Work

I had my annual physical exam today, which gave me an opportunity to kick back and read a magazine titled "Working Mother."  In case you wondered what, exactly, Working Mothers look like, here is a photo:

I confess that I look nothing like this.  I don't look like this now, in my dotage, and I didn't look like this when I was young and, if not *hawt*, then somewhat simmering.  I also do not dress like this when I go to work: that white shirt and light pink jacket would have coffee all over them before I managed to merge onto Route 128.  Which leaves me to conclude that the woman on the cover of the magazine is not an actual "Working Mother," but rather someone who poses as an idealized version of a Working Mother for magazine covers that make us all feel bad.

Surprisingly, my blood pressure was still in normal range when it was measured.

The cover of the magazine got me thinking about the Zellweger Conspiracy Theories.  I hadn't thought much about Zellweger in some time and, when I saw the recent photos of her, I thought that she looked good: she's slim and her skin is all Hollywood glowing and her hair is wavy.  However, I am NOT supposed to think that she looked good.  I am supposed to think that she looks HORRIBLE!  And that she may have had the euphemistic *work* done, which means surgery to help her look like an idealized version of herself.  And she should not be allowed to have had *work* done unless done by the doctors who have never met her who say that she looks like she had the *work.*  Gah!  It's not like anyone expects actors and celebutantes to look good and perfect ALL of the TIME even when they have just given BIRTH or gotten out of a SWIMMING POOL or off of an AIRPLANE or while they are eating or anything.

I know that I look exactly the same as I did 15 years ago, so why shouldn't RZ?  The audacity of aging!  And of cosmetic surgery!

So, I am off to crawl into a hole because I do not look like the Working Mother that I am and because I think that RZ looks good and that it's her beeswax if she wants to have surgery.

On Gin

If you are drinking a drink that does not contain gin, it is not a Martini. I don't care how cute the name is -- Chocotini, Limontini, Pumpkintini -- it's not a Martini. Because a Martini has gin.

 There are more brands of gin out there than ever: lovely, small batch potions, with various levels of Christmas trees. Hendricks Gin, which has become popular, is botanical and flowery and tastes best with cucumber. I like my gin with lime and simple syrup (a classic gimlet), and the best gins for that are Beefeaters and Gordon's: they don't compete. I also like the occasional iconic Martini, and, for that, it's a dash of vermouth, Bombay Sapphire, and as many olives as I can get (this is also called 'dinner'). If you are drinking gin with tonic water, please use decent tonic water, fresh limes, and don't waste money on name brand gin. Get some Gordon's. Same for a Negroni: spend the money on Campari and good rosso vermouth, and use some Gordon's or Beefeaters. For an Aviation, spend on Creme de Violette and Maraschino liqueur and fresh lemons with those lovely neutral gins.

A colleague today told me that gin is the only spirit distilled on the basis of taste instead of time. I say, bully to that.

Apple Picking. Or Purgatory

When I picked up the kids from their basketball clinic yesterday at 12 (because of the faux-holiday), I had plans.  It would, I thought, be a great day to either go hiking at Purgatory Chasm; do a little Urban Hiking in Boston, hitting the MFA and the ICA to get some culture on; or to ride bikes along the Charles into Harvard Square.  I presented these options at lunch and the options were immediately dismissed because the Friends were going to Honey Pot Hill Orchard to go Apple Picking!

I knew that I was defeated.  This is because of the power of the Friends. I used to be cool and I used to have the best ideas and now I am only as good as the amount of time I spend doing what all of the other parents do so that my kids are with their friends as close to 16 hours per day as possible.  I tried.  I laid out my three paltry substitutes for Honey Pot Hill.  They were rejected.  Immediately.  On the grounds that there would be no Friends at any of the places I wanted to go.

