To respect their privacy, I’ll leave out the details of my family members’ trials and travails. I will say that one is waging her own war and we wonder when a truce will be called. One is stuck in some sort vacuum of awful. And one is on a weird treadmill of the same stuff over and over.

Then there’s the added level of complexity that my family is a little different. I thought that our version of different was different even from the usual different, but it seems our different is just like everyone else’s different. I thought we had done away with the traditional by being such a non-traditional bunch. Turns out, the grandest tradition of family dysfunction and finger pointing can still rear its ugly head, even if you’ve been keeping your head buried in the ground.

I love my family. I love them even when we argue about football and politics and relationships and cake. I still cherish them every day. Even when they are making my damn eyes bleed from frustration.

Saturday, March 5, I get a call reminding me about the baby shower on Sunday and asking if there’s anything I need help with in regards to the mountains of food I’ve agreed to prepare. Let’s be honest, I was happy to prepare it as I hadn’t had a good reason to prepare mountains of food in a while. I had my plan, my day scheduled, and I was all set.

Then the little reminder, “it’s Dad’s birthday on Monday.” Yes, I knew that, but what did it have to do with said baby shower? Daddy was opposed to even making an appearance since baby showers are where men go to lose penis points. “We’re having a barbecue for him after the shower; can you bring a pasta salad?”

Hmm. This makes me pause. Again, not because of the addition to the moutain of food, but because I’ve thrown many a shower over the years. I’ve attended even more showers. I was hesitant because I know that post-shower, I usually really just an actual shower, and maybe an adult beverage or four.

Still, it was my dad’s birthday and if he wanted a barbecue with pasta salad then by God he was going to have a barbecue with pasta salad. I adjusted my grocery list and set out.

Saturday was fun. I made two types of flavored cream cheeses. I played with lemons and parsley and chilies and beautiful aromatics. I busted out with some food processing. I mixed and tasted and used every available inch of counter space and had to do dishes twice. Then, for funsies, I made pizza for dinner with two different sauces and no fewer than 6 toppings.

I crawled into bed that night content, tired, and still smelling slightly of bread crumbs and marinara sauce. I set my alarm and drifted into a fitful sleep, oddly nervous about the next day.

My sister, who lives not far from me and had agreed to carpool into town, called me just before bed on Saturday night and asked if I could pick her up in the morning due to some brake troubles. No problem! That’s why I keep Irving around. He agreed to pick her up while I made us all a breakfast of bacon and carmalized onion fritatta and frantically curled my hair and put on more makeup than was really necessary for a mid-day shower.

(This is not essential to the story, but in the interest of staying honest, you should know that I was overcompensating for my weeping uterus with purple high heels and a flower in my hair.)

She arrived a bit late, as is the modus operandi of my family, took one look at my girl armor and borrowed some clothes. Once we finally got to getting, we still had to swing by the dollar store for some last-minute items and then at last, we were off.

Originally, the plan included arriving at 12:00 for the shower to start at 1:30. That would give us time to decorate, arrange the space, heat the food, do any final prep, and do it in a leisurely, manageable time frame. Why do I think these things will go to plan? Why?

We arrived at the church at 12:30, half an hour after we had been scheduled to arrive. Still, plenty of cars in the parking lot, we knew that our mom was running late as well, and we figured that still gave us an hour in which to put everything together. We parked the car up front, grabbed the cake, and walked up to the church door. Which was locked.

We knocked. We circled the building. We called out. We grabbed cell phones and began calling the number listed on the flier on the door. We called our sister-in-law and asked her to look up the church online and see if there was another number available.

We had no contact information, no emergency names, and it turns out those cars weere from a group of hikers who just happened to find a nice empty lot.

I decided it was time for a little emergency action. I left my sister holding her large, heavy cake, and had Irving drive me the block and a half past the church to the nearby bowling alley. I darted inside and approached the woman at the shoe counter.

I explained, as quickly as possible, that I needed a space for a baby shower and that within 45 minutes, we’d have nearly 30 people arriving and no where to put them. (Did I mention it was cold, windy, gray, and there were rain clouds in the air?) I explained that we’d planned to use the church but that we were locked out. She laughed. Laughed in the face of my pain. Then she referred me to Carl, the manager.

