Eight Things I Want to do Before I Die (the semi-achievable version)

The lovely Krissa of HalfAsstic.com visited with a meme challenge. How appropriate that she picked my birthday week. My forty-effin'-sixth birthday week. (Can you hear the screaming?) As always, this time of year brings me pause. . . sets me to thinking about. . . myself, of course. I’m a Leo. And it’s my birthday month. Sheesh. Only thing is, the questions I ask myself: they are a-changin’. Now it’s not so much the what am I going to do with my life? question, but the how much of it is left? question. And the how have I done so far? question. And the how will I look in twenty years when I'm sixty-six holy mother of god? question.

Looking ahead is difficult for a non-planner like me. I am a dyed-in-the-wool, fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants (and clichéd out the wazoo) kind of gal.

Looking back is even scarier. Maybe things would have been better, had I actually made a plan or two along the way. I’ll never know. It doesn’t matter anyway. But I wonder—does it not matter because I choose not to feel regret over the past? Or am I choosing not to feel regret about the past because I don’t want to admit that I could have done it better, accomplished something really significant, or caused myself less pain?

I don’t think it’s the latter. Going through my life without every one of its hardships would have made it different, certainly. But better? What if I had actually thought through the consequences before making some of my bigger (and dumber) decisions? Or, here’s a novel idea: how would this little life have turned out if I had always, always put myself first? I know that doing any of it differently would have yielded a different me. Everything, in its time, occurred because I made it happen that way. And even with all my shortcomings, and all I’ve been through, I’m pretty happy living in this skin.

Which leads us to the meme, (thank god she's stopped philosophizing, you're saying) and some of the things I’ll do from here on out. This is the “actually possible” list. Next post will be the “when monkeys fly out of my butt*” list.

Eight Things I Want To Do Before I Die

1. Write novels—many of them, whether they are published or not.
   
2. Learn to speak Spanish.
   
3. Start an animal sanctuary like she did.
   
4. Take art classes: drawing, painting, pottery—any or all.
   
5. Get together with my parents and all ten siblings at least once more while we’re all still here. And when we do, I'll be scared that it's the last time. Until the next time.
   
6. Do a bicycle tour of Ireland.
   
7. Get over my fear of needles (but not through repeated exposure).
   
8. Read as many of these books as I can. Only 970 to go!

Thanks for getting me to think about this, Krissa! I saw the movie but haven't thought about the things I haven't done yet. Now I have. I'm not going to formally tag any of you, my friends, but I would LOVE to hear what's on your bucket list!

*Wayne’s World, 1992. “It might happen. Cha! And monkeys might fly out of my butt!"

Post # 104 Titillating Things About Me

I've noticed other blogs celebrating their number 100 post. Well, I apparently missed mine, so let's just do this now.

How about 104 things you didn't dare to ask and had no idea you could live without knowing about me?

