Good God, Woman, Cover Yourself.

No Telling

This woman wanted to be our Vice President. Thankfully, she’s not. Now she’s apparently so in love with media attention that she can’t make a proper wardrobe decision.

I know this photo was taken for a fitness magazine, so don’t even go there. By now she should know better. Would Margaret Thatcher have done anything like this? Hillary? Any woman who wants to be taken seriously in the political arena should keep her thighs to herself.

There are seventy-eleven reasons why this woman should be ignored. To list them all would only invite undue attention and feed the beast. She doesn’t even deserve my negative energy. Besides, the day they pranced her out at the convention as the Random Republican Female Answer to Hillary Clinton almost gave me an aneurysm. I won’t have time for that kind of reaction again until after finals.

I’m not buying her book, I’m not watching her interviews. With any luck, she and the book will be in the remainder pile just in time for Christmas. That’s gift enough for me.

W.W.V.L.S? (What Would Vince Lombardi Say?)

No Telling

I’ve put this off for a few days, what with the holiday and Michael Jackson’s memorial service and all. If you think about it, this may have been Sarah Palin’s exit strategy – resign as governor of Alaska while everyone’s looking the other way with a sparkly white glove in one hand and a bottle rocket in the other.

While I’m perfectly comfortable seeing Sarah to the door, I’m afraid she’s going to keep coming back up like one of those pop-up arcade games you hit with a rubber hammer. You know, the kind they have at Playworld. She was back in front of the cameras today, as a matter of fact. Waders and full make-up. You can’t whine about the media and then invite them all to watch you fish.

My father has a lot of sayings, and while none of them has anything specifically to do with fishing, point guards, or the governorship of a large and sparsely populated state, they all center around Doing The Right Thing. That “thing” inevitably means finishing what you start.

“Winners never quit and quitters never win. ” ~Vince Lombardi

So go do your thing, Sarah, whatever it is. Just remember that no amount of spin makes abdicating sworn responsibility any prettier. Too many folks are onto the Politics of Shiny Objects, and they’re weary.

There. I’m done. Time to grab a burned leftover hot dog and watch Thriller one more time.

UPDATE: Here’s Palin’s resignation speech – Vanity Fair’s “Edited Version.” Priceless.

Austen as Antidote

No Telling

I think I’ve found the cure for all this political doublespeak and tragic economy and war: Escapism.

The only thing better than a rich, fat novel is six thick volumes, all nicely bound and lovingly reproduced with original 19th century illustrations. Ahhh. A full set of The Oxford Illustrated Jane Austen.

In my bi-monthly bookshelf scalping for The Ultimate Shelf-Cleaning Book Giveaway, I ran across this set and realized I’d never read Mansfield Park. Never. Not one page. It was like finding a hundred dollar bill in the pocket of last year’s coat. And even though Anderson Cooper crooned about political strategies in the background, I turned off the TV.

For a half-second I wondered what might happen if our Jane were transported from her century into ours and – all techno fright aside – what she might think of a gal like Sarah Palin. Can you imagine? It’s like those bizarre beauty contest questions that asks you to assemble a dinner table full of people, living or dead, for an evening of high conversation.

Jane Austen and Sarah Palin across the Limoges. One talking nonsensically nonstop and the other, well, probably taking notes for some low character in her next book.

Since I’d rather not take to drink over all this horror, I’ve decided to take to Austen instead. I’m talking 565 pages, with appendices. Portable Heaven and no scrolling ticker.

Ghost Writing a President . . . or, Pay No Attention to the Man Behind the Curtain

No Telling

You know, I was going to give this political business a much needed rest. After suffering from Post Traumatic Political Convention Disorder (P.T.P.C.D) for a couple of weeks, I thought it healthier to move on to other things – my life for instance, paying my $350 electric bill, selling things on Ebay for extra gas money, teaching students who may very well be the last generation who can afford to go to college – that kind of thing.

But the ugly just keeps getting uglier and I guess there’s to be no relief until the last ballot is counted or stolen.

As if the stock market crisis and Sarah crossing her legs at the knee in front of world leaders weren’t enough, Today’s Salon.com article just put me over the edge. Ghost writing letters to the editor? Color me crazy, but I thought we needed to collectively and individually be real role models to our young people. If you also look HERE, you’ll find the written directives, examples, and talking points for writing your own fictional, heart-wrenching letter to the editor. All you have to do is insert the name of some supporter or other. Are supporters too illiterate to writer their own letters? Looks like the McCain folks think so. Don’t worry, the McCain campaign will take care of the rest. Can you write another one?

I don’t want to hear one more word from that bunch about “values” or “straight talk.” Not. One. More. Word.

Note on the Fridge to Governor Palin

No Telling

You certainly gave a rousing speech last night. At least I think you did. There was an awful lot of cheering and such, but I’ll admit I was distracted by the camera flashing back and forth from you to your lovely family down in the good seats. As a mother and a grandmother and a voter and a woman, there are a couple of things that concerned me, Sarah.

1. What in the world were you thinking bringing your four month-old child to a loud and late political convention?

2. How is it possible that angelic child slept through the entirely of it? I know babies, Sarah, and most of them aren’t as dandy as yours was when being handed off, person to person, past bedtime and in a room full of screaming people. You must have prayed really, really hard for that kind of peace in the valley. It’s a maternal miracle.

3. Your Iraq-bound son is so handsome and you must be terribly proud of him. He seemed a little surprised by the September 11 date of deployment, though. Bless his heart. I’m sure you two talked about it afterward.

4. Watching your daughter and her beau hold hands was sweet. That poor boy looked like he’d been hit by a truck, and she…well, she just makes my heart hurt. I noticed that while everyone passed the sleeping angel down the row, the infant never quite made it into their arms. Oh, Sarah. I know that was a decision made by some Very Important Strategist, but it was a little unnatural. You’ll have to agree the young couple (when is the wedding, by the way?) do need the practice.

5. Your husband is a cutie. Watch out for those Washington gals, though. Some of them don’t look like Janet Reno.

And my final question/observation…

6. While I understand it’s not terribly Vice Presidential to be holding babies all the time (who is that Very Important Strategist, anyway?) I’m a little befuddled by a woman who’s never seen holding her own newborn. Ever.

Oh, Sarah. Don’t parade your family around if you don’t want us watching. I realize I’m looking at you through bifocals instead of my old pair of Gloria Steinem aviators now, but that’s what happened to a lot of old feminists – they became mothers and grandmothers and realigned a few things. Go on out there and run a country if you must, and more power to you for the effort and all that, just be sure to vacuum up all that cracked glass ceiling before you let the baby crawl on the floor.

Note on the Fridge to Senator McCain

No Telling

In deference to your age, Senator, and with the highest regard for your military service, I’ll keep this clean and brief.

All women are not alike, and they aren’t interchangeable. I’ll admit that when we were little girls, some of us popped off Barbie’s head and swapped it around with Skipper’s body. Maybe even Midge’s, you know, just for fun. But we knew it wasn’t real. Barbie was always Barbie and Midge, well, she had freckles.

Please understand if we’re completely, utterly, hopelessly insulted.

Warm regards,

Every Woman Who’s Ever Drawn Breath

Since Seneca Falls