I approached Carl and recounted my story, begging for use of the space, explaining that all I needed was room to stand and maybe an outlet or two for the crock pots. He tilted his head, a move I would come to realize that indicated deep thought.

“You’ve got 30 people? Are they going to be bowling?” Now, I realize we were in a bowling alley, but as of yet I’d made no reference to actually bowling. I quickly explained that while I hadn’t planned to bowl, if that’s what it took to have access to the space, I’d gladly pay for a few lanes.

He tilted his head to the other side. “See, that’s 6 lanes together and I just don’t have six lanes together.” I took a calming breath and tried once again to explain that I needed a place for my very pregnant sister to sit, not to bowl. He tilted his head again. “See, I’ve got a birthday party coming in at 2 and that’s four lanes right there.”

I ground my teeth, took in a deep, cleaning breath, and thanked him for his trouble. I even made it all the way outside before shaking my fist at the heavens. So the bowling alley wouldn’t work, no problem. I’d keep looking.

On the opposite side of the church was a small lodge. I asked Irving to drive me over and I hopped out to grab the attention of the two people outside smoking. The man was a little older, wearing a black flight jacket, and chain smoking. I ran up the steps and quickly explained our situation.

He looked at me for a moment and explained that they usually required at least two weeks’ notice before using the lodge space. I calmly repeated that we didn’t really have two weeks. We had 35 minutes. He told me he’d see what he could do and he went inside.

A few minutes later he came out and explained that for $100 and the promise that we wouldn’t serve any beverages, we could use the ballroom. I thanked him profusely and Pepper, as I learned was his name, shook my hand and said he was happy to help.

Irv and I drove back to the church to get my sister, who was sitting outside in the cold with a cake on her lap, only to discover that two church members had arrived and were willing to let us in. We rushed everything into the church while Irv drove back to the lodge and explained to Pepper that our original plans were coming together.

As we were bringing the items in from the car, our mom arrived, a mere hour and half later than planned, and we lugged everything into the church. We then rearranged the space, set up tables for food, presents, and dining; hung up decorations; and finished all the food prep within 15 minutes. As we were just adding the finishing touches, in walked my very pregnant sister, who oohed and ahhed over her shower.

I have to say, I’ve pulled a few rabbits out of a few hats, but I was pretty impressed with this one.

Bear – Here is a “guest blog” for your site:

To my daughter Bearski -

Tis Saturday morning, up at 6:30 after bed at 1:30 because no human being except your mother can sleep through the horrendous “I’m extra quiet in the morning” sister as she slams drawers, clinks glasses, and stomps through the house getting ready for work. So now what shall I do I asked myself, mainly because mother was still sleeping through the horrendous daughter onslaught and being alone there was no one else to ask, I know I answered – I’ll prove my number 3 daughter wrong. She may think she is an expert at cooking because she has read the entire Joy of Cooking cover to cover, has more time watching the food network than an airline captain has in the cockpit, and basically has become a self proclaimed (and quite excellent if I may add) self made born to cook chef`, but I am after all – her father and we all know — Father Knows Best.

You see, this quest started on fathers day when all six of my children minus the oldest daughter making it actually 5 came to the house and decided to make dad his favorite breakfast for brunch consisting of bacon – extra crispy of course, biscuits and gravy, fruit and of course southern fried eggs. As they began to cook, the aroma was almost too much to bear. I was swiggin coffee like pig at a trough who wasn’t fed the day before. I was observing with glee and festivity my children as they cooked for, chatted with, and doted on — me. It was incredibly warm, comforting and of course put a huge smile on my face.