And so we got in the car and drove for 45 minutes (it was a pretty drive and relatively traffic- and construction-free) to get to the land of Chaos and Bedlam.  I should have turned around and gone hiking along the Assabet River as soon as I saw the first police officer directing traffic.  The second police officer directed us to a parking lot where parking lot attendants directed us to a parking space.  I wondered if Bono or Taylor Swift or Tom and Gisele were picking apples, too.

No, they were not.  Everyone else in the world was, however.

So we parked and immediately there was a scramble for my PHONE to see the TEXTS from the FRIENDS' mom so that we could find the FRIENDS.

The Friends had not yet arrived, so we went to look at the animals, which made me very sad, because there were hundreds of people staring at three little pink pigs, two goats, two sheep, some chickens, and some rabbits.  Less farm animals than sideshow.  The pigs were even made to hang out in front of three dog houses -- you guessed it -- made out of bricks, straw, and twigs, respectively.  I was grateful that there was no wolf in evidence.

Still awaiting the Friends, we selected a pumpkin to bring home and walked with our 26 pounder, which cost $14, back to the car.

The Friends arrived.  The kids were hungry.  There was a farm store with a long line and there was a grill with a longer line and there was a bakery with a line that rivaled the lines outside the Apple Store when the new iThings are released.  We were told that the caramel apples were not in the Farm Store, and so we got out of line and went to leave, only to see a tray of caramel apples near the register.  We got back in line.  As we got to the tray of caramel apples, they were purchased, one by one, until there was only one left.  With nuts.  We had five kids with us.  We got out of line again.  

We went to another window without a line, where we were told that that window was for Family Fun Pack, which came with a caramel apple, an apple cider donut, and apple cider.  Only we couldn't BUY the Family Fun Pack there, we had to buy it in Parking Lot B.  Wherever that was.  

So, we walked over to the hayride, where we were allowed to buy a Family Fun Pack, which cost $16 and included a small bag for apple picking and a hayride and a Hedge Maze.  For one person.  We figured that took care of one kid's rides and three kid's snacks, and the apple picking, so we bought one, paid $2 each for everyone else for the hayride, and got on the hay bails.  The tractor dumped us in the middle of the orchard, which actually was lovely, except that there were 10,000 people there and smooshed apples everywhere, making it slippery, so, inevitably, my younger kid fell in the smooshed apple and got smooshed apple all over himself.  The other kids were all climbing precariously perched ladders.  How much do these people pay for insurance at Honey Pot Hell?

When we got back to the Maze, we discovered that the Family Fun Pack ticket was lost.  The kids did the Maze (at a cost of $4 per kid), and the other parent found a nice Honey Pot Hell Employee, who believed her that her ticket had been lost and got her a caramel apple, a cider donut, and an apple cider.  This took care of the 3 youngest kids.  The two bigger kids went back to look at the pigs and I got in the Bakery Line, which was not a line but a chaotic crush of people wanting their donuts and caramel apples.  I waited 20 minutes.  The line was no closer to the bakery window.  I pleaded with the two older kids to allow me to get out of the line and told them that I would find them a caramel apple somewhere else.  I did not specify a time frame for this.

We got back in the car and my older kid, the one who didn't get a caramel apple, asked where we would get one.  I drove the 45 minutes back to Waltham and then to the other side of town and, once there, went to the little Wagon Wheel farm stand, where they had caramel dipping sauce for apples, but no caramel apples.  So, the older kid, who was stoic, opted for a chocolate Dracula head on a lollipop stick.

We got home and I swore to my husband that I will NEVER go apple picking again, unless it is at an orchard where there are apples on trees and no amusement park accoutrements and no other people.

What Holiday?

Americans: can we please get our act together with the whole *what constitutes a day off* thing?  Today is Columbus Day, celebrating a guy who did not *discover* America and was actually, according to some of the guys who sailed with him, a sick, depraved, cruel excuse for a man.  My kids have off from school.  Their out-of-school-time program is closed.  We won't get mail and the banks are closed, which doesn't mean much because who goes to the actual bank anymore anyway?