1. I'm a Leo.


2. I'm number 8 of 11 children.


3. I'm the fourth, and final daughter.


4. I have seven brothers (obviously, do the math).


5. I love and adore all of my siblings.


6. My parents are 82 and 81.


7. They've been married for almost 61 years.


8. My mom is older than my dad.


9. All of my sisters married younger men.


10. My husband is 7 years younger than me.


11. My best friend in the world grew up down the street from me.


12. We were born 4 months apart.


13. We've been friends ever since.


14. Even though I once pushed her down the stairs at my house. Ouch.


15. I have been married before.


16. More than once.


17. First one didn't count.


18. I had two miscarriages.


19. They were with husband #2.


20. He was a BIG ASSHOLE.


21. So I'm glad there were no children to raise alone.


22. Not many people know about #16 or #18.


23. The older I get the less that concerns me.


24. I have been married to D. for eleven years.


25. He's the ONE.


26. I had an emergency appendectomy when I was 12.


27. It was ruptured.


28. I almost died.


29. But my parents knew better than to come right out and tell me that back then.


30. I still used my "illness" to get away with all kinds of behavior for several months.


31. Then my parents wouldn't have it anymore.


32. I was quite the drama queen.


33. Stayed that way for many many years.


34. I was a straight A student.


35. Until my junior year of high school.


36. In my senior year they almost kicked me out.


37. And still, no one tried to figure out what was wrong.


38. I was accepted everywhere I applied, but I took a year off before college.


39. And then I decided on a program for Respiratory Therapy.


40. And I hate hospitals.


41. And I pass out cold whenever a needle is within 50 feet of me.


42. I have passed out completely unconscious on an airplane.


43. Twice.


44. You should see the commotion they make when one passes out on a plane.


45. I quit college in the middle of the program.


46. So I could work at the mall.


47. I also worked at 7-11.


48. I smoked cigarettes there.


49. I got fired.


50. Not for smoking.


51. My mother inspired me to get the hell out of Upstate NY.


52. I moved to South Carolina.


53. I continued my career, working for international corporations.


54. They were Pizza Hut and Burger King.


55. Someone there showed me how to avoid ringing up cheeseburgers and to pocket the money.


56. We put it in our shoe instead of our pocket.


57. It was the first time I ever stole anything and I felt too guilty so I stopped.


58. It wasn't Catholic guilt, despite my Catholic upbringing.


59. My previously-mentioned best friend has enough for both of us.


60. And all of you.


61. I used to work for a sporting goods (i.e. guns and crap to go with them) distributor.


62. Turns out I was really good at sales.


63. I had a special chair to signify my status.


64. There was much jealousy.


65. I used to smoke there, too.


66. We would let co-workers buy cigarettes for a nickle if they were out.


67. This was 80's perm and shoulder pad time.


68. I got married.


69. Didn't take.


70. I lost 40 lbs.


71. Soon I took up with THE ASSHOLE.


72. I moved to Virginia.


73. Married him for some unknown reason.


74. Left him after five years, but stayed in Virginia by myself.


75. With my dog.


76. Met some of the best people in my life there.


77. Including D.


78. He asked me how old I was on our first date.


79. Which was to see James Carville and Mary Matalin speak.


80. I was so excited when he asked me to go with him


81. He was so excited that I knew who they were.


82. It was love at first sight.


83. We got married 5 months to the day from that first date.


84. Even though I freaked out a week before and begged him not to marry me.


85. He was undaunted.


86. We lived in a house with a pink and green bathroom.


87. Together, we adopted our second dog, who was three.


88. Among other similarities, our child-rearing philosophies drew us together.


89. And we have no children.


90. Didn't even try.


91. People still tell me "it's not too late."


92. I'm almost forty-six for chrissakes.


93. It IS too late.


94. And that is just fine.


95. People think we don't like kids because we don't have any.


96. I just wonder where all the money we didn't spend on kids is.


97. When my first dog died at 15 1/2, I cried for two years.


98. When my second dog died at 13 1/2, I cried for two months.


99. I don't want it to get easier.


100. Our newest dog is 3.


101. I adore her, too.


102. She was a rescue.


103. I don't believe in buying from breeders.


104. I don't believe in heaven or hell, either.

I could go on. Believe me, there's more. But really, isn't this enough? Thanks for helping me get to number one hundred four, yo!

craigslist Ads I'm Going to Place--and This is No Hoax!

Perhaps you've heard of the Oregon man who came home to find dozens of people rifling through his barn and front porch and driving off with his belongings. He caught people in the act. He tried to stop them, to no avail. He was told by the thieves who were hauling away his work ladders and lawn mower that they were simply answering a craigslist ad indicating the man was moving away and wanted to give all his stuff away. “No,” he said, “that’s not true. Give me back my stuff.”
“No,” they said, “it was on craigslist, so it’s true and we’re keeping it.”

The stupidity and audacity of the general public never ceases to amazes me. Does it not amaze you? Said the victim, “It boggles the mind.” It does, indeed.

Then I got to thinking. If that’s all it takes to get people to haul your junk away, I’m getting started on some craigslist ads pronto!

Free: Dog Poop. Several sizes and textures to choose from.

Free to Good Home: Top ¼” of large lawn. You cut it, you keep it.

Free Soap Scum. You Haul.

Free: Cat and Dog Hair. Many uses! Multiple colors available! Virtually limitless supply! Brush provided.

Bags, Bags, Bags! Paper, plastic, all sizes and colors. Pickup truck recommended.

I could be wrong, but I think I’m onto something here—and I’m just getting started.

So, dear readers reader, what do YOU have around the house, ready to be foisted upon an unsuspecting public?

