and then Barack Obama rescued me from the gunman . . .

Okay this is a weird one.

I had a dream about Barack Obama.

Dreams are tricky things. Sometimes they do mean what they seem to, sometimes they are just random images strung into some sort of surreal story with no real meaning at all.

Regardless, I'm a registered Republican - so it's interesting.

A little background information on my politics: I was raised in an ultra-conservative, but highly educated family. My father was a shrewd businessman, a veteran, and a religious conservative. My mother was his right-hand "wo"man. She was an accountant, a fantastic mom, a well-read lady, and a Sunday school teacher. My brothers were all avid outdoorsmen, business majors, smart good 'ol boys. I was the princess of the family, spoiled but raised pretty strictly.

I loved politics. I loved it since I was about three years old. My home felt the fervor of political seasons and elections. We all debated policies over the breakfast, lunch and dinner table. There wasn't a single day that went by where we didn't all sit down to the 6:00 and the 6:30 news.

I enjoyed history, social studies, geography and political science in school. Now, they weren't my favorite subjects - I was an artsy-fartsy type, after all.

I remember going into the voting polls with my mommy and daddy and turning their little voting levers for them. (They picked the candidate or the issue, and I did the deed.) I remember watching the 1980 elections with delight when Ronald Reagan swept the nation with popular votes. I registered to vote when I was 17 years old, and actually voted in my state's primary at 17. You are allowed to vote in the primaries at age 17, so long as you turn 18 prior to the fall elections. (Betcha didn't know that, did you?)

But, like many young adults, I lost all of this fervor when I went to college and then made my way in the world afterwards. The gloss of it wore away for me, and I became lax. I voted from then on, still voting for my parents' choices, but with little conviction of my own.

I have become a political moderate, and lately a political not-much-at-all. I did manage to convince my highly democratic husband to vote republican for the last two presidential elections, simply because he's so darned concerned about finances. He is what I like to call a fiscal Republican, even if he's a moral Democrat.

I want a change in the U.S. leadership; I really do. But I don't really know what to do for this upcoming election. I mean, my God, I can't find a candidate that I can relate to. (As John Stewart so adroitly labeled it, it really is a cluster f$%^ to the White House.)

I'm a woman, and I would dearly LOVE to have a strong woman in the White House. However, I don't believe in Hillary Clinton. I would have respected her and probably even voted for her if she had left that two-timing sexpot of a husband, and gained the candidacy on her own merits.

I felt like all of the Republican candidates this time have been boring, middle- or senior-aged white men who seem tired. While I admire McCain for being a veteran, I just can't quite join his camp.

I have weird, weird stuff in my head going around about Obama. I liked him a lot when I first saw him on Oprah Winfrey a few years back. However, since then, I have felt more like Oprah herself should be running, rather than Obama. He seems to be only as strong as the strong women around him.

Now, about my dream. I dreamed that I was going to some sort of gathering to hear Obama talk. (Probably because he was coming the next day, and I had heard so on the news.) I didn't get to. I was going up to meet him personally, when out of the crowd a friend of mine from way back in college came up with an uzi and began opening fire. (This friend had romantic feelings for me which I had turned down, but I had no idea he felt so bad about it.) In my dream Obama pulled me out of the way and pulled me into the back of a car away from danger.

Does it mean what I think it means? Does that dream mean that Barack Obama is going to save me? Does it mean that he is meant to save the U.S.? Does it mean that the guy that I knew back in college is crazy? Does it mean that I need to lay off the Diet Coke before bed? What does it mean?

Would I be stupid to vote for Barack Obama because of this dream? I don't feel that he would necessarily be our best national leader. He might well be the lesser of three evils, but I certainly hadn't intended to vote for him. But now? I just don't know.

Anybody?

I certainly won't be telling my dad about this dream; that's for sure!

sticks, stones, bad words, and chivalry

"Sticks and stones can break my bones, but words will never hurt me."

Bullshit.

Okay, my sister-in-law reads my blog; no doubt she'll call my Mom and tell me that I just wrote a bad word on it.