My place of work, however, and that of most others, is open.  Retail businesses are all open with their Columbus Day $14.92 specials.  Unless you are a person who works in a bank or at a non-profit organization, or in education, you are probably working today.  Unless you had to use a vacation day or a sick day to stay at home to watch the kids.

I spent many years working in direct patient care in the hospital setting.  My co-workers and I were always bemused at our non-healthcare friends who expected to not work on, not just Thanksgiving Day, but the day after.  And it's not just healthcare people: who do you think is working at the restaurants you go to on Thanksgiving, or the movie you go see on Christmas Day, or the hotel you stay at on the Fourth of July?  People who are working, that's who.

The holidays can't be separated from the demands of retail: President's Day demands that you buy a Car.  Now.  In fact, I cannot believe that I am not somewhere RIGHT NOW getting my 14.92% OFF of EVERYTHING.  Soon, it will be the time to shop for Thanksgiving, because you must need another turkey-shaped soup tureen and orange tablecloth to go with your Pilgrims.

So, when I am made Empress of Everything, I will pick ten days out of the year on which no one will work, except for the hospital peeps, who will get super-triple-overtime, because I will remember my friends when I am Empress.

Update: the Things for the Car were even more Costly than Initially Thought.

Loaded kids into Darling Husband's car to go get DH at work so that he could drop me at the Car Service Place.  Upon arriving at the Car Service Place, I was presented with a bill for the Things for the Car and the bill had a whole lot of numbers on it.  The big number at the bottom was ONE THOUSAND four HUNDRED US American dollars.  Which is a lot of greenery. Or plastic.  Because of course it went on the Plastic because, while I have $1400 US American dollars, if I spent all of them at the car place, there would be not enough for the Food and the Mortgage and the Electricity and the SpongeBob Station (which actually might save some sturm and drang in the  mornings, so is something that I should think about.)

And now, it is cold and dreary and, because it is Saturday, the Kids don't want to watch the teevee; they want to DO things.  Things that involve ME.

#gonnabealongday

The Annals of the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Morning

I know that you will read this and wonder what the aitch ee double hockey sticks is wrong with me.  Because I know that you are able to get yourself and your kids out the door without having it look or sound like Army Basic Training.  But for me, this is a pretty routine morning and this morning was even worse than most.  Forthwith:

• The small kid wakes up at 0600, crawls into my bed, demands things that I do not immediately produce, so he wakes his dad instead and continues this until his demands are met
• Please note that the smaller child is almost eight and is physically able to produce most of these things (juice, cereal) himself, however, he loves an audience
• At 0730, I drag older kid from his bed.  He comes downstairs and immediately jumps on the computer to look at his Fantasy Football team.  It is Friday morning and none of his players played in any Thursday night games.
• 0735: tell older kid to come into kitchen and eat breakfast
• 0740: tell younger kid to get dressed because he has finished breakfast
• 0745: tell older kid that he cannot watch SpongeBob in the morning because it has a strange hypnotic power over him and we have agreed that there can be no watching of the Sponge on school mornings because of the strange hypnotic power.
• 0747: tell younger kid to get dressed.  Tell him it's cold outside.
• 0748: tell older kid to turn off SpongeBob
• 0750: younger kid presents with the flimsiest of shorts and a very rumpled t-shidt that may or may not have holes in it.  When questioned about his clothing choice, he tells me that he has gym today.
• 0751: locate remote for the teevee and turn off SpongeBob
• 0752: tell older kid to finish toast. Remind him that he has to fill out math and reading logs and place them in his folder and place the folder in the backpack; get dressed; and brush his teeth.
• 0755: tell younger kid to fill out reading log and place folder in backpack and to brush teeth and then put on shoes
• 0800: older kid is calmly sorting through a laundry basket because he needs the orange 'elite' socks.  Tell him to get two matching socks, a shirt, and pants and to get dressed.
• 0810: older kid is dressed in shorts and wearing orange elite socks.  He cannot find his math log.
• 0815: younger kid is outside playing in mud or some other dirty substance.  Tell him to brush his teeth.
• 0817: tell younger kid to come in and brush his teeth.  Tell older kid to complete his logs and put them in his folder in his backpack and to brush his teeth and to put on his shoes.
• 0818: Give the two minute warning.
• 0821: older kid is calmly and patiently drawing a very detailed math log on a sheet of paper because he cannot find his math log.  
• 0822: tell older kid to brush his teeth, put his logs in his folder, put his folder in his backpack, put on his shoes, get a hoodie and get OUT THE DOOR to walk to school, which has EARLY RELEASE today
• 0823: older kid tells me that none of this is done because I am yelling at him and so he can't get any of it done and it would all be done if I wasn't yelling at him
• 0824: I yell some more.  I am not proud of this.
• 0825: younger kid, trying to be delightful and helpful, tells me that he packed his own snack.  I realize that I have not packed the snacks.  I yell again.
• 0826: older kid is now sobbing.
• 0827: younger kid, who is usually the one who is in trouble, is basking in the fact that he actually DOES have his shoes on, his logs in his folder, his teeth brushed, and his clothes on.
• 0828: leave to watch younger kid walk to end of road while older kid tries to compose himself.  Older kid is yelling that this is ALL MY FAULT for yelling.
• 0829: older kid comes out.  I make him stop and shake my hand so that we can part friends. He refuses. I tell him to consider the repercussions of his actions. He gives in and grudgingly shakes my hand, then turns and walks to school.
• 0835: I get into car, push the ignition, and the coolant light comes on and flashes and tells me to CONSULT THE SERVICE MANUAL.  I drive to the VW Service Center instead.
• 0915: VW calls me to tell me that it will cost $800 to fix the Things.
• 0930: Walk to Darling Husband's place of work to get his car to drive home.
• 0945: cancel appointment with customer; reschedule for Monday, then realize that there is no school on Monday and I only have a place to put the kids for 3 hours in the morning.
• 0950: Wonder how much gin is left in the cupboard.

Endemic

There is much hand-wringing and concern and, even, panic over the Ebola virus.  There is considerably less panic about Enterovirus D68, even though it's exponentially more likely that you, or your neighbor, or your cousin's kid will get EV-D68 than Ebola.  And still, many Americans won't get their flu shot, which is exponentially more likely to infect than either EV-D68 or Ebola.  I guess we like the adrenaline rush of the panic.  Sigh.

What's endemic and largely ignored and is killing us and hurting us in large numbers is something much more insidious: violence.

I just heard the story (yes, I'm late to the game in this case) of the Freshman boys in Sayreville, NJ who were hazed by upperclassmen.  This hazing wasn't the despicable yet widely accepted punching, shoving, shaming, and other bullying tactics.  This involved digital anal rape while the Freshman boys were held down by other teammates.  And THEN the 13 and 14 year olds were made to LICK the finger just used to rape them.

How did the upperclassmen think of this sadistic rite of passage?  It was done to them.

Let's not pile on Sayreville and think that it's in any way isolated.  Violence is endemic in our society and we are doing very little to stop it.  While NFL players get the spotlight, don't forget that Domestic Violence is an epidemic that isn't going anywhere: facts.  Neither is child abuse, even when the cameras go away from that house of horrors in Blackstone, MA where the bodies of three infants were found along with children who were obviously maltreated.  Then, of course, there's the gun violence.  For every Sandy Hook or Aurora, as horrifying as those are, there's somebody getting shot right about now, since the rate of firearm homicide is about 30 per day.  [Please note that the stats from the Bureau of Justice are intended to show how the rate of firearm violence has DECREASED.  God help us if 11,000 deaths per year is a good thing.]  There's the father of two who made the mistake of confronting a guy with a short trigger and a loaded gun over a driving dispute.

