The story of an ear raping.

It's black Friday, and I've discovered the one thing worse than shopping.

I'm at a bar, listening to a "cover band." It's in quotes because I'm not sure it should be called music. It's most certainly an assault on the senses. All of them.

I think my ears are bleeding.

I actually feel sorry for these guys. Well, I would if I didn't wish they had raped me in the ass with no lube instead of subjecting me to their torturous rendition of someone else's music.

At least they came up with an appropriate name. Deaf child. I can only assume they were all once deaf children.

Three Questions

So it's not a game of Twenty Questions that I want to play. I just have three questions. I've heard some things in the last 24 hours that confused me a little. So here they are:

1. Could someone please define the term "crack music" for me? I don't understand the concept. I think it has something to do with rap, maybe?

2. How can anyone possibly think that Barry Bonds being indicted for perjury could have anything to do with racism? This is still what happens when you lie under oath in court, right?

3. Did I really hear the crazy conservative dude on the radio this morning being positive about Obama? Really?

I'll think happy thoughts about anyone who can make sense of this stuff.

The first two were actually said by the same person, the guy who believes that some cultures are better than others...I would say he's probably got no leg to stand on where racism is concerned.

The New Women

You know how you're always hearing things like, "Brown is the new black!" or "Chipotle is the new McDonald's!"?

Well, maybe you don't. But people say it, nonetheless. Well, I've decided. Men are the new women. Except they're not really an improvement.

No offense to those of you who were born with a penis.

Dontcha just love how people say that? "Hey, I just said something offensive. No offense!" Anyway.

Men are the new women.

They seem to be having a contest at work to see who can be the biggest bitch. They're all winning, as far as I can tell.

Yesterday a guy in the elevator asked me, "Do pink and orange really go together? That's so...gauche." Ouch.

And really, stop waxing your eyebrows. It's just weird.

We need to talk...

It's about your coffee breath. 

I realize that coffee is yummy.  I realize it's a morning staple.  I like it, too.



In fact, I have nothing against coffee.  Just your breath.  When you drink coffee all day, guess what - your breath smells.  Bad.  Like stench of a rotting hooker in a car trunk in July bad.

I think it's unfair of you to use your morning (and mid-morning and late-morning and early-afternoon...) coffee as a weapon.  It invades my senses, climbing forcefully up my nostrils until it's the only thing I can smell.  I'd actually rather inhale the fumes from the dead hooker.  At least I could walk away from that.

Instead, I just have to sit patiently while you breathe in my face, clouding all my beautiful smell-free oxygen with your stale coffee stank.  It feels like I'm trapped in a space with only carbon-dioxide.  I have nothing to breathe.  I've tried breathing through my mouth, but then I can taste that stank on my tongue.  Then  I'll have coffee breath like you.

Have you ever even heard of gum?  Breath mints?  Toothpaste?

It's time to fight fire with fire.  As of today, I will be drinking all the coffee.  I will breathe my coffee breath in your face as often as possible all day long.  I'm going on the offensive to try to take my oxygen back.

By the way, none of this would happen if you could, in any way, respect my personal space.  Just thought I should mention that little nugget of truth. 

Cool Down

This is taken from a thing I wrote from this website where I used to write (awesome sentence, I know). We were all tasked with coming up with our own way to end global warming. Take notes, it's a good one!

Global warming. What a bitch, huh? Some people believe in it, some people don’t. Some people just don’t care. Lots of people think it doesn’t matter because God will take care of them. I think it’s something we all need to be more aware of. Personally, I don’t plan on having any kids, and I don’t think we can destroy the planet before I die, so I’m not all that worried. But the rest of you guys who will have children and grandchildren running around…well, I would be concerned, if I were you.

So what’s the solution? I’m sure there are many. Scientists have been looking at the problem for years. I mean, that’s why we’re not allowed to use aerosol hairspray, right? My Nana went through serious withdrawals without her Aquanet, by the way. I don’t know why we always have to punish the old folks with our new scientific discoveries.