Which only illustrates the point I want to make: words do hurt. And in this information age, they are the chief source of weaponry. How about "the pen is mightier than the sword"?

My friend wrote in his own blog a lengthy post about how he, as a sensitive feminist, has been upset about calling Ms. Dupre (Spitzer's hookup) a whore. Apparently the late night hosts have been bandying about the terms "prostitute" and "whore" without any sense of concern. My friend doesn't like those words. He equates him to words like "n-----" that reek of pure hatred.

Do they?

When I was a teenager I didn't curse. I actually agreed with my conservative parents - cursing was fundamentally bad.

Then I became an English major. It isn't just that I became more liberal. I have learned to embrace the power of words - judiciously.

I had an image in my mind that I commissioned an artist friend of mine to draw for me. It is of a chest of drawers with words coming out of it - so many words that they cannot hope to fit in the drawers. There are top drawer words, like insouciance, erudite and prodigious, middle drawer words, like fantastic and intense, bottom drawer words, like flat and whatever. But there are also those colorful dust bunnies living underneath the chest of drawers itself, where we find words like f---, s---, G--d---, and c---. My artist friend wisely didn't write these words out in his drawing. (As I haven't.) He let those words lie face down on the floor beneath the chest of drawers. (I do have it hanging up in my office, after all. Wouldn't want to overtly offend.)

Whether or not you agree that any words are innately offensive, the point is that words do have power. The power is held not necessarily in the wielder, though, but in the hearer.

It's the tree falling in the woods phenomenon. If my friend, sensitive feminist that he is, hadn't listened to David Letterman describe Ashley Dupre as a whore, he wouldn't have taken offense to it. (And then, sadly, he wouldn't have had a thing to blog about.) But it was an extreme reaction. Though I can appreciate his chivalry, I don't have to agree with it. To me, prostitution is pretty deplorable. It doesn't hurt my feelings to call her a whore. It doesn't hurt my feelings to call anybody a whore who definitionally earns money for sex. I think it's sad that the word whore has more negative connotations than the word pimp. It's a horrible double-standard that pimps are glamorized, while whores are downtrodden. But, I would argue that Dupre isn't downtrodden in the least. She's a capitalist opportunist (bless her heart). She'll have more than 15 minutes of fame over this. She'll be a rich whore, in the end. Anyone can take whatever offense they like, but in the end, I don't have to support her. (Although I clearly just did, having given her more press by blogging about her. So I'll stop.)

And about male feminists who tiptoe around terminology: keep doing it. It's safer that way, but know that that is what you are doing. Being indignant about such terminology is no less chivalrous than opening a door for us.

There's nothing wrong with opening doors, but then, I'm only a moderate feminist. Some of the more strenuous female feminists would clobber you if you tried. Words can hurt me, and if you called me a whore, then I'd take offense.

I only teach for money.

my sleeping beauty nemesis

My Arch-nemesis: Sleeping Beauty:

I had an arch-nemesis. I'm not sure whether she even knew she was my arch-nemesis, but she was all the same. You know what I'm talking about. It all started early, early in elementary school. There was this one girl: blond, blue-eyed, beautiful, smart, popular, teachers' favorite, talented, sporty, nice, etc. etc. etc. I loathed her. Now, don't get me wrong. I was pretty smart and talented myself. I was consistantly on the honor roll in school. I was artistic and dramatic. But the thing is that I was horribly unpopular - a nerd who didn't fit into her own skin back then.

That girl had everything I wanted. It wasn't just that she was pretty and popular, she was also a good student. That really sucked. I mean, why can't the popular girls stay in their own realm and make bad grades - why did this one have to come into my realm of academic success. Worse, she sometimes did BETTER than I did in school. Aaaggghhh!!!