After the shooting at the Navy Yard in Washington, DC, the Chief Medical Officer and Trauma Surgeon spoke so movingly and eloquently.  When she said, though, that "this is not America," I think that she was wrong.  I think that it is, sadly and tragically, America.  And that only Americans can change the culture of violence here.

Where, exactly, is Garnet Hill and how do I get there?

Despite my best efforts to STOP the onslaught of the glossy catalogs that show up uninvited in my mailbox and stuff the recycling bin, they still show up.  And some of them are like shopping porn.  Of those that I cannot simply place in the bin without lovingly paging through them are:

• Athleta.  Because, if I stare at this catalog long enough, I will get toned abs and learn how to surf
• Boden, which takes me to Hampstead Heath, where I spend my days at the Tate and my nights at fabulous soirees with people who know the Royals
• And, most scintillating of all, Garnet Hill.

So, where IS Garnet Hill?  I know who lives there: beautiful blonde women who can wear casual-chic all week long and who have adorable daughters and whose handsome husbands show up once a year at  Christmastime, draped in cashmere and wearing slippers.  These women are tall and athletic and have amazing hair.  Even though they don't work in traditional business, evidenced by their attire (except, maybe, the Eileen Fisher line, which I'll get to in a moment), they can afford Chan Luu jewelry and $350 Frye boots and lots of cashmere. 

And it doesn't stop there.  No!  It migrates to their homes, where their housekeepers make up the beds with Eileen Fisher quilted silk comforters that cost more than one month's mortgage.  And the sheets that are made by hand by elves in Switzerland from the strands of little Alpine flowers.  And the  PILLOWS!  And the RUGS!  And the tchochkes!

It's enough to make my heart race and my credit card leap from my wallet because if I get the cashmere sweater, surely I will grow seven inches and suddenly sprout golden highlights in my hair and my husband will wear SLIPPERS and I will go to bed at night in the most beautiful bed EVER which will NEVER be wrecked by my kids, because my boys will morph into well-behaved, beautifully dressed little girls.  And I will reach into my Italian leather bag to replace my wallet and I will be HAPPY!

So, if you know how to get to Garnet Hill, please let me know.  I know I'd be happy there.

The Carbon Footprint of my New Shoes

Two weeks ago, after sending back a pair of shoes to 6pm because they were fugly upon arrival, I ordered up these Geox booties from Yoox.  Yum.

Yesterday, I went onto yoox.com to see where the aitch ee double hockey sticks they were because a girl needs her new shoes.  And this is what I found:

Next Scheduled Event:  Monday,10/06/2014 by 10:00 A.M.

Location	Date	Local Time	Activity
East Boston, MA, United States	10/04/2014	7:10 A.M.	Departure Scan
	10/04/2014	6:19 A.M.	Arrival Scan
Louisville, KY, United States	10/04/2014	4:19 A.M.	Departure Scan
	10/04/2014	12:39 A.M.	Import Scan
Louisville, KY, United States	10/03/2014	5:02 A.M.	Warehouse Scan
	10/03/2014	12:57 A.M.	Your package will be held at a warehouse until it is released by the clearance agency. / Your package was released by the clearing agency.
	10/03/2014	12:57 A.M.	Your package was released by the clearing agency.
Louisville, KY, United States	10/03/2014	12:50 A.M.	Import Scan
Louisville, KY, United States	10/02/2014	11:41 A.M.	Import Scan
	10/02/2014	1:43 A.M.	Your package will be held at a warehouse until it is released by the clearance agency.
	10/02/2014	12:09 A.M.	Arrival Scan
Koeln, Germany	10/01/2014	8:54 P.M.	Departure Scan
Koeln, Germany	09/30/2014	3:52 P.M.	Arrival Scan
Nurnberg, Germany	09/30/2014	9:41 A.M.	Departure Scan
	09/30/2014	9:30 A.M.	Arrival Scan
Milano, Italy	09/29/2014	9:00 P.M.	Departure Scan
	09/29/2014	1:52 P.M.	Export Scan
	09/29/2014	1:50 P.M.	Warehouse Scan
	09/29/2014	9:54 A.M.	Your package is at the clearing agency awaiting final release. / Your package was released by the clearing agency.
	09/29/2014	6:55 A.M.	Your package is at the clearing agency awaiting final release.
Milano, Italy	09/27/2014	7:00 A.M.	Arrival Scan
Bologna, Italy	09/27/2014	4:00 A.M.	Departure Scan
Bologna, Italy	09/26/2014	8:04 P.M.	Arrival Scan
Bentivoglio, Italy	09/26/2014	7:50 P.M.	Departure Scan
	09/26/2014	6:49 P.M.	Location Scan
Italy	09/26/2014	1:01 P.M.	Order Processed: Ready for UPS