Well, when I started thinking about how I would solve the global warming problem, an episode of Mythbusters came to mind. I love that show. It’s really entertaining, even if sometimes the science is a little fuzzy. Anyway, there was an episode where they determined the fastest way to cool down a six-pack of beer. Presumably so that if you were out somewhere and hadn’t thought to ice down your beer, you could get it done in a hurry. I would recommend just remembering to ice down your beer.

They tried a lot of different ways, but the winner was to spray the beers down with a fire extinguisher. Now, I don’t know how often you have a fire extinguisher with you at a tail-gating party, or wherever you need cold beer, but I usually don’t keep one in my car. Maybe I should…

So how would I solve the global warming problem? I think I would commission the building of a special satellite device. It would have to hold millions of gallons of carbon-dioxide foam. While orbiting the earth, the satellite device would continually spray down our planet.

The atmosphere will likely be a problem. I’m thinking the foam would have to travel down to earth is some kind of laser beam with atmosphere penetrating qualities, but hopefully one that won’t destroy all our houses and buildings and stuff. That would really suck. All in the name of science, though. Sacrifices must be made. I don’t know if such a thing exists, but I think we could make it happen.

The satellite would have to start at the North Pole and work its way down and around the planet in circles. I don’t know how fast these things move, but it needs to move slow enough to really coat the ground with foam. We’ll develop a schedule, so that when the foam is supposed to be hitting your area, you’ll be inside. We would hate for everyone to get covered in foam, right?

The only trouble I can see thus far are certain groups of people who have no inside. But they’re tough. I bet they can handle a little carbon-dioxide. Just hold your breath and close your eyes. The fire-extinguisher cool-down will probably take a few months, maybe even a whole year. But hey, if it can cool down a six-pack of beer in record time, why not our planet?

My other suggestion would be to put in pipelines all over the earth, but just for ice. Not gas or oil or Cheez Whiz, like usual. They’re doing amazing things with directional boring these days. Apparently, they bored all the way across the Mississippi River about 50 feet down or so. The river’s a mile wide in that area, and they came up on the other side within inches of the target.

They could just send those little boring machines all over the earth, boring holes and installing pipelines for ice. That should cool us down. And we’ll have to build lots and lots of giant ice-making factories, thereby creating lots and lots of jobs. The refilling process could be pretty time consuming.

Maybe it would be smarter to just get Santa’s elves to replace the ice on the polar ice caps?

What's that you say?

I work for a small company. Very small. So small in fact, that I could not sue someone for sexual harassment, even if I were being sexually harassed. Which, arguably, I am...on a daily basis.

A couple of days ago, when I got to work, I found this post-it note on my desk. It was stuck to a red folder. We have a very exciting folder system in our office, but I won't bore you with the details. Well, I won't bore you with the details until I decide to at a later date.

I will give you one clue. The man who left this post-it note on a folder on my desk, his name is Jesse. On about a weekly basis, he threatens to shoot me for some small infraction, which is usually not even my fault. Last week, his backhoe operator didn't show up for the first day of work. His whole life is now forever screwed up because of this.

It wasn't my fault. He said he had lined everything up, and asked me to please fax the backhoe operator dude's company a map and directions to the meet-up location. Which I did. It seems, he didn't give them a date.

"I'm gonna shoot you..."

Yeah. It doesn't really scare me except that Jesse is just crazy enough that he might, one day, snap and shoot me. He's one of those well-it's-not-as-bad-as-Nam kinda guys. Frequently, he says, "What are they gonna do? Send me to Nam?"

I don't have the heart to tell him that the Vietnam War (or whatever politically correct term we're using these days to call that thing we do when we raid other countries without approval from anyone important) has been over for a significant number of years. But they could send him to Iraq.

Anyway, this was on my desk:



Bonus points to the person who can figure out what it says. Any ideas?

Get out of my line.