I remember one of the lowest blows. It was sixth grade. Our school was putting on Sleeping Beauty. Now, in my imagination, I was a princess. You should have seen me play dress up and prance about my family's farm and conjure all manner of adventures and fairy tale romances to keep me company over the long summers. But for this school play - guess who got the part of the lovely Sleeping Beauty, fairy-tale princess? (Hint, she looked like she stepped right out of the Disney film itself, and she rhymes with "lemesis.") Guess who was cast as a, wait for it . . . a thorn. Yes, that's right, a THORN!!! So nemesis was the lovely Sleeping Beauty, and I had to wear a green leotard and a head-piece reminiscient of the statue of liberty. Of course, I resolved to be the best thorn I could be, and everybody in the front few rows who heard my thorn songs really thought so, I'm sure.

But still . . .

Anyway, we grew up. We were in every single class together all the way through high school. Nemesis was homecoming queen. Nemesis dated the most popular boy. Nemesis kept her high GPA. Nemesis was clearly a stepford teen.

Of High School and Cliques:

A few things happened to me when I was a junior in high school. First off, I grew out my bangs. (This was big for the late 1980s.) Secondly, I got contact lenses. Thirdly, I asked nemesis' ex-boyfriend, (the most popular boy in school) out on a date to the Valentine's day dance.

He said yes.

Now, believe it or not, high school cliques are more complex than we realized. I would like to take a moment to discuss four cliques that I've observed: the popular clique, the nerd clique, the smart clique and a smart-popular clique. Sometime at the end of high school, it is possible for the smart clique and the smart-popular clique to merge. This happened in my school. A number of us who were on the fringes of nerdiness adapted ourselves socially and became the "smart clique." A number of popular kids who just couldn't party any more became the "smart-popular clique." The smarts and the smart-populars banded together early on in our senior year. We were all going to college, after all. We went to parties together and drank non-alcoholic beverages, ate pizza and watched Monty Python.

I was in the smart clique. Nemesis was in the smart-popular clique. Most popular boy in school hung with both. Wow, was he ever a bridge.

Bridging our Differences:

Now this part is going to seem tangential, but it's integral to my story. Ever since I was twelve years old, I knew where my talents and passions were pointing me. I loved English, reading, and writing. I wanted to be an educator. I even proofread my older brother's master's thesis when I was in seventh grade. I made an A in every single English class I ever took. I think I may have even had it over nemesis in English, and you can't imagine what kind of pride I took in that.

Anyone who is a born teacher will tell you that, given a willing student, we will bend over backwards to teach. It is our nature to help other people understand. (We don't go into the occupation for the money but for the intrinsic rewards.)

Anyway, all through senior year, I had to endure social gatherings with my nemesis present. She and I actually talked from time to time. I tried not to think unhappy thoughts about her, but boy was it hard.

I remember one day in AP English class: I was sitting at the front of the class. Nemesis was right behind me - how symbolic - and we were discussing a piece of particularly difficult literature. The teacher left the classroom for some reason, and we were left to write about our discussion. I felt a tapping on my back. I turned around. Nemesis was looking flustered. I asked her what she wanted. She said to me, "Please help me. I just don't understand this."

I'm ashamed to say I cannot remember the literature we were working on. I suppose it's because it doesn't really matter. What mattered was that, at that moment, everything changed for me. I saw my nemesis as a girl, like me, who struggled with things. It didn't even occur to me to gloat that I knew something that she didn't. I just wanted to help her to understand. I answered her questions. I helped her with her writing assignment. After that she and I hung out more, at parties, between classes, sometimes at lunch. I wouldn't say that we became friends, exactly, but I definitely stopped viewing her as my arch-nemesis. We even talked bad about popular boy - who moved on from both of us. (Too bad for him, I think. Last I saw of him, he had flunked out of engineering school. My ex-nemesis went to medical school - you go, girl! I married a medical student, now brilliant and handsome doctor, and went on to become a successful college English instructor.

So, I guess that goes to show you how much high school cliques really matter in the end.)

