WORK.

And I still need to throw out the trash...

But here is a picture of my Halloween costume like I promised ages ago. Not a word about the bad blond wig, please!

The book will be next, swearsies.

Happy Thanksgiving, Internets.

An open letter to my new president

2008-11-06T21:55:00.003-07:00

Dear President-elect Obama,

It's taken me a couple of days to recover, to shake off the exhaustion, the mild hangover, the silence-inducing euphoria, and now I'm convinced that I can string together a coherent sentence. Maybe a short one....

We did it.

WE. FREAKING. DID. IT.

I agree with Bill Cusack who recently said, "I feel as if America just took a shower. This country has never felt so clean and fresh and reinvigorated. We still need another good scrubbing or two but for the first time I believe we'll clean up our act."

I'm not a big fan of feeling sorry for myself, but it does happen occasionally. Sometimes I remember back when my seven-member family lived in a one-bedroom house and how depressed and pitiful that made us. Or I remember my mom not eating when times were tough lest there not be enough beans and sopita for five skinny kids... Sometimes I remember the year we skipped Thanksgiving and that really tough year when my dad left for prison. I remember how crappy it was to have an appendicitis weeks before the Homecoming dance my junior year. And how sad I was when my family had to break down and tell me that my dog, my sweet love, Chiquita, had finally wandered off and died....

But I don't think I had ever felt so sorry for myself as I did this past election night. I had walked miles to see you at a rally in Pueblo two days before. After it was over, I, once again, said goodbye to my family so that I could spend all my waking hours at our Democratic Headquarters, organizing volunteers, cutting turf, assembling packets, training people, forgetting to eat, not caring to sleep! I didn't care, though. Because it wasn't really for YOU. This was for ME. This was for my CHILDREN. THIS is what I kept saying to myself when exhaustion creeped in.

And then election day got here. I was on a caffeine-induced high at 5:30 in the morning, as usual, ready to make this thing HAPPEN. And, immediately, things began to go wrong. Our copier broke. Fuses were blowing out. People were calling and saying they were getting "Obama-sponsored" robo-calls telling them that the voting location had suddenly changed to a NEW location. We all knew you weren't responsible for that, but could we convince anyone stupid enough to believe it?! What's more, my stomach ALSO threw it's metaphorical hands up in the air and said, "I'm sorry, but I can't function on nothing but coffee and adrenaline. Seriously, what are you thinking? It's the toilet-every-five-minutes for you, Lady!"

To make matters worse, (Yes, I'm going to use the word WORSE here) I had, like, FIVE TIMES the number of volunteers that I had anticipated. They had hit every house within city limits not once, not twice, but THRICE. All BEFORE NOON. I'll admit here that I freaked out a little. I...I... I'm not you. I broke a sweat. I froze with panic at my inability to process the information I was receiving as quickly as I was receiving it. I needed a time out, but there was no time for time out. My head kept threatening to explode with the enormity of this stupid task of adding numbers... THIS many doors got knocked upon... THIS many people talked to actual people... THIS many door hangers were left to blow in the wind...

Luckily, the canvass captains came to my rescue. They petted me and took things out of my hands and assured me that everything was going to be okay. Lots of volunteers was a good thing. Really it was!

But the stress. Well, I'm sure you can relate a little.

Before I knew it, the time was five o'clock and people were handing me a flashlight and some Hot Hands and saying, "GO!GO!GO!GO!" Voters were coming home from work, you see. And so we took to the streets armed with nothing but passion and our voices screaming, "VOTE!! VOTE NOW BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE!! FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS GOOD AND WONDROUS!! VOTE!"

We ran from house to house like crazy children seeking candy. We flashed our little flashlights at those gosh damn addresses that are SPELLED out in cursive on the sides of their house, looking for 460 and finding.... well.... no numbers. We pleaded, "But this is a historical election!" And, more times than I can count, we were met at the door by people saying, "Run! Run to the next house because this one voted Obama!!" And that made our hearts pump faster and our feet run harder. We fought for every last vote until the bells chimed seven.

And through it all, I remained stoic. Through the stomach cramps, the people who admitted they voted McCain, the stress of having an overwhelming amount of numbers to crunch, I kept my cool. Because YOU DID. You, Mr. Cool, who always looks like you just stepped out of a fresh shower.