I don’t really believe in curses. I think maybe I’m cursed, though. Otherwise there’s no explanation for why I always pick the worst line at the supermarket. If I’m not cursed, that would mean that about 95% of the population is completely stupid. So it must be that I’m cursed. The title of this column is not a threat, but merely advice.

You’re probably thinking that this happens to you all the time, too. And maybe it does. But we’re talking about me here, so shut your trap. Trap? That’s a socially acceptable substitute for mouth, right? My friend Randy calls it a “man-pleaser.” That’s not quite as politically correct, but it sure is descriptive. I won’t insult you by telling you to shut your man-pleaser, though. That would be rude.

I used to love the grocery store. I walked up and down every aisle, tossing things into the basket at my leisure. I always came out with about a hundred times as much stuff as I needed. I stood in line for an hour, behind all the other people who had a hundred times as much stuff as they needed (or maybe they all had a dozen children). I read tabloid magazines to keep myself entertained. After I paid, I would carry my 37 bags of groceries to my car, then up to my apartment, where I would throw away the 37 bags of groceries I didn’t use last time I went to the store. All in all, a lovely, soothing experience.

My roommate back in those days would always go to the store with the plan to force herself to eat healthy. So she bought all this food she had no intention of eating. Only she wouldn’t go shopping again until it was all gone. She would look at me with sad eyes and covet my yummy food. Then we would go out for dinner.

I honestly can’t figure out how I had so much money to waste on groceries back then. Now I have none. It must be the drinking. Damn drinking is so expensive. I should quit.

Yeah, I couldn’t even type that with a straight face.

Now when I go grocery shopping, I want to murder every third person in the store. It’s such a stressful experience. I don’t really keep food in my apartment any more. I’m never there, so it seems silly to buy a bunch of food and then not eat it. Oh wait. I used to do that all the time. Well, now it seems silly. These days when I go to the store, I’m just going to get stuff for one or two meals. Usually, I need to be in and out of there in about five minutes. It goes like this:

Cuss and honk at the guy who blatantly stole my parking space. Who cares if he’s 95 years old? He should have his grandkids shop for him, right?

Run inside and search desperately for the little hold-it-like-a-purse shopping basket. They’re nowhere to be found. Where do they hide those things? Fine. I can carry everything I need. I don’t need no stinkin’ basket. Ha!

Notice I left my don’t-use-so-much-plastic shopping bag in the car/at my apartment/at Harx’s apartment/in the trash can because I don’t care about the environment. Oh well.

Realize I parked on the wrong side of Super Target and the groceries are on the other side of a sea of ornery children, old people, counting mothers (“Danny, put that down. One, two, two and a quarter…I’m only giving you until three young man! Put it down! Two and a half…”), and Target employees who want me to sign up for a Target credit Card. No thank you. Just out of curiosity, are there actually children who are afraid of counting? I'm pretty sure what you just told them is "It's okay to continue to do the thing I've told you not to do until I count to three, but then you have to stop." Keep up the good work!

Maim as few screaming children/old people as possible, while racing across the store to the produce department.

Begin packing food items in my arms, pockets, shoes, and bra. Really anywhere I can put them. It’s not stealing. If they would put the damn baskets back where they’re supposed to be, I wouldn’t have to stuff my bra with mushrooms and mozzarella.

Drop several items, including something explosive because I can’t actually carry everything I need.

Find a Target employee to clean up the yogurt I spilled in aisle 14.

Walk at a snail’s pace back to the front of the store to get in line. If I drop anything else, they might kick me out. Since I haven’t been tackled on suspicion of shoplifting, I’m considering the trip a success.

This is where it gets tricky. Picking a line. I’m cursed, I tell you. Once, I (selflessly) let a man cut in front of me when I had a bunch of groceries. He was buying roses for his girlfriend. How bad could it be? He only had one item. A half hour later, he was still trying to convince the cashier that he was so awesome that he should be allowed to write an out-of-state temporary check, even though he had no identification. I’m not making this up.