The enviable passport of my new kicks.  What do I need to do to offset the carbon footprint of these babies?

A Cautionary Tale: Cooking while Drinking may Lead to Unintended Pasta

We got home from Waltham Fields with our share yesterday (which, of course, required the Boyz, an additional five-year old borrowed from the neighbor, and me to halt the railroad track construction TWICE as we carried our wagon over the tracks and on down Beaver Street) and made this for lunch:

It was delish.  

Inspired, I made Mommy Chicken for my kids for dinner (chicken breast pounded flat and then dipped in egg, flour, and panko bread crumbs and fried in a little canola oil) and then took out the cod from Red's Best that I got with my weekly order from Farmers to You and prepared to cook it for Darling Husband and me for our dinner.

I found this recipe on Epicurious and poured myself a glass of Albarino and started cooking.  DH hates mushy fish and I hate fried food, so it's hard to find a fish dish that works for both of us.  I usually resort to fish tacos.  This, though, promised awesomeness, along with bonus actual SAUSAGE for DH (I think that he would eat plywood if I told him that there was chorizo on it.  Which is actually an idea to get him to eat tofu. Hmmm.)  So, since the fish was cooked on the stove until there's a nice crustiness to the bottom and then finished in the oven and topped with toasted breadcrumbs (I used more of the panko, toasted in a wok, because all of the other pans were in the sink.  Don't judge me) and the CHORIZO, it was crunchy, fresh cod delight all around.  Served with some steamed green beans.  And more wine.

Which inspired me even more, so I took the escarole from the fridge and went onto the next recipe: escarole soup.  I poured another glass.  The albarino was really good and I would recommend it to other Sauvignon Blanc, Sancerre fans out there. I cannot, however, recommend finishing the bottle while cooking.  I should also point out that my approach to cooking is to read the recipe, assume that I have memorized it, and proceed.  As most people know, alcohol impairs both memory and judgment, and so I sometimes get some interesting outcomes.  The escarole soup recipe was simple and straightforward.  Not an iota of heavy lifting, so I lifted another glass and then poured the entire package of tiny pasta into the pot.

So, what I have is teensy tiny macaroni and cheese with some escarole visible in what would have been a lovely broth.

Cheers.

Ground Control

Today, the street next to my house is closed.  It's a busy street that connects the east end of my town and all of the towns east of me to the center of Our Small City.  There are houses, an office park, a gas station, a Girl Scout Camp, a Community Farm, Bentley University, a Private School, a baseball field (which is hosting a big fair today), and two historic estates (Lyman and Stonehurst, the Paine Estate) along the two mile length of the road.  And it is closed, which is annoying and inconvenient and a pain in the arse.  

But that's not what this is about.  No, what this is about is the police details that accompany every single construction project everywhere ever.

I am a supporter of community police and I think that, in general, police have a pretty crappy job and that they should be able to supplement their income with overtime.  Also, having police presence along a gridlocked road probably goes a long way to stop people from actively killing each other while trying to cut in front of cars in a lane closure.  The police are very helpful at directing traffic.  When they do that.