Then – quietly, it almost happened – disaster. My youngest daughter (who ya gotta love cuz she’s the baby) opened the fridge and took out —– the wrong eggs. She grabbed the white eggs not the brown. Gadzooks I said to myself (this time because I did not want anyone to hear) she is about to ruin brunch. I quietly slipped over to her and gently whispered into her ear – “Hon – please use the brown eggs as they have a deeper richer taste, they cost more of course but I only buy the best”. (This may be disputed by some in the room with a hearing issue because they may describe it as a rather loud bark of “hey – didn’t I teach you better than to use cheap white eggs? What’s up with that?”) to which my the daughter I’m trying to prove wrong (Remember her? the chef from the beginning of this story?) replied and here is the crux of the story – “sorry to bust your bubble father dear, but there is no difference between them” To which I argued – and quite vehemently mind you – that:

-Brown eggs have a richer flavor,
-it must be more protein in the yolk,
-they are bigger and
-they cost more
-and the different taste makes them a better choice.

She simply replied (and with a smirky smile that says “Oh father dear, I raised you far better than this”) – “Nope, they are the same inside, no difference, only color of the shell”. Well, as I did not wish to spoil the brunch, I secretly vowed that one day, I would prove her wrong on this vital piece of cookery trivia.

And today is the day. So, doing what every father who knows best does, I sat down here at the PC and did what all fathers do – Goggled “Brown eggs v. white eggs” and “which is better, brown eggs or white?”. And to my utter astonishment – and as painfully as this may sound (if you are a father, you may want to skip the rest of this paragraph as it contains words of brutality that may conjure up images that will only sadden you beyond any sense of reality) – it appears, I mean it looks like, Uh, it may be possible, ummm, I have read here, oh my – yes, it appears she may be—– oh hell just say it — “RIGHT.”

How can this be? site after site spewing words destroying a belief I have held since my grandma first slammed a plate of brown eggs in front of me and Gramps said “yep – brown eggs sure make breakfast better” The sites said Brown eggs are brown because chickens with brown feathers and ear lobes lay brown eggs (have you ever seen a brown chicken ear lobe?). There is no difference in protein, the white, the smell and yes even the taste. Simply put, they cost more because the chickens that lay brown eggs are bigger and eat more which of course is passed to – the consumer (like me). NO WAY!!!

Nay I said, Nay. This can not be true. So, with all the brilliance of a dad who simply must be right – I did what all of us males in the house would do – I conducted – an experiment. I cooked one of each, put them on the same plate, cut them up each on their own half, placed the plate in front of me, closed my eyes, spun the plate and with my eyes still closed, I sought to prove all of the “no difference in eggs” pundits on the planet that they were all wrong. I am the king and am always right. My people follow my wisdom – I do not fail them – I lead them into the waters of ….oh what a bunch of crap. The truth is – my daughter rose to the height of Gulliver solving the egg dilemma of Lilliput and simply said – “there is no difference, the eggs are the same, deal with it Daddy” and – she was and is right. They taste the same. I owe you an apology my dear, you are right.

So, Like Tommy finally becoming aware, I will now no longer care about the color of our eggs. I am however off with a vengeance to right the wrong of years gone by. I am off to research lawsuits to see if I can recover extra money spent on those damn brown eggs.

Love Dad

Now, with that chipper and gleeful introduction, let me tell you why I’m so happy this Christmas.

Two Christmases in a row, my very best friend and I have simultaneously purchased each other the same gift. Now, I’m not saying that we each grabbed the other person a candle or perhaps we both got books. I’m talking the exact same gift, down to the details. Last year, while living no more than 15 minutes apart (and that’s in bad weather and traffic), we both purchased a fabulous brown t-shirt with yellow writing that reads “Haikus are easy/But sometimes they don’t make sense/Refrigerator.” Awesome, right? This year, living approximately 1932.43 miles apart (thanks, MapQuest), we each bought the other person the t-shirt that reads “Shakespeare hates your emo poems.” What are the odds, right? Apparently pretty good when you know someone this well. I guess this helped me reaffirm that our friendship isn’t going anywhere. That’s a big mark on the plus column this Christmas.

What else makes this Christmas one to beat? Well, this year my family decided to branch out a bit from the tradition of buying umpteen presents for each and every member of the family (which, though I enjoy, can be costly as there are a ton of us) and we switched to a drawing system. And for the first time, the family agreed on the arrangement with little to no drama, easing us all into this new grownup era of McPherson Family Christmases.