If I pick the shortest line, it’s always the one with the woman who has a hundred coupons and has actually documented the price of everything she put in her cart, which she will review with the cashier as the items are scanned. “No, that can of soup was 29 cents. I don’t care what your scanner says. Call the manager. I am not paying 30 cents for a 29 cent can of soup.” Or the woman who has a spending limit and has gone over it and now has to debate which items to take out of her cart. “Hmmm…how much was that lettuce again? If I take that off, what’s my total? Okay, let’s keep the lettuce. What about these eggs?” This fills me with murderous rage. And I’m generally a happy person.

If I pick the longest line – okay, who picks the longest line? Do I look stupid to you? I never pick the longest line.

If I go to the express lane, usually I end up behind the person who has picked up the one thing in the store without a UPC. Or the person who forgot to get mayonnaise and now has to have a three-year-old “run back and get it.” Yeah, that’s going to go well. I don’t have any kids (for good reason), but even I know they aren’t terribly bright. Your average toddler isn’t likely to remember that you want Hellman’s Light Mayonnaise with the yellow lid. The big jar. And none of that salad dressing crap, child.

Sometimes the lines are all about the same length. This is vaguely reminiscent of playing Russian roulette; not as dangerous, but pretty damn chancy. Whichever line I pick will be the worst one. Which is why I don’t play Russian roulette. I’d be dead. These are the occasions when the person in front of me is completely capable. The cashier, however, is a complete moron. I have actually witnessed a conversation in which the cashier at the grocery store asked the man in line in front of me what asparagus is. She thought it was for cleaning. She worked at Tom Thumb and looked at the man like he had two heads when he offered her his Tom Thumb Reward Card to scan. She apparently missed that day of training.

Or the cashier is new. And somehow didn’t learn how to press buttons when he was a toddler like the rest of us. Whoever is training him has to tell him which buttons to push. “Okay, she gave you $5.05 so you need to push ‘Cash’…no ‘CASH.’ The green one. The one with ‘CASH’ on it. Yeah, that one. Now, push ‘5’ then ‘.’ then ‘0’ and ‘5.’ Good jo –- WAIT! You have to put the money in the drawer before you close it. Don’t worry, you’ll get the hang of it.” And this only happens when the trainer is actually smarter than gum she’s chewing.

Once I was returning something at Target and the girl working at the returns desk was talking on her cell phone (instead of helping me, the only person in line) complaining to the person on the other end about the way customers always talk on their cell phones and they never pay any attention to her when they’re returning stuff. It’s so rude. Really. She didn’t seem to see the irony in the situation.

On rare occasions, I’m the only person in line. Home free, right? Nope. This is when the cashier decides she needs pennies. She cannot ring me up because she has no pennies. Even after I sweetly, but with a psychopathic look in my eye, point out that I’m paying with my credit card and could not possibly need pennies in this transaction, she proceeds to push the “I need change” button on the cash register. If she doesn’t need change, this will be the exact moment she has run out of register tape. Of course she has no register tape, and so must go searching all the other cashiers for some. Once she finds it, she realizes she has no idea how to put it in the cash register. I’ve found that chanting “Murder is illegal” quietly to myself helps keep the psycho to a minimum (and by minimum, I mean internal).

After I’ve navigated the store successfully, without actually killing anyone, I have to brave the parking lot. It’s so difficult to keep my middle finger in check while the woman who can’t park her Suburban tries to park her Suburban. It’s so hard to stay in my car with my foot firmly on the brake while the kid pitches a screaming fit right behind my car. Though it is somehow satisfying when he repeatedly punches and kicks his mother while she tries to calm him down. But I’m a nice person. So I sit patiently (read: seething on the inside and probably cursing loudly) inside my car until I can pull out of my space and head to my apartment.

So the moral of the story here is this: I’m cursed, but I don’t believe in curses. They’ve turned me into a walking contradiction. Can I sue for that? Is there a pill I can take? It must be one of the two, as these are how we solve all our other problems in this country.

I'll be right with you.