Flash forward:

But that really isn't the end of the story. Not really. You see, my husband and I have two lovely, beautiful, and brilliant daughters. The eldest is seven years old and doing pretty well in first grade. In her class is a young, stepford child whom she has known since kindergarten. Now this girl is pretty, smart, friendly, popular and trendy. My daughter is frequently kept from being the best in her class because this girl nearly always bests her. Secretly, I'm glad that my daughter has her own nemesis, because it might just keep her somewhat humble. I can't tell you how often stepford-girl has gotten perfect attendance, student of the week, student of the month, etc. etc.

I just found out yesterday that the first graders are putting on a play. It's a musical with only four speaking parts, a revisioning of fairy-tales. One of the parts is, if you can remember this from the beginning of this lengthy blog, karmically: Sleeping Beauty.

But, my daughter's humility is going to have to wait, I suppose . . .

because it was she, and not her nemesis, who got the part of the fairy-tale princess.

book-a-likes & latest installments

Bibliophiles appreciate newest installments. I go to the bookstore and hope that my favorite authors have a new one out, and when they don't I mourn. I scope out their websites to get a hint as to when to expect those newest arrivals. Sometimes my appetite is whetted by a chapter at the end of the last one I read; sometimes those authors are generous enough to post the first chapter of their next books on their websites.

I get frustrated by authors who try to ride the coattails of other authors. I get tired of book-a-likes. There are countless revisionings of The Da Vinci Code, for example. They all have similar jackets and cover art. They all hint at conspiracies and religious heresy.

There are two authors that I'm maddeningly addicted to right now, Jim Butcher (Dresden Files) and Charlaine Harris (Sookie Stackhouse novels). And now there are authors who are trying to copycat them. The new Dresden comes out April 1, and the newest Sookie adventure hits the shelves May 1. I won't try to appease my hard-boiled wizard or telepathic vampire-lusting barmaid hungers by reading a cookie cutter version of either.

I was wandering through Barnes & Nobles the other day. I even bought a few things to tide me over until 4/1 and 5/1. But while I was wandering and looking at the smorgasbord of titles, I realized how unhappy I was with the fictional formulas. It made me want to pick up the many threads of novels I had begun but never finished.

Given time and determination, I know I could get at least one of my stories published, and perhaps inspire a host of copycat authors to ride on my coattails. Maybe I could even get on a writing and publishing streak and manage to have bibliophiles like myself hungry for my next installment.

I'd better get busy.

march mistletoe

It is a sure mark of a crazy, busy, disorganized life, when one glances up in one's living room and realizes that mistletoe is still hanging from the ceiling light, and it is March the second.

Of course, my daughters and I have decided to go ahead and leave up the mini-Christmas tree on their bedroom dresser which is serving as a nightlight.

I look around at the volume of clutter and mess in my house and lack the energy and determination to do a d____ thing about it all. The cleaning service will make my piles neater, take out what they think is trash, dust, mop, vacuum, etc, tomorrow, and the house will be a bit nicer to live in for a couple of days, until my girls drag the detritus back out again, and my husband and I don't bother to participate in the after-the-girls-are-abed cleanup.

Sometimes my oldest daughter picks up. Sometimes she doesn't. Sometimes I make her and her sister do it. Sometimes I don't.

Ah, the plight of the American DITKs (double-income, two kids). Sadly, "DITK" just isn't a properly syllabalized word.

The hours and responsibilities at our full-time jobs just seem to escalate. The price of living similarly escalates. The perverse addiction of consumerism leaves us vulnerable and overcome. The angst that rages inside us between feeling guilty that we don't spend enough time with our children, but the surety that if we spend too much time with them we will go insane . . .

Ah, this is a gripey blog.

If I had the time to spend truly cleaning out the clutter of my home and my life, as well as the energy to take up that task, and the determination to see it through, then I would be a superwoman indeed. I would qualify for sparkly undershirts to wear beneath my business casual-wear, the kind that have enormous "S"s emblazoned on them. I could rip off said work attire, grab a kid under each arm, fly up into the sky (leaving the minivan behind) and rocket us to Disneyworld just for the afternoon.

Of course, if I did that, I still wouldn't be getting my house cleaned up, and the mistletoe would still be hanging up in my living room on March third.