The Last Available Room on the Island (Whidbey, That Is)

Long, long ago—like at the end of February—I spent a GLORIOUS three days surrounded by authors, editors, agents, and publishers at the Whidbey Island Writers Conference. I learned a great deal about the business of writing and publishing while feeling the thrill of rubbing elbows with my personal celebrities—writers—such as Erik Larson , William Dietrich, Deborah Madison, Stephanie Kallos, Elizabeth George, Stephanie Elzondo Griest (wearer of extremely cool boots) and Randy Sue Coburn. At the end of each day, following the many seminars and speeches, writing exercises and recitations, my spirit was bolstered with the camaraderie that fellow (make that actually published) writers bring—while my head was packed to overflowing with ideas and inspiration.

Luckily, I was able to retreat to my homey B&B, with a quaint, peaceful bedchamber all to myself, where I luxuriated in:

Comfortable, fine bedding!

Fluffy towel(s)!



The finest literature!




Interesting antiques!

And De-luxe bath products!




My eyes rested upon the amazing water views!


Alas, my stay was only for two nights. But then, two nights with THIS nightmare-inducing toilet paper was enough:

For that fresh, clean, patriotic feeling--all day!

There’s nothing like it. At least, I’ve never seen anything like it. Fortunately, I didn’t have to SHARE THE BATHROOM with the other couple who was staying at the B&B; they decided to have a weekend in Vancouver instead. Whoever you are, nice couple, I thank you. Not that I would have minded sharing the toilet with your husband. But the star-studded TP? All mine! You woulda had to fight me for it.

Next year, I’m booking my room EARLY.

What? Me Complain? About Hawaii? Maybe Just a Little

Tomorrow we leave the Big Island and fly to Maui, where we’ll be until next Monday, the 17th. Amen to that. I have high hopes for Maui. Our time here on the B.I. was fun . . . and lest I appear to have lost my mind over here for hello? being in HAWAII and complaining about ANYTHING, I must explain that wherever I sound like I'm complaining, I'm not; I’m just making observations. I simply haven’t found many reasons to perform mad handstands and cartwheels of joy at the whole idea of Hawaii, tropical paradise and hulas and luaus and lei and beaches and coconut palms and aloha brah and all that. It’s only been kind of average as far as vacays go. Were my expectations too high? Has the cloudy weather affected my mood? Or am I just a cynical, hard-to-please beyotch?

Let’s focus on the positive: the resting and relaxing parts have been the best. After our oh-so-long day of traveling, we went to bed super early and slept eleven hours. Needed it. The next day we just chilled and stayed close to home. Except for a trip to Costco, of course, for rum supplies and food. We’ve both read a ton and napped a little. And we each had hour long massages at the nimble fingers of a most excellent massage therapist named Kathryn. She was amazing. There has been actual exercise performed, too. I’ve tried hard to keep up my boot camp training so I’m not pitifully behind when I finally return to class. I’ve been walking and running and lunging (uphill, no less!) and doing pushups and situps. We’ve also been lifting—large plastic tumblers filled with coconut rum and pineapple juice. Ahhh, the tropical splendor of rum pineapple juice on a hot day. Except I do not consider 72 degrees to be hot. Not for a minute. No I do not. But that could be considered a complaint an observation, and we are attempting to focus on the positive.

Oh—this was fun—we kayaked and snorkeled yesterday. And saw this:
Snorkeling is studly, energetic, sportsy fun! The water was a little too chilly for me clear and brilliantly blue and we flopped and swam around like little fishies in a huge natural saltwater aquarium. Lots of cool-looking fish and coral, anemones, sponges and other gruesome fascinating sea life. And then we went into town and had drinks oceanside at a dive bar called Lulu’s. Just our speed—and the scenery was truly breathtaking.

BUT, tropical beauty aside, the weather has been a negative factor this week. You see, they have this volcano here and it’s actively erupting right now and all this sulphur dioxide gets pumped into the air and forms vog, a volcanic smog (I know, I know, it sounds delicious!) that covers the island. Like every day. We’ve only had two sunny days since we arrived. I mean, I live in the Pacific Northwest. Clouds and rain are a daily occurrence for us about nine months of the year, for godssake. So I do feel a bit justified in my whining observations.

After all, isn't this what every vacationing girl wants?

Here's what this vacationing girl gets. WAAAAAHHH!

Them are clouds

But enough whinging. Tomorrow, I shall write about the amazing bits that made the Big Island a fantastic place to spend Week One of our vacation. And the country music currently blasting from a stereo within my earshot will not even be mentioned. Now, please excuse me while I go take a hugenormous swig straight from that big, white jug of Malibu rum. Aloha!