I didn’t have much time for lunch yesterday – no, scratch that. I haven’t had much time for lunch since I started my new job. Which is nice, don’t get me wrong. I like having things to do. I’m not complaining about it at all. But the fact remains: I didn’t have much time for lunch yesterday.

There’s a Burger Street across from my office. I look at it everyday. I might as well try it out. I don’t really eat burgers, though there was something called an “olive burger” that intrigued me. It’s not a burger made out of olives, if you’re wondering. It’s a burger that has olives on it. I was disappointed. I could really be down with a burger made out of olives. Green ones, by the way. I love green olives. I used to drink the juice when I was a kid. Mmmm….

So I pull up to the thing. Have you ever been? They’re tiny little buildings. Super skinny. As I’m about to turn left into the drive-thru, I see that the sign indicates that the lane is “exit only.” Odd. I’m on the right side of the building (if I’m outside looking at the front of it), and that’s usually where you drive around to order.

I didn’t want to argue with them about the set-up or anything, so I just kept driving until the next opening. It’s an entrance! As I’m turning the corner, I see that there are actually two lanes for the drive-thru. Lots of places are doing that these days, right? Cool. But one goes to the right and one goes to the left. Which would explain why there was an exit sign before, I guess.

There was someone in the normal lane, so I chose the new and exciting alternate lane. Who ever thought of going to the left (now I’m behind the building, see?) in the drive-thru? It’s crazy!

Well, I placed my order at the little speaker. I got a chicken sandwich, with no mustard or mayo, an order of fries, and a diet coke. “So you want a burger with everything, a Frito pie, and a large sprite?” Um.

“No, I want a chicken sandwich with no mustard or mayo, a small order of fries, and a medium diet coke.”

“Is ketchup all right?”

I don’t have a fucking clue. I haven’t asked ketchup about its state of mind today. “Sure.”

“Everything on the burger?”

“I didn’t order a burger. I ordered a chicken sandwich with no mustard or mayo.”

“Oh. That’s $2.55”

“Really? For a chicken sandwich, a small order of fries, and a medium diet coke?”

“Did you want fries?”

For all that is right and good in this world (which clearly isn’t much). “Yes! And a medium diet coke.”

I finally get a total that sounds appropriate, although he didn’t repeat my order again. Then as I’m pulling up to the window, I realize…I’m on the wrong side of the building. I can’t even tell if there is a window, but if there is, it’s going to be on my passenger side. Hmmmm.

I pull up and there is a window, but I can’t reach it and there’s no one standing anywhere near it. All the people are on the other side, at the other window. The right window, obviously. So I pull forward and exit the parking lot and start again. But there’s nowhere else to go. So I pull up to the wrong side window. What else am I going to do?

A little guy pops his head out. “Hi! Did you drive away?”

“Yeah, I can’t really reach the window from this side of my car, so I was confused.”

“So you had a cheeseburger with a large tea? That’ll be $4.67.”

Ugh. “No. I had a chicken…” You get the idea. I’m sure you all know the order by now, right?

He gives me a new total and I put my car in park, take off my seat belt, and climb over the center console to the passenger seat. I hand him some money and he says, “I’ll be right with you.”

He goes and fiddles with some things and talks to a guy who looks like he’s the manager. Then he comes back with my drink. That exchange almost cost me a car wash, but we made it through. It was a regular coke, not a diet, but who’s still going to argue at this point? And the little guy says, “I’ll be right with you.”

Now, isn’t that normally the sort of thing you say to someone before you actually get to them? You don’t usually say it over and over again every time you have to walk away, do you? I think I’m just being picky now.

He comes back after a few more minutes and hands me my bag of food. It would seem ridiculous to check it at this point, so I don’t bother. I just drive back to the office and let myself in.

In my bag, of course, was a cheeseburger with mustard, mayonnaise, and ketchup and a Frito pie.

Am I proud to be an American?

I’ve had occasion in the last several months to think about what it means to me to be an American, about what it means to me to be an American woman. I can say with conviction that I am left without a definitive answer. Our country was founded by a bunch of old, rich, white men. So what did they do for me?