And there’s my tree…not just that she’s beautiful this year (though she is!). Not just that I have a lovely assortment of gifts stashed under her (though I do). This year, for the first time in almost 5 years, I didn’t decorate alone. A certain special young man helped me pick out the tree, put it up, and decorate it. Sitting quietly in my house, the lights twinkling, John Denver playing softly, and a sweet guy with his arms around me, made for a truly beautiful tree experience this year.

I don’t have much money, so most people got small tokens or baked goods. And I don’t have an office to bring treats to, so instead I picked my favorite shelter here in town and gave them what I would have brought to work. My gift platter might not have been the most elaborate, but their sincere excitement and tears meant so much more than any corporate card or stale cookie would have meant in my old break room. I teared up myself a little and I can’t help but wonder why I hadn’t done it before.

I have a few gifts that I am really, really excited about giving people this year. They may not be expensive or flashy, but I love the idea of them and I think the recipients will be super pumped as well. I got the niece and nephews a few small presents; the window scraper/tree putter upper/laundry folder/super great boy friend a gift way back in November and I’m really anxious to see if I got this one right; and yesterday I came across a fun, silly gift for a friend that should make her smile. Who doesn’t love that?

So really, I just wanted to say how happy I am this Christmas. My friendships are in tact and still going strong. I have friends who have rallied around me this past season with dedication and love that I could never have expected. I have a person in my life who makes me feel special and loved (and that’s really the only gift I wanted this year). And on top of all of that, there will be ham and potatoes tomorrow! Christmas really does rock, you know.

Merry Christmas to all of you!

My point is, thank you for your patience.  Any thoughts on the nominations yet?  I’m curious to see what people think of the lists.  And may I just say that when you’re having a rough day, a little e-mail from the Tony people is sometimes all it takes to brighten things right up.

Haven’t given too much thought to the Tony meal yet, so any suggestions would be greatly appreciated.  Last year’s Sondheim Supper was a big hit.  This year I’d like to do something to encapsulate the entire show. 

Keep checking back on the nominations posting.  I promise I’ll have it finished before the broadcast.

Hooray for the Tonys!!

Allow me to set the scene for you. First, we must take a trip back in time. Back to a simpler era. Back to the days of Nirvana (the group, not the state of mind). Back to a time when “Talk to the Hand” still made you cool. Back to a time when I was a mere 14 years old. True, my 15th birthday was just weeks away. Still, I was scarcely into my teen years and I was suddenly the Maid of Honor to my older sister and best friend. That’s a big responsibility.

As you’ve probably noticed from my excessive Maid of Honor blogging, a lot goes into that job. Dress buying, party throwing, wine drinking, toast writing… It’s exhausting. At 14 and nearing the end of my freshman year of high school, just days before leaving a tropical paradise to move to North Eastern Virginia and abandon all my friends, acting a MoH was a bit much for me.

Instead of the white lace, fancy cake, champagne flute, snooty favor shower I put on this summer, my sister’s shower was a bit smaller. In fact, I did very little to it at all as my mom had to shoulder the brunt of the responsibility. And the bachelorette party? Um, yeah, I was 14. Skittles, anyone?

So now we jump ahead by 12 years. I’m 26 and have had a few more shots at this MoH thing. I’m even willing to say that I’m pretty good at it. Still, how does one make up for a lack of MoH skills from more than a decade ago?

Enter the fondue party. My sister was in town this Christmas for a wonderful visit. There was much fun had by all and several nice holiday moments including gift buying, gift giving, and some much needed pizza and beer.

The day after Christmas I decided to throw a little shin dig for my sister to honor the age-old and time honored girl bonds of sisterhood. Since the pizza and beer had been done, I wanted to try something a little more interesting. Being a huge fan of all things cheesy (both literally and figuratively), I decided that a fondue party and movie night would make for a nice evening.

When I say fondue, I ask that you bear with my foodie-geekiness for a bit and don’t jump to the conclusion that I nuked a block of Velveeta and tossed in on the table with a loaf of bread.