But, as we've determined, I'm not you. So when my husband called me shortly after the polls closed, I heard his far-away voice and what remnants of stoicism I had clung onto the whole live-long day melted away in a matter of seconds. He told me that you were about to win. And I wanted to wrap my arms around him. My kids. You. SOMEBODY. But all I had was this phone to my ear. And now I was sobbing so uncontrollably that I finally had to blather something about goodbye to my husband because he couldn't understand me anyway. I then walked over the the Democrats' party at the local brew pub where all our volunteers were already screaming and cheering because it was becoming more and more evident that, indeed, you were going to become our next president. And suddenly there were arms everywhere that were opening for me. Strong arms. Drunk arms. Long and lanky warm arms. My new friends made room for me at the counter and bought me some "blue" beer. (It was actually teal.) And I watched with them as you slid into the homeplate once and for all. My god, I thought the day would never get here.

Alex, Katherine, Claire, Taylor, Mary, Andrea, Anthony, The Andrews, Willie, Tammy, Jesus, Kory, Gil, Victor, Suzanne, Luette, Becky, Chester, Julie, Gigi, Helen, Jan and Jan, they and countless others all worked so very hard for you here in southern Colorado, Mr. President. I can't say for sure, but I believe they did it because they all believe you will work just as hard for them.

Me, I did it for my kids. It's the same reason I wrote a book. How can I tell them with a straight face to follow their dreams and stand up for what they believe in if I'm not willing to do it myself, right? I know you get this and that's why I was on your side.

So I'm all done feeling sorry for myself now. Now I just feel good. Great, actually. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to feel great about something. About myself, dang it! It was rough. But that's something else I want my children to learn... nothing worth having comes easy. Don't count on handouts in this world. And, while I'm on lessons, I want them to know that things ALWAYS get better. My family eventually moved out of the one-bedroom house. My dad was released from prison and we became best friends. The appendicitis healed. Josh Gilmore sent me roses. My dog, I'm convinced, has been reincarnated as a human somewhere... she always thought she was one, anyway. Things look up!

You happened, after all.

Respectfully yours,

Catherine

P.S. My family worked their butts off in New Mexico, too. Irene, especially. Please note how blue these two states were amid A MASS of red on all sides. Just sayin'.

Vote

2008-11-03T21:30:00.004-07:00

"Rosa sat so Martin could walk. Martin walked so Obama could run. Obama runs so our children can fly."
Heard on NPR 1-/28

Heads Up

2008-10-26T22:56:00.004-06:00

I know I am infamous for making grand pronouncements and then not sticking to them, but this one should turn out to be true. I am going to be spending the next week and one day living in two places... work and the Democratic Headquarters. So if I don't respond to your emails in a timely manner, please know that I still love you. If it makes you feel any better, I'm going to be blowing off ALL my beloveds -- you know... eating and sleeping, writing and websurfing... even the kids and the husband are gonna have to pretend that they miss me.

I had one last hurrah online tonight, though, before COMPLETELY giving up all my free time to the next president.

THIS is worth reading.

And THIS was worth a good cry... Who knows, though. Maybe it had more to do with a certain fruity mixed drink (or two) and the impending visit from Aunt Flo.

And THIS just makes me swoon reflexively. I really don't CARE whether he knows what he's saying or not.

So LATER, if November 4th ever decides to grace us with its presence, I would like to show you the copy of my book. Maybe a dramatic picture of it in my clammy MAN HANDS! And maybe I'll show you a picture of some of my new volunteer friends. And maybe I'll even give you a glimpse of my Halloween costume (HINT: It is NOT political.).

I know you wait with bated breath for these things, but you'll just have come back. PLEASE. COME BACK.

OH! Before I forget, I'll be at Mile High Mamas on the 28th (as in October), talking about The Eccentric otherwise known as MY POPS. Maybe if you read about HIM you'll understand a little bit more about ME. I make no promises, though.

So we're off to make history. Wish us luck!

Wherein I continue to preach to my choir

2008-10-22T01:12:00.003-06:00

Girls. All five of you that are still with me... You HAVE to read this incredible piece of relevance!!

So, instead of fretting and poll watching and sitting on my hands in order not to continue proselytizing my politics on my blog, I have joined the rest of my family in becoming productive. I went down to my local Democratic Headquarters to see what I could do for my candidate of choice, and do you know what they did?? They went and made me the Canvass DIRECTOR. I have actual RESPONSIBILITIES.

To say that I am scared would be like saying that I am kind of obsessed right now. It's the mother of all understatements.

But Irene is helping me. This is the girl who canvassed in freaking COMPTON and rubbed elbows with DEEBO. You remember Deebo??

It's CRAZY.