I will grant you that I am a white woman. I certainly cannot say I know what it feels like to be the victim of the apparent rampant racism in our country. I want to say that it shocks me. I’m appalled to say that it doesn’t. We still have that lingering fear. What will happen if someone who doesn’t look like me gets to make decisions about my life? Guess what. People in the minority in this country have been living with that for years. And we, as a society, as a nation, stomp on their efforts to make their voices heard. It truly disgusts me. And we do this in the name of God? America? Our white culture? It makes little sense to me.

It is natural to be afraid of difference. Of change. We all are. I won’t put the sole burden of racism on white people. That would be absurdly unfair. All people of all colors in all nations all over the world are racist to some degree. Possibly, it stems from some kind of tribalism left over from thousands or hundreds of thousands of years ago when it was important to protect your own. But our global society is suffering because of our inability to put skin color behind us and see people for people. We all have two eyes, one nose, two lips, two arms, and two legs. Are we all different? Yes. But those differences don’t necessarily follow the lines of skin color. It’s possible that I have more in common with a woman from Southeastern Asia than with some of the white women in my own country, for example.

I’ve heard a lot of talk in the media lately about culture. Michael Savage, a man who frightens me to my very core, began talking about culture on his radio show one night. He cleverly used the words “same” and “equal” interchangeably. I understand that when I say, “X=1,” I mean that “X” and “1” are the same. But in the context in which Mr. Savage used the words, they are not synonymous. “All cultures are not the same.” I cannot dispute the validity of such a statement. What I can and do dispute is the statement, “All cultures are not equal.” Who decides that? You? Me? Michael Savage? Republican Congresswoman Michelle Bachman (who was recorded making the same statement)? I don’t know anyone who is qualified to make such an assertion. It is a dangerous notion and one that I cannot stomach.

In addition to racism, there have been many accusations of sexism during this election season. When Hillary Clinton was attempting to capture the Democratic nomination for president, she was attacked in some pretty vicious ways. She’s no stranger to this, of course, as she (and her daughter) withstood a fair amount of criticism while her husband was President of the United States. She’s a tough lady. I thought she held her own pretty well. Sarah Palin, however, did not. She publicly accused Hillary Clinton of “whining,” and said that she needed to “plow through it.” The tables, though, as they so often do, have turned. Not only has she changed her tune, now Sarah Palin is the one crying sexism. Her wardrobe (bought and paid for by the Republican party, McCain’s campaign, or provided by the tooth fairy) made front-page news. Is this fair?

I have to say that yes, this is fair. She didn’t make front-page news because she spent a lot of money on clothes. She made front-page news because in some capacity her clothes were provided for her in a way that the public might find a little shady. It’s true that McCain’s wardrobe isn’t scrutinized and no one cares how much he paid his makeup artist. That’s probably because presumably he paid for those things himself. If anyone should be accused of sexism it is McCain’s campaign, which was so concerned with the way Sarah Palin looked, it felt the need to spend over $150,000 to “fix her”.

While we’re on the topic, I think it should be expected that the media might be a little tougher on women who are vying for such high offices. We have yet to break into that arena, and we have to pay our dues. It would be insulting if the media coddled female candidates simply because they’re female. That encourages attitudes that are detrimental to women. Women are not the “weaker sex”. Women are people, just like men are people. Why shouldn’t we have to jump through some hoops? We can handle it because we’re tough.

The idea, thanks Brooke Hogan, that a woman wouldn’t be as capable as a man to run the country is absurd. It is absolutely possible that a female president might be more “emotional” than a male president. So what? Just out of curiosity, haven’t we gotten ourselves in this mess with over a hundred years of rich, white, male presidents? Why not take a chance on a woman?

Having said that, I think that Sarah Palin is the most unqualified candidate ever presented for the vice presidential office. I could do a better job.

Maybe.

Okay, maybe not. But my first statement still stands. She is a joke. She gives women everywhere a bad name. I am shocked at the things that have come out of her mouth. And frankly, in some respects, I think the media has been too kind to her.