Oh no.

This evening saw two cheese fondues, a beer and cheddar dip as well as a brie and white wine offering. (Admittedly, the beer/cheddar wasn’t spectacular, though I still think the flavor was good.) We weren’t content with just cheese at this fondue extravaganza. With the help of another sister, we also had a white chocolate and cranberry fondue as well as a dark chocolate and caramel dip. Yum.

As if it wasn’t tempting enough to just eat our way through the cheeses and chocolates with a few large spoons, we had to go all out with the dippers.

First, because what brie can be served without fruit, there was a plate of apples and pears. The meat tray saw German sausage, lil’ smokies, and roasted chicken. We had broccoli and cauliflower available. For funsies I bought and roasted fingerling potatoes. Aside from the fact that they’re fun to say and super quick to cook, some of them are actually purple inside and out.  What’s not to love about that?

Still, what would fondue be without bread? Let’s not forget the platter with cubes of sour dough, whole wheat baguette, and pumpernickel as well as whole wheat pitas and honey wheat pretzel twists.

And for the chocolates? Bananas, strawberries, and two kinds of pound cake sat on one platter while biscotti and chocolate mint candies sat nearby.

Add a few lemon-raspberry shortbread tartlets and a ton of liquor and you’ve got the basic idea of my kitchen table. Not bad, huh?

Well, about 45 minutes into the world o’ cheese and wine, somehow someone ended up in my closet. Don’t ask me how. I don’t know.

While there, a wedding veil was discovered tucked up on a shelf. No, I don’t just own a wedding veil in case of emergencies. After her ceremony, Johanna had left her veil at the Bed and Breakfast in Vermont and, being the good MoH I am, I brought it home with me.  We just never got around to getting it back to her.

Upon the discovery of this wonderful and magical accessory, someone jokingly suggested that my sister try it on. Which she did. Inevitably, the sight of the wedding accessory got everyone talking about the wedding events of this summer. After a wistful sigh in which my sister expressed her own longing for having had such a great experience, someone speaking from a haze of blueberry vodka and Sprite suggested that we give her a bachelorette party now.

Now? A bachelorette party? With no planning? With no set agenda? With no warning? Yep. A bachelorette party.

Before I knew it, my closet was disassembled and anything remotely sexy or fancy was tossed about and tried on a variety of different bodies until everyone was wearing red or black (the fake wedding colors), and each person was made up, curled, and decked out in Mardi Gras beads (necessary to show that we were there together). Nice bags were pulled out of the closet with reverence. The card game “Never Have I Ever” made it into a bag on the way out. A veil was pinned in the hair of our false-bride. A wedding was quickly organized. The groom, a handsome commercial pilot, was thrilled about the upcoming nuptials. The wedding would be a small, romantic affair on New Year’s Eve. Just family and a few close friends, but held in a beautiful old church with an elegant reception to follow.

The “bridesmaids” were each armed with information about the groom, the wedding, and the bride’s favorite things. When this ragtag non-wedding wedding party arrived at the bar, we marched straight into the karaoke room, grabbed a few song books, and began to fill up the song sheets.

Before we knew it, heartfelt dedications were going out to the happy couple and their future. Drinks were being downed at an alarming rate and the “Never Have I Ever” confessions began bringing blushes in the most old fashioned of the group. (Ok, so that would be basically just me, but I blushed!)

A few hours later, with everyone drunk, dizzy, and delighted, we arranged for a ride home from the bar, afraid that the seven blocks might just be too much for us in our current condition. We made it safely home, picked up a few cute guys (as is necessary for any good bachelorette party—remember, ladies that just because the bride is off the market doesn’t mean you shouldn’t all enjoy the chance to look for love yourself!), and spent the next few hours talking about a variety of subjects ranging from inappropriate to bawdy and a little touch of “awww” thrown in for good measure.