High Tea It’s Not

Overheard at the breakfast table:

“Get off the dining room table!”

“Meow.”

“Get your ass out of my breakfast! I don’t put my ass in your breakfast!”

“Meow.”


Mad class in my house.

Sunday Photos

On this rare sunny and relatively warm January day in the Pacific Northwest, the late afternoon (3-ish) sun looks lovely in and around my house.

Squirrel Nutcracker

Doesn't work worth a shit darn.

Nuts seen here will never be consumed, but D. had to have them.
We have a whole bagful.

Dreaming of Glory, Same Squirrel

One of these days, I am SO out of here!

Windowsill Rocks

Hiding the dust.

Kidney Stone

Har.

Winter Garden

I use the term garden liberally here.

Waiting For Spring

Honey, I know what you mean.

Winter Sky at Sunset

And it's only 3:30!

Bugs in the Food, Part II (Lunch Spoiler Alert)

Oh, good Christ. This was in D.'s sandwich just now, dead from either the freezer, microwave or broiler. The poor thing didn't stand a chance of surviving that triple-whammy. Luckily, he found it before he ate it. After a "What the. . ." he put it in a tissue and brought it to me. My ohmygod ewwwww get that thing away from me!!!! reaction could not be described as kind, as I had resolved to be, but neither was it profoundly bitchy or sarcastic, so I gave myself a pass.

I do not like this particularly crunchy-looking insect at all, particularly its pincer parts. What do they DO with those, anyway? Must go to Wikipedia and see.

How did it get into a sandwich in our house? I'll tell you my theory: D.'s favorite bread in all the land is a seeded baguette made by a local bakery. It is perfect in every way, crusty outside, light inside and covered with poppy, sesame, and caraway seeds. Or are they fennel? No matter, they're spicy good. Now, you'll recall our bug-infested jumbo shells from Christmas weekend. Is it a mere coincidence that said local bakery sells their breads in that SAME grocery store? I daresay it is not, but a deliberate plan to keep me from shopping there ever again; indeed, to keep me from supporting a local (albeit huge corporate Republican type) company and to force me to continue my new love affair with Trader Joe's!

If only all my problems were this. . . well, tiny and insignifcant. But why focus on the big issues, when the wind is howling outside, our animals are safe and secure and at our feet inside, and all of our needs: shelter, water, companionship, books, tea, cute eyeglasses and plenty of (bug-filled) food are met? Life is good today in the House of Earwhig Earwig (thanks, Melanie!).

The Closet of Misfit Gifts

I'm no good at this season. I've no talent for shopping. I could care less if my house is lit or if there is a tree in the corner. I used to love all that stuff. I don't know what happened.

Maybe I'm just tired. Maybe working 50 or 60 hours a week leaves no time for that other stuff. Maybe I'm cynical and jaded. Oh, and I don't believe in the Reason For The Season, either. Hmmmm, maybe we're onto something here.

I like buying presents for people. It's the wrapping and shipping parts I don't necessarily ever--ahem--get to. There is a corner in a closet where I toss things I've purchased for others and never given.

A partial list:

One (1) luggage tag in shape of a woman's pump. Totally cute. Meant for my friend in LA.

One (1) boxed Family Game Set purchased for our friends in Virginia.

Two (2) scarves: one black, one purple. I think they were meant for my nieces.

One (1) book of IOU sexual favors gift certificates purchased for my hubby and god knows how it ended up in the pile. Like I can give it to anyone else?

One (1) book titled Raising A Daughter, purchased for a friend who just had one. I forgot to give it to her when she first had the baby and I don't see her often. The child will be raised by the time she actually receives the book.

One (1) cutie-pie girl's hat and gloves set and a little boy sweatshirt from The Gap purchased for some friends' kids TWO Christmases ago. Oops.

One (1) set of amber glass bear salt-and-pepper shakers purchased for the parents of the above kids. They (the bears, not the kids) are now in my kitchen, where sometimes D. and I face them together like they're kissing. They are too cute.

Six (6) fish barrettes purchased for my niece about three years ago. And a t-shirt from our Farmers Market for her brother.

When I buy things for people, D. looks at me with an eyebrow cocked up like he knows where they're going to end up.

In the closet. The closet of misfit gifts. Waiting for Santa.

The Cat Who Won't Shut UP!