I just read a blog, written by Wendy Buttons, former democrat and former speechwriter to John Edwards and Barack Obama. Let me correct that, former speech contributor, maybe. I doubt she was writing any speeches. Apparently the Democratic candidate for president has left a poor taste in her mouth. And John Edwards dismissed her. She got her feelings hurt, so she’s voting for John McCain and Sarah Palin. And I say go ahead. Her three-page article lists her grievances with the Democratic Party. It reads like a schoolgirl who was pushed by a boy on a playground.

She attended a party at John Edwards’s house, in which he asked her to come to his office, so they could talk about what was “coming up.” This was in 2006. She didn’t hear from him for a few weeks, and then received a letter telling her to (in her words) “go away.” She took this personally. She turned down other jobs because she put all her eggs in the basket of a politician. Personally, I would suggest she be smarter in the future.

She worked with the Obama campaign briefly in 2008, but felt she had to quit when Barack Obama began to “mock” Joe-the-Plumber. Really? She’s so offended that Obama fought back when someone tried to attack him and then became the unwitting face of the Republican campaign? Would you rather he say nothing to the constant references to Joe-the-Plumber spewed forth from McCain and Palin?

She was upset by the media’s treatment of female figures as well, particularly Sarah Palin. “Really, front-page news is how the Republican National Committee paid for Governor Sarah Palin’s wardrobe? Where’s the op-ed about how Obama tucks in his shirt when he plays basketball or how Senator Biden buttons the top button on his golf shirt?”

I realize that I may not be among America’s best and brightest, but it seems to me that these things she lists aren’t really related. Whether or not Obama tucks his shirt in while playing basketball or Biden buttons the top button on his golf shirts can’t really be put in the same category as a $150,000+ makeover for Sarah Palin.

Again, this is not about fashion or about Palin spending too much of her own money on clothes, as were the criticisms of John McCain’s expensive shoes or John Edwards’s $400 haircuts (See? It does happen to men too!). This is about campaign and/or Republican Party money that was spent to clothe Palin. If the media is sexist for bringing it up, McCain’s campaign is sexist for putting such importance on “pretty” in the first place.

Yes, there’s a double standard as far as appearances go. That’s the way it is. If you want to change it, I’ll be glad to support you, but don’t hang that on Barack Obama’s neck. I don’t think it’s his fault that media coverage is what it is. I believe that Americans are getting exactly what they’ve asked for on the news.

Buttons further goes on to say, “Here we are discussing Governor Palin’s clothes—oh wait, now we’re on to the make-up—not what either man is going to do to save our economy. This isn’t an accident. It is part of a manufactured narrative that she is stupid.”

I believe, and I could be wrong here, that Governor Palin is doing a fine job all on her own of making herself look stupid. The clothes purchased for her by the RNC have nothing to do with intelligence on her part. The fact that she has no idea which newspapers or magazines she reads reflects on her intelligence. Do I think that an inability to produce the name of a single magazine means she’s stupid? No. I think that she’s not ready to be in a position of leadership in this country if she can’t think on her feet. If only she had said, “Well, ya know Katie, I read Cosmo a lot!” I probably would have found her cute and funny. Still not suitable, but I would have had some respect for her sense of humor and her ability to think quickly.

I wonder if Wendy Button will be any happier as a Republican. My guess is that she will not. She got her feelings hurt and is stomping off to cry, but I don’t think she’ll like what she finds on the other side. The Republican Party is about to have a civil war. I shudder to think of what will become of that. We’ll just have to wait and see.

So what does it mean to me to be an American?

It means that I live in a country where freedom is valued over most other things.

I am free to speak my mind whenever I choose.

I am free to practice whatever religion I see fit, or none at all.

I am the overseer of my government.

I live in the land of the free, and the home of the brave, a melting pot of cultures and a world of opportunity for everyone.

I do not live in fear. I will not live in fear.

I stand up for what I believe in, and I have the right to protest decisions made by the government.