What bugs me is how many of the police officers stationed at construction sites do NOT direct traffic or assist motorists in any way.  Instead, they WATCH the construction.  As if they are supervising the work.  Their backs are typically turned away from the traffic which they are supposed to be directing and they are watching the diggers and the jackhammers and the guys who are in the holes in the ground.  Meanwhile, there are jackaninnies trying to avoid the delay by DRIVING ON SIDEWALKS or making U-turns in the middle of intersections with pedestrian crosswalks or driving up in the Left Turn Only lane and then trying to cut into the right lane because the jackaninnies are MORE IMPORTANT THAN ANYONE ELSE.

Instead of observing the construction workers, I would like to see the police officers ARREST THE JACKANINNIES and put them in Bad Driver Jail, which will teach them a Thing.

Or, the police officers could just direct the traffic.

LHRD

Love Hate Relationship Disorder
http://www.buzzfeed.com/ryankincaid/first-world-problems-people-had-at-whole-foods#1v9cw1h

Just stop already

Over at the Bloggess, Jenny Lawson is getting the same panicked e-mail messages as I am.  Messages from the Democratic National Committee and the Democratic Congressional Campaign Committee and EMILY's List and ActBlue and Organizing for America (which used to be Obama for America, but now that Barry's in his second term, I guess that he has already established himself for America.)  The messages are sent from Very Important People.  The people who send the e-mail messages vary: if I don't respond to Bill Clinton (and who wouldn't respond to Bill?), I get a message from Debbie Wasserman Schultz.  If I ignore Debbie, Deval Patrick, the Governor of Massachusetts, sends me a message.  If I don't write back to Deval, I get a message from Elizabeth Warren, who seems to have become Everyone's Favorite Democrat.  And then there are the messages from Michelle Obama!  Michelle.  Obama.  Whoa.

What do Bill, Debbie, Deval, and Elizabeth want?  Money.  They want me to give money.  And if I don't give the money to the DNC or the DCCC or ActBlue or EMILY's List, it is MY fault, and mine alone, that Democrats will not hold the Senate in November and the Republicans will retain control of the house.

That's quite a burden.  And so I look at my checking account and it still says that there is enough money to pay for groceries and the mortgage and that we are still contributing monthly to Jack's and Finn's college savings accounts and that, after all of that is done, there isn't much left.

A few of the messages stated that if I gave money, I would be entered in a contest to see President Obama in LA.  There was one that incentivized with a trip to Washington DC to have dinner with Hillary Clinton, Joe Biden, and Barry and Michelle.

Wait a minute: if I give money, say $20, the D-organization is going to spend $1000 or more to fly me somewhere?  How about I just don't give any money and you guys keep the $1K in the bank, which will net you $980?

Another message, from ActBlue, used this logic:
The GOP is on the ropes!  They can't raise anymore money!  We are raising more money than they are!  So you should give more money NOW!

Um, OK.  Have these people not heard of Compassion Fatigue?  Or The Boy Who Cried 'Wolf'? Or The Woman Who Unsubscribed from All Organizations Because She Couldn't Stand Looking at Her Inbox?

This is, of course, happening to my friends on the right, too.  I know that they are getting letters from Marco Rubio and Jeb Bush and Barbara Bush and George Bush and Bobby Jindal and Scott Brown and maybe even from the Crazy Sisters, Sarah Palin and Michelle Bachman.

The panicked pandering is happening on the state level, too.  Martha Coakley never hesitates to remind me that she is a woman and that, because we both have lady parts, she knows what is best for me and Charlie Baker cannot know.  I am sure that if Charlie Baker had my e-mail address, he would send me a message that began 'Dear Sweetheart.'

Maybe, just maybe, what Bill, Debbie, Hillary, Elizabeth, Deval, Martha, Joe, Hillary, Jeb, Barbara, George, Michelle, Joe, and Marco should consider investing in is a way to do this whole election thing without it having to cost a gazillion dollars.  Maybe that would help elected officials actually do the job they were elected to do instead of needing to raise money for the next race as soon as they win.  Maybe it would get all of the special interest groups out of it and make people get information on candidates someplace other than from attack ads on the teevee.