The next morning, through a fog of hangovers and headaches, we pieced the night together. Between a few sober(ish) memories and the miracle of the digital camera, soon most of the night was put together. As the bridal party slowly made their way to the shower, one sloooow and painful step at a time, I threw together a fairly nice brunch from the fondue leftovers. (Ahem, say hello to a French Toast bread pudding with white chocolate, cranberry, and a touch of caramel sauce; home fried fingerling potatoes with broccoli; and an apple, pear, and orange fruit salad with lemon curd.)

All things considered, I was pretty impressed with the event. In fact, of all the fake bachelorette parties I’ve ever thrown, this may be my favorite. After all, we started with an elegant and fun dinner, we bonded with our shared mascara and dash to accessorize, we sang our hearts out and hit several group acts giving full honor to Cyndi Lauper and the other sirens of 80’s Girl Power, and we still managed to work in two boys and a brunch. Not a bad showing.

While it wasn’t exactly the same as an elegant bridal shower, I’d like to think that in some small way I’ve reached a karmic MoH balance. Anyone else in the mood to not get married?

Still, this is one of my favorite times of year and we should make the effort to enjoy it.  I’ve decorated my Christmas tree; I’ve made a wreath; I’ve covered my house in gingerbread men. 

I’m working on getting my gifts wrapped and under the tree (which is a bit silly given that I’m transporting them all tomorrow anyway).  At least they’ve all been purchased now.  I’ve delivered most of my baked treats and tonight I am finishing up a baked surprise for my sister. 

I’ve watched Nightmare Before Christmas, Miracle on 34th Street, How the Grinch Stole Christmas (the animated version), The Bishop’s Wife, and In The Good Old Summertime (yes, it really is a sort of Christmas movie) and I’m half-way finished with White Christmas.  I’ve listened to Alvin and the Chipmunks, lots and lots of Frank Sinatra, Harry Connick Junior, Bing Crosby, and sundry others.

I’ve worn jingle bell earrings, a Santa hat, my Christmas necklace, and some very fun holiday socks.  I’ve been in two holiday shows and I’ve spent a large amount of money on decorations.  Oh, and I even mailed out a good portion of my cards. That’s pretty Christmasy, don’t you think?

It’s been an interesting holiday season.  I’m not feeling as Christmasy as I usually do and there’s no explaining why.  I hope that tomorrow I will wake up as full of the spirit as I usually do.  Christmas Eve is actually far more fun for me than Christmas.  You get all of the family and food and drinks without the drama of presents.  People are in a better mood because the bulk of the stress is over.  The tree is still lovely and full of gifts without the torn paper every where.  The tummy aches haven’t even started yet.  It’s a good day.

So with that I wish you a Merry Christmas Eve Eve.  I hope tomorrow and Christmas are wondrous and beautiful.  Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays.

I just learned that a coworker of mine has passed away.  I did not know her exceptionally well, but I was very fond of her.  She had a love of beaded jewelry and I knew that she admired some of the things I’d worn as I admired some of the things she wore.  We’d chat in the halls or if we met in the copier room. 

During a large meeting in October someone mocked me for my support of Obama.  She leaned in to whisper, “We’re sisters.”  After that I learned that she was a closeted supporter of Obama who didn’t want the world to know she was liberal.  We would exchange conspiratorial winks in the hallway and I’d slip Obama-gear under her office door.  The day after the election I brought her one of the cookies I’d made for my volunteers and she hugged me.

She said through the tears in her eyes that she was glad she’d seen this moment.  It was a gift from God for America to see such movement and grace of the people of this nation.  She spoke of her dreams of Obama bringing America into “the light.”  To hear her talk about the victory was moving to say the least.  We bonded during the election. 

In my job I primarily spend my day in a cube looking at a computer screen or staring at papers on my desk.  It wasn’t often I had the chance to swing by her desk and say hello.

A few days before Thanksgiving we learned that she went to the hospital for what she thought was kidney stones only to learn that she had liver and esophageal cancer.  She was optimistic that with aggressive chemo therapy she would be back to work soon.  That was three weeks ago.  Today she passed away before ever reaching her first round of therapy. 

I wish I had known her better.  I wish she had lived to see the inauguration.  I wish she was alive and well.  I wish a lot of things right now. 