I hold my government accountable for its actions. This includes the leaders elected to represent me.

Those who wish to hold me down will not oppress me.

I stand up for the little guy.

I believe in my country and what it represents.

I vote.

I work.

I am educated.

I have more than most people in most other countries could ever wish to have.

I was born to succeed.

I live in the most powerful nation in the world, but I do not take that power for granted or use it to harm others.

I am independent, and I can be anything I choose.

I buy things I don’t need with little regard for how I will pay my bills.

I eat too much.

I drink too much.

I know more about who Paris Hilton is dating than I know about foreign policy (okay, not really. But it's true for so many people!).

I can surf the internet for hours at a time and never get bored.

I laugh when people fall down. As long as they’re not seriously injured. Sometimes even if they're seriously injured.

I love.

I live.

So what face can we put on America?

The truth is, we can put no one face on our country. We are American. That means we are white, we are black, we are Mexican and South American and Japanese and Russian and Indian and Pakistani. We are Christians and atheists and Catholics and Jews and Buddhists and yes, even Muslims. That is our America. We should be proud of it.

And yet we continue to oppress others. We continue in our racism. We are suspicious of all Muslim people because of the events of 9/11. No one can argue the horror and tragedy of that day, but I argue that it does not justify our actions of retaliation.

My America has become something else. I’m not sure where I live any more. Our leaders have failed us, our people foster and promote hate based on skin color and sexual preference, and we force our will on the world because we think we know best. Who are we? How do we distinguish ourselves from the terrorists we so fear?

America the Beautiful has tarnished her crown. And we are better than that. Protesting a war should not bring up a question of patriotism. Protesting the complete perversion of our civil liberties should not be considered “anti-America”. Wanting a change does not mean a lack of love for the country.

Thomas Jefferson once said, “When people fear their government, there is tyranny; when the government fears the people, there is liberty.” Do we fear our government, or does it fear us? I’m not sure any more. Our president chose to start a war without the consent of Congress or the UN, much less the American people. Our government continues to prey on our fears to deprive us of our civil rights and to justify its actions in a war that few still support. Does that sound like fear to you?

Much has been made of Bill Ayers and The Weather Underground in this election cycle. But has anyone looked into why they chose to do what they did? I recently watched a documentary, The Weather Underground, which was fairly informative on the subject. Yes, they did bomb US buildings. Yes, innocent people were killed. And no, I don’t agree with the way they went about their protest. But, as John F. Kennedy said, “Those who make peaceful revolution impossible make violent revolution inevitable.” The Weather Underground was a group of young students who passionately opposed the government’s actions in Vietnam, along with the oppression of black citizens of the US.

I think that it’s important that we take an important lesson from The Weather Underground. And that is this: If we become those we hate in order to protest those we hate, have we really accomplished anything? Protesting the killing of innocent people in Vietnam by killing innocent people in your own country is not a victory. And I believe that we have become a bit of what we hate in Iraq. We have become the extremists, fighting for what we believe. Killing in the name of our system and our morals. Are we any better than the terrorists who were involved in 9/11?

I’m sure if I were a politician, I would be held in contempt for my anti-American sentiment here. But it is not anti-American. I will not be accused of having less patriotism than the next person because I do not agree with all actions taken by my country. We are a nation of different people. We are divided by our politics and our cultures and our morals. It should not be unreasonable for anyone to feel dissent.

At the end of the day, I love my country and what it represents. We just need to be careful with the message we are sending to the world. Remember our founding fathers and know that even they were flawed. Even they were rich, old, white men who were racists and sexist, but who were trying to do the right thing. We have to find a way to unite, to find some common ground, so that we, too, can do the right thing.

I am proud to be an American, where at least I know I’m (sort of) free.

And today, we will possibly elect a black man to be our leader, for the first time.

He brings with him the hope for a better way, the excitement of change, and a new face to our White House.

I am counting on Barack Obama to restore the America that I read about in history class (where, let's face it, we never hear the whole story). I am counting on him to restore our freedom.