I just sneezed while eating a mouthful of almonds and now my shirt sleeve looks like the top of an ice cream sundae.
Let me preface this story by saying that Barack Obama gives a killer stump speech. If I go to a political rally in the cold, I expect a lot of high falutin’ promises, righteous anger at George W. Bush’s administration, and humorous yet telling anecdotes that will inspire me to clap my hands and hence raise my core body temperature. Last night my fingertips remained numb, but I liked the candidate, and he liked me. At least, I feel that he has faith in people in general (and yes, my emotions will determine the next President). I think that genuine faith in oneself leads to faith in other people which leads to honesty and transparency in the White House.
Obama reminds me of the great college professor who listens carefully to the stupid question you just barely articulated/blurted out in class, then uses his superior wisdom and vocabulary to ask it back to you (“Do you mean ___?” “Yes, sir/ma’am.”), then leads the whole room in a lively and enlightening discussion of the possible answers to the question you actually didn’t ask but in an ideal world where you are smarter and have an extra hour to think in a hyperbaric oxygen chamber before class, you might have. And he gives you credit for the whole thing. Good guy, that Obama. I like his wife too.
After the rally, we went out for Mexican food (thanks Dad). To their credit, the employees of Guadalajara were not overly star struck when I walked into the restaurant, nor when Virginia Governor Tim Kaine walked in moments later with a small entourage. Before Governor Kaine had a chance to sit down and order a beverage, we leapt up to shake his hand. This was sort of a blur. I think I said something like “wonderful job” and then slapped him hard on his heavily trench-coated shoulder. Then I quickly sat down and ordered a beer. He was a swell guy though. I enjoyed his introduction of Senator Obama at the rally. At dinner I kept wanting to stand up and make a speech for Kaine’s benefit, like “This is what America is all about! Eating Mexican food and laughing with my family! I’m fired up!” He stopped at our table and said a nice goodbye before he used the Guad restroom. This made Darren wonder if the Secret Service encouraged him to climb out bathroom windows into waiting limos after he dined in public, but actually he used the restroom like a normal person and probably only said goodbye to us beforehand because he had to walk by our table to get to the facilities and we were all staring at him. Then (of course) we joked about sticking sexy notes or men’s shoes under the door while he was in there. But we didn’t because we were too busy talking about reality TV.
Governor Tim Kaine, please don’t hate me for publicizing your lack of restroom exploits. You do good work and my dad was right – last night Guadalajara missed out on a great opportunity to start a “Wall of Fame.” They totally could have photographed us together.
I have spent the day in my hotel room in Williamsburg working on the book and eating junk food I bought from the gas station next door. That part was actually pretty cool. I can’t remember the last time I had a Pop-Tart. Now I’m watching Scary Movie 2, with Tori Spelling. I am looking forward to morning, when I can leave.
Selvi and her friend Sandy took me shopping today, which was really nice. I sampled a lot of different party dips at Le Gourmet Chef. That’s pretty much the most exciting thing that has happened at Homecoming. Basically I feel old and lonely and this place encourages former bad habits and regressive waves of self-pity. Diana decided not to come this weekend so I keep switching from one hotel bed to the other, just because I can.
I crashed a college house party last night. All the precocious young ladies with their cigarettes and their high GPAs were like “Why is this wisecracking older woman drinking all our Aristocrat Vodka? She probably didn’t even go here.” I was like “It’s 11 o’clock. Time for me to go watch cable.”
This will be my last Homecoming in Colonial Williamsburg. Next time the fife players and the beer tents can come to me.
I am going to my five-year college Homecoming, but ONLY so I can blog about it. Also it is rainy, dreary, and I am hungry for pancakes. This is the existential recipe for Williamsburg, Virginia.
I have two friends who are also going to Homecoming, but they’re not appearing until tonight and tomorrow, respectively, so this afternoon I am going to a religion lecture at the University Center and then I will either wander alone from bar to bar, trying to look pretty in case I am spotted by ex-boyfriends, or I will go back to my hotel room and watch cable TV. I am half-tempted to crash the football game tomorrow with my friend Diana, because she is from Armenia and has never seen a game of football. Especially a game of William & Mary’s caliber. My mother tells me she has “a friend” on the team that I should support, however this is a source of filial concern, not school spirit.
Last night I made business cards so I can do some networking during Homecoming. I think they turned out really well considering they are DIY and I don’t actually have a business.
Today my cousin Everett and I were trying to scandalize Big Wis by showing her sexy Facebook photos of one of her grandchildren. Big Wis kept scowling at the little black cursor I was navigating across the computer screen. “I don’t understand how those varmints got into the computer,” she said.
While Bunny was falling asleep under the head lamp, I heard the stylists talking about the wildfires in California:
“The fires were started by Middle Eastern terrorists. They are trying to bankrupt the country because they know we are already in debt from Iraqis and Mexicans.”
I am afraid a Homeland Security guy in a dark suit might replace Smoky the Bear. His face will be on posters all over the nation’s forests. He will be holding a handgun and a deportation form, saying “Only you can prevent forest fires.”
I’m trying to think of some good questions for the blogging boyfriend when I interview him soon for my website. I don’t want to shy away from the tough questions, like “Am I the prettiest girl in the world?” Most of you just know the bbf as the adorable guy who scores the winning soccer goals for Crutchfield Electronics and who really likes watching TV on DVD late at night, but I want to show my readers the man behind the dorky, web design-obsessed mask. The interview will be an opportunity for me to introduce the blogging boyfriend to my skeptical friends from out of town and to put the Caring, Sweet, and Sensitive back into his CSS.
I open the floor to suggested interview questions.
These pictures make it painfully obvious what a little foundation can do, but I have “straight from the shower into the underpants into the car” genes. I can’t help the way I was born. I also missed the shopping and shoes DNA. I am going to go ahead and start the rumor that my exquisite-looking sister Margaret probably has a different father.
I wish there was an appropriate segue here between my post about the vagina clown car and this post about a 97-year-old Polish woman who saved thousands of Jewish children from the concentration camps during World War II. But there’s not and there never will be, and that’s just how life is.
Mrs. Sendler, code name “Jolanta,” smuggled 2,500 children out of the Warsaw Ghetto during the last three months before its liquidation. She found a home for each child. Each was given a new name and a new identity as a Christian. Others were saving Jewish children, too, but many of those children were saved only in body; tragically, they disappeared from the Jewish people. Irena did all she could to ensure that “her children” would have a future as part of their own people.
Incidentally, Mrs. Sendler was nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize this year, but lost out to Al Gore. I would hate to be on the prize selection committee and have to make those tough choices, but it would probably make me feel a lot better about humanity to read all those outstanding CVs.