So if she can do THAT, then I think I can do a little coordinating to reach them sporadic voters and pursuadables. Plus, look at my mom... she is phone banking for Obama IN SPANISH. My OTHER sisters are making calls and fliers, too. My dad is keeping Irene The Paid Staffer abreast of all that is newsworthy and poll-related since she is working twelve-hour shifts and too crazy-busy to read up on that stuff herself. So I had to do SOMETHING, too.

What do they say? The family that campaigns together stays together?? Yeah, well, close enough.

The funny thing is that I don't even BELIEVE in bumper stickers

2008-10-20T21:59:00.004-06:00

Stick a fork in me 'cuz I am DONE. I got my mail-in ballot; I cast my vote. And, already, I've been asked by one person why... why, as my bumper sticker professes, am I encouraging the country to vote Obama. The answer is so overwhelming and obvious to me, that the question took me aback. My husband would have said, "The question should take you aback because that shit's PERSONAL." But I suppose it quit being personal when I decided to advertise my views with a bumper sticker, right? And, besides, I WANT to share the answer if it makes even one person take a step back and evaluate. The problem is that my BEST answer is hard to summarize into... well... a bumper sticker.

This is as succinct as I can get about my vote:

It was a vote for the absolute BEST and the BRIGHTEST and a vote against the anti-intellectualism popularized by our current president.
It was a vote for our YOUTH and the FUTURE and a vote against OLD and OUTDATED ideas from the past.
It was a vote for a FRESH perspective and a vote against FAILED policies.
It was a vote for HOPE and CHANGE and a vote against MORE OF THE SAME.
It was a vote for trickling UP and a vote against trickling DOWN.
It was a vote for DEMOCRACY and a vote against PLUTOCRACY.
It was a vote for TRUTH and TRANSPARENCY and a vote against LIES and CORRUPTION.
It was a vote for WOMEN and EQUALITY and a vote against FAUX feminism.
It was a vote for coming TOGETHER and a vote against DIVISIVENESS.
It was a vote for calm DISCIPLINE and a vote against distracting ERRATICISM.
It was a vote for ONE car, ONE spouse and ONE house and a vote against THIRTEEN cars, SEVEN houses and the replacement of one dedicated, disabled spouse by a younger, wealthier, healthier more photo-friendly one.
It was a vote for someone BETTER than me and a vote against someone "JUST LIKE ME."
It was a vote for GRACE and RESPECT and a vote against eye twirling, sneering, tongue jutting and condescension.
It was a vote for polar bears and a vote against POLARIZATION.
It was a vote for SCIENCE and EDUCATION and a vote against willful IGNORANCE.
It was a vote for keeping church and state as SEPARATE as our forefathers intended and a vote against ANYTHING to the contrary.
It was a vote for restoring civil liberties and the Constitution and a vote against the party that decimated them both.
It was a vote for the ELITIST media and a vote against the CENSORED media.
It was a vote for health care, family leave, and reproductive rights and a vote against anti-choice, anti-options, and a narrow world view.
It was a vote for sticking to the issues and a vote against distraction tactics.
It was a vote for Christians, Muslims, Jews, Hispanics, Blacks, Whites, Asians, Native Americans, Pacific Islanders, women, homosexuals, heterosexuals and a vote against that HOMOGENEOUS pale male jubilee that was the Republican National Convention.
It was a vote for the middle class and a vote against the Reagan-Thatcher economics that has brought us where we are today.
It was a vote for community organizers everywhere and a vote against anyone impudent enough to denigrate them.
And, as cheesy as it sounds, my vote was a vote for love and optimism and a vote against fear and hatred.

To Colorado: I beg you, vote NOW. Our ballot is HUMONGOUS. It took me an hour to fill out sitting at my kitchen table without interruption. You don't want to wait in line for five hours on election day. Please go to your County Clerk's office and request a mail-in ballot. Or go there and do the early vote! TWO WEEKS AND COUNTING! GO!

To Senator Obama: My thoughts and prayers go out to you and your family.

Bovinity

2008-10-15T05:51:00.000-06:00

So this really strange thing happened to me last week. I was sitting at home eating leftover cheeseball from my smallish debate party when suddenly the phone rings. It was this dude calling to tell me that I'd won a 900 pound animal and could I pick it up immediately?

So of course I said...

I hate to make you people travel, but it's that time of the month again. Would you mind clicking HERE to get the rest of the story? Would it help if I told you that it has nothing to do with the elections??

Speaking of elections, thanks to all you commenters on that last post. Seriously, you make me feel safe. More updates after this message!!