I have two cats. Both are adorable, orange, long-haired tabby cats, which are widely known as the best, most mellow and sweet, good-natured, adorable, sweetest, mellowest, chillest, coolest, kindest, smartest, most adorable cats on the Planet Earth.

Except for right now. One of them is walking around the house meowing in his eff'd up way, which sounds like a cross between nails on a chalkboard and a--well, wild cat in heat--not that this one knows anything about that. What sound in creation could be more annoying?? I am absolutely powerless to stop it.

(Just for fun, give a cat a command of your choice and then hold your breath and see who dies first.)

I love all animals; the ones who agree to live in my house and eat my food are my children--I'm a little weird like that. I think animals have more inherent rights than many people deserve and I am a humongous supporter of every animal rights group, yes, including PETA, and some may think it's "because" I don't have children, but god, the animals need SOMEONE on their side who thinks they're as important as people, do they not?? So whether I have spawn or not does not enter into this equation. I know too well how dogs and cats take a back seat when the kids come into the picture.

That said, this particular animal is asking for it, big time.

"Reerrrrawwwaaarrraaaahhhhhh," says he.

"What do you WANT?" says I.

"Mrrreeeeeewaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhaaaaahhhhh," says the cat.

"Be quiet! You're NOT going outside!" says the patient and kind animal lover.

Pad, pad, pad go the furry paws; swish, swish, swish go the butt and high-held tail. Around the kitchen, through the hall, in circles around my chair and the dining room table, and back to the hall again.

"Weeeehhhhhhhaaaaaaayyyyoooooouuuuuuuhhhhhh," says he, more forlornly than last time.

"Oh for godssake, what IS it?" says I. I follow him downstairs to the cubby where their food bowls live.

Oops. Empty.

Ok, I'm the bad one.

This cat is up for adoption. His name is Twinkie. He looks exactly like mine. You need this cat. I'm sure he's very quiet.

I'm Thankful

I am thankful for my family.

I am thankful for my friends.

I am thankful for my adorable, wonderful husband.

I am thankful for my adorable, wonderful animals.

I am thankful for my good health and for the good health of my family, friends, husband, and animals.

I am thankful that we will have a new president in a little over a year.

I am thankful that I have two gorgeous new/old rugs on my floors.

Let's Talk About Weight--It's Fun!

Here's a comment I posted on one of my favorite blogs,
Oh The Joys

Claire B. said...
Wow. I've been reading you for a little while now, and have been impressed by your wit and honesty, your talent and yes, your gorgeousness. I was *a little* jealous of how awesome you look after two kids. Me? I have somehow allowed myself to gain nearly every pound WW helped me take off in the late 80's. 20 effin years ago. I was at my own ideal weight (for about 6 hours), after being Porky Porkina my whole life. (I loved your turkey breast reference; I think of my excess pounds in terms of 5-lb bags of sugar, as in "I'm carrying SEVEN.BAGS.OF.SUGAR.ALL.THE.TIME.OMG!!!")

Following my six hours of Incredible Lightness of Being, I managed to look good for quite a long time. But did I feel ok about myself? NO! I still bitched unceasingly about being fat. And over the last few years, when my hub and I started a business together, I really let it go. Suddenly (?) I am within five pounds of my all-time high.

And do I think I need a program like WW? The one where I lost forty ugly pounds? Until I read this post, no I did not think that I did.

So thanks for the inspiration and for helping me remember that hot sexy women don't always just happen (like I used to think you did). Mostly they have to work very hard to pull it off.

Oh boy. This is, like, the first time I've ever written about my weight. I think about my weight all the effin time, however. Seriously. I am obsessed about weight: mine, yours, complete strangers', my sisters', every body's.

The other night, at the outdoor movie (The Goonies, and yes, I nearly wept just looking at Chunk because I felt so sorry for him) there was a super-skinny girl sitting nearby (ok, there were lots of them, but this particular one was SO thin and SO showing it off as well her twenty-one-year-old self should have been) and I said to D. "wow that girl is so skinny" and because he is the most adorable man ever, D. said "that is SO unattractive." Yay for me! Later, I saw a NOT thin girl preparing to sit on the ground (not an easy feat for a big girl) and she was adjusting her shirt so that her low rider jeans wouldn't expose her backside, while balancing her weight so she wouldn't fall over or land too hard, while keeping her pint of beer from spilling (and just because she's a big girl doesn't mean she can't have the beer), and none of this is as easy as being the thin girl and just placing your ass on the ground as your thin legs bend easily and freely--I know, I've been both of these girls. So I look at the larger girl's assets and ask D. "Is that how I look in my jeans?" and D., because he is the most adorable man ever, says, "No, honey! Do you actually think you look like that?" Yay for me!