Today I received a lovely Christmas card from my grandfather.  It was a very sweet gesture and he’ll be receiving a thank you from me very shortly.  Even though my grandma passed away more than a year ago, not seeing her name on the card is a shock.  Perhaps it was the combination of the card and the passing in one day, but I’m suddenly overwhelmed with missing her very, very much.

Eventually I will put up my posting on Christmas decorations and the joy of the season and the perfect popcorn-to-cranberry ratio necessary for a lovely Christmas tree.  Today, however, I felt the need to say that I was saddened.  This brings up more hurt than I was prepared for and frankly, I want nothing more than to go home right now and go to sleep. 

My prayers and sympathy go out to her family and to all those that knew her. 

This weekend, as I was enjoying some time with my politically polarized family (about 3-McCain, 3-Obama, 2-Undecided), I heard the word “celebrity” over and over again in connection to my stance on Barack Obama:  “You’ve been taken in by his celebrity”;  “You’re just part of the Hollywood generation that loves celebrity”; etc.  I have to admit that it began to annoy me.   

For some reason, my support of Obama is often dismissed as the dewy-eyed optimism of a “fan” who hasn’t taken the time to look into the reality of the candidates. 

I confess that when the election first began, I intended to vote for Obama before I knew all the details of either candidate.  That had nothing to do with celebrity and everything to do with the fact that after 8 disastrous years under the Bush administration, I would have voted for anyone wearing a democrat button.  Have donkey, will travel.

While voting across party lines may not be the wisest move, it was my initial goal.  Over the past several weeks, however, my plan to vote has not changed but my rationale has. 

I’ve read through Web sites.  I’ve done comparisons and contrasts.  I’ve studied plans for the economy and for the environment.  I’ve read the articles and researched the sound bytes.  I’ve spent the time to learn who and what Barack Obama stands for and what he can offer the country. 

Meanwhile, the McCain/Palin ticket has run a campaign based on smearing Obama, downplaying his successes, and their largest bump in the polls came from pulling Sarah Palin out of someone’s hat at the RNC.  Her entire success as a candidate has been in her shock value and has nothing to do with her viability as the potential president, which most people (including several high ranking conservative Republicans) have questioned.  If there is an issue of a ticket running on the fumes of celebrity, it’s not Obama/Biden. 

Whatever your politics, it is important to acknowledge that in today’s digital world in which we have access to news the moment it happens, we’re going to be more involved in the election than ever before.  There will be more articles, more commercials, more information.  We can have information about both candidates sent to our cell phones while we’re in line for the bathroom.  And anyone who is on television over and over in commercials starts to seem like a celebrity.  Interesting that no one accuses McCain or Palin of celebrity status, though. 

Here is my issue.  If you disagree with Barack Obama, then argue his politics.  Do not attempt to discredit my support by sweeping my efforts under the rug of “celebrity.”  I am not a political scholar, an economist, or an Ivy league graduate.  I am an average American who will be drastically affected by the election.  My job will be adjusted, my tax break will be changed, my ability to pay my bills and heat my home will be altered.  For those of you in my shoes, the election is about us.  We are the ones who will decide the next president and we are the ones who will be the most affected by the nations’ decision.  It is essential that we know the details and truth about the candidates. 

Vote.  Know who and what your candidate stands for when you walk into the booth, but vote.  Remember that your informed decision is the single greatest political resource you have.

Pro-bama ‘08!

I have since realized that it was inappropriate of me to do so and as such have removed that post.  While I disagree with much of what he had to say, he wasn’t saying it to me and it wasn’t my place to respond, particularly in so public a way. 

I will reiterate from the earlier posting that I believe it is essential to know who and why we vote.  Know what the candidates believe in, what they stand for, and how they hope to change the country. 

To do this, it is important to enter into open, honest, respectful debates about the issues.  While tempers may rise and opinions may become heated, it is also important to be respectful of those whose views and beliefs differ from our own.  We are fortunate to live in a country where we are encouraged to question the established governmental system and may actively and loudly challenge the status quo.  Let’s not abuse that privilege by disrespecting someone else’s right to speak out.

 Pro-bama ‘08!