For now, for me, it's all about the 'delete' button.

Zackly

Thank you, reader Jill, for this. Perfect! A flowchart!

What Not to Wear

Yesterday, I attended a conference for health care professionals as an exhibitor.  I wore a navy pinstripe sheath that I got at Nordstrom 2 years ago,  my favorite navy, 3-button jacket from Pink Tartan that is flecked with silver metallic thread, and a pair of tan (I hate the word 'nude', because I am not the color of these shoes when I am nude and I don't think anyone else is, either) slingbacks from Cydwoq because they are so very comfortable and I was going to be standing for most of the day.

I attend these conferences about six times each year, and at every conference, I am always appalled at what the attendees are wearing.  I don't expect health care professionals, for whom this is a day off, to show up in a suit, however, do they have to show up in clothes that they could have (and may have) worn to the gym?

The misappropriation of workout clothes for things other than actually working out drives me batty.  I'm not necessarily talking about the ubiquitous black stretch pants (I'll get there in a minute); rather, I mean nylon shirts emblazoned with Nike swooshes or Puma pumas or the UnderArmour logo.  I am talking about sweatpants.  I am talking about running shoes when there is no running taking place (and, from the looks of it, there hasn't been in some time.)  It is a look that is sloppy and unprofessional and says, "I care so little for how I look and how I am perceived that I will just wear these gym clothes.  I have no respect for myself or my profession."  And it is EVERYWHERE.  Is it really that hard to put on a pair of nice jeans in a  dark wash (one idea ), or a pair of flat front khakis (these work) and a sweater?  And, for footwear, if one must wear sneakers, why not some nice vintage tennies or even a slip-on pair of Vans?

While some women do show up wearing the gym attire shown above, it's relatively rare.  The Fashion Don't committed by womenfolk again and again is confusing leggings with pants.  Leggings are meant to be worn under a tunic, or a dress, or a long cardigan.  Pants have structure, and seaming, and zippers, and pockets.  If the subtle topography of your butt is apparent through the fabric, then you cannot wear them out of the house.  One possible exception may be a pair of well made, black, bootleg (not tight around the calf and ankle) stretch pants, like those sometimes worn for yoga.  Well-made, black, bootleg stretch pants (like these ) can be combined with a nice jacket or sweater and nice shoes or ankle boots and can pass, especially for a long plane or car ride.  Otherwise, get a skirt, or a pair of actual pants and some actual shoes and wear them.

Of course, there is the other side of the coin, which is "trying too hard".  I have seen women wearing stiletto heels at 7AM and I have seen these same women lurching through the buffet lunch with less grace than a stilt-walker.  Inappropriate dressing is as wrong as underdressing, so save the Carine Roitfeld heels for your trip to New York Fashion Week.

The final sin is that of wearing clothing that does not fit.  If there is clothing in your closet that does not fit, you should get rid of it.  Immediately.  Because the next time there is a reason to wear something presentable, whether it's a professional conference or a funeral, you need something reliable that fits you now.  Not the thing that fit you 8 years ago.  If you have worked hard to lose weight and have been successful, it is not okay to just pull the belt tighter.  And if you haven't been successful in losing weight, even Spanx aren't going to help you.

When I worked in hospitals, I wore scrubs to work every night.  Light blue scrubs, usually with a long sleeved tee-shirt underneath because I was always cold.  I understand that dressing like that becomes habit -- if you're a pre-school teacher who wears yoga pants and oversized sweaters everyday, it's hard to make the switch to a different style of dressing.  Give a thought as to how you want to be seen and perceived and dress for where you are going and what you're doing.  Dress respectfully.

If I had my way, we would all be forced back into the early 1960's, before the Summer of Love, when everyone wore a hat, and women wore gloves, and people dressed up to go on airplanes and addressed each other as Mister and Miss.  Of course, we would go there only sartorially, without repression, and with civil rights.  And we would look much better once we got there.