Oh, really? What is so wonderful about comparing myself to every woman I see, and thinking how does it feel to be that thin or thank god I'm not that fat?

When will this obsession end? When I am no longer dissatisfied with myself and my body? As if that day will ever come? Or when I finally accept my body as it is, accept my weight as it is, and convince myself that this weight is where my body is at rest? After all, I am incredibly healthy, with the lowest blood pressure known to womankind, along with a very low vegetarian cholesterol count. My doctor says I need to take off a few pounds, but I figure she's so happy to have a patient with very few issues that she doesn't want to jinx anything so she leaves my fat, healthy ass alone. And I am thankful for my health. Every single day. I tell myself that years from now when I'm having my chemo or radiation or some life-saving surgery (I think about these things) I'll look back on my fat, healthy ass and wish that I were even MORE thankful for it. I tell myself that a) many people wish they looked like me (the girls that are even fatter than me); or b) I am among the lucky ones who happened to be born in this time and place and of the privileged race while so many women around the world are poor, oppressed, abused and have none of the opportunities I have so why in the hell am I so freakin shallow and worried about something of inconsequence like my stupid weight? Why am I not out there saving the world instead of obsessing about my weight?? AAARRRGGGHH!

But it makes me miserable. And so I drone on, driving myself and everyone around me to the tenth circle of hell. However, I'm apparently not miserable enough to do anything real about my weight. I have increased my level of exercise. I've been riding my bike and walking the two miles each way to work. I take my dog on long walks. D. and I stopped drinking the alcohol Monday through Thursday for awhile (yes, I felt better) but then summer rolled around and we needed to "celebrate" so I've had teensy bits a glass or two of some lovely summer wines and a few after-work-on-the-outdoor-deck pints with visiting family and friends. And I wonder where this comes from?





Yes, I saw Dr. Oz on Oprah and bought his book and was grossed out about my omentum. Again, not a lifestyle-changing event. Besides, Dr. Oz is naturally thin, while I am more Oprah-esque. That girl must exercise constantly to stay ahead of the weight gain. With my metabolism, I could eat a lettuce leaf and run a marathon and still gain a half pound.

I used to run. I ran a marathon. One. In 1996. I was never so proud of myself. I would like to run again. I would like to be thin again. I would like to love clothes on my body again. Actually I would love all of these things. But mostly I would love to stop obsessing over my weight. So I can stop hating myself every time I look in the mirror or catch myself in a storefront window.

It's not good, the hating. So I'm back on that track again, serious again, as I was at my first WW weigh-in when I almost passed out after the nice lady told me my weight. Will it be WW? Why not? Will it be Dr. Oz's plan? We'll see. Stay tuned, and if you'd like, stay in touch.

Nearly Esaped

I nearly escaped. All day long I waited for them to let down their guard, to fall asleep, or to go off on a walk or drive so I could make a break for it. They didn't move. They seemed content to sit close and read their Bill O'Reilly books.

Finally, in the early afternoon, a couple of heads nodded into naptime and I heard a movie playing downstairs. I perked up as the doorbell rang: a golden opportunity! I ran wide-eyed to the door, opened it cautiously and found two women campaigning for Barack Obama. They smiled widely and handed me a brochure.

"Barack! Barack! Do you know Barack? We love Barack! You must read his books! He's smart! He's articulate! He's the answer! I hate Hilary, but I love Barack!"

"Listen," I said, stepping out onto the porch and pulling the door closed behind me, "I'm surrounded in there and you have to help me."

"Surrounded?"

"Yes, surrounded. By Republicans! They're reading Bill O'Reilly! You gotta get me out of here!"

"Ohhhhhhhh. Republicans." They spoke softly. "What are you going to do?"

"I don't know. Can I join you?"

"Have you read The Audacity of Hope?"

"No. I mean, not yet."

"Oh. Well, then, no, you may not."

"Come on, ladies, please! I'm dying in there!"

"Sorry, really." They backed away and turned toward the stairs. "We'll call you later to see how you're doing," they said as they dashed away.

I looked down at the brochure. Happy Senator waving to the crowd. "I thought you were going to save me." Head hanging, I went back into the house, threw the brochure into the recycle bin, and sighed.