Tag Archives: Pushing Buttons

My Choice

Tomorrow morning, I will leave for work not completely accessorized.  Not being much of a fashionista, that’s not normally a problem.  But tomorrow I will stop to make sure I have the perfect accessory:

I voted sticker

It’s Super Tuesday, and Virginia is in with the in crowd of mostly southern states holding their primaries.

Strangely, here in Virginia, it doesn’t feel much like there is an election coming up.  TV ads are not constant, and while we’ve been getting a lot of campaign calls, there aren’t any more annoying calls than usual.

Most unusual is the almost complete lack of political signs.  For the past 8 years, there have been far more political signs than voters around here.  The absence of them, without any sort of ordinance prohibiting them, makes me think that everyone around me is secretly supporting Donald Dfrump.*

Anyway, I’m sure you’re dying to know:  I’m voting for Hillary.

Philosophically, I’m really in Bernie’s camp.  I’d love government-sponsored healthcare.  I’d love to make college free.  I would love to erase income inequality.

But I’m a pragmatist.

Even if Bernie could get elected (and I don’t agree with pundits that claim he can’t), well, I spent 10 years watching the sausage mill that is our government.  And I simply don’t think Bernie can do it.

Hillary Clinton has my vote because I think she will be a good president.  Because she’s smart and capable.  Because she knows the system inside, outside and upside and downside.

Is she perfect?  Is she my dream candidate?  Nope.  I was for Obama in 2008 (actually, I wanted him to be my candidate beginning in 2004).

I am not blind to the problems with her.  I would rather a flawed candidate than one who is promising more than he can deliver.

And I think that Hillary can beat Trump or whichever GOP candidate is vomited out of a brokered convention.

So early tomorrow, I will cast my vote and get my sticker.

Elections Matter.  Make your voice heard.

* If you haven’t seen John Oliver’s show on Donald Trump, get yourself some popcorn:

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Separated at Birth or Spawning?

You tell me.  Separated at birth?

 

I received these pictures in an email with no attribution.  I’m assuming they can be found on google, though. 😉

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The Evoluion of a WorryWart

You probably wouldn’t believe it, but I used to worry.  A lot.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YBfE8nMxv-U

It’s true.

My  husband traveled frequently, and from the time he left the house until he was back again, I was positive that his plane would crash, his train derail, or he would be hit by a mode of transportation I couldn’t even name in a foreign country I might or might not be able to locate on a map.

News junkie that I am, I didn’t listen or read or google while he was away.  Nope.  I was not going to hear the inevitable on CNN.

And then, seemingly out of the blue, my sister Judy died.  I hadn’t been worried about her at all.  Not a bit (although I should have — she had a heart condition for goodness sake!)

A lightbulb went off in my head:  The person I worried about was fine, the one I wasn’t worrying about, well, wasn’t.

I decided that worrying didn’t help.  Not one little bit.

So I stopped. I took Alfred E Newman’s motto for my own.

Alfred E Newman

Strangely, Alfred and I look alike.  My hair is longer and curlier, though.  Google image.  Duh!

Let me tell you, being a non-worry-er is great.

You have room in your life for, ummmm, a life.  You get to go about your business and assume that bad news will find you if it needs to.  You get to sleep when your husband is traveling.  Or when your adolescent-teen-young adult son is out.  Or when the weather is bad and any one of the 3,427 people you know might just have gotten into their car.  And started moving … and might just …

Sadly, though, I have gone full circle.  I am not happy to say that I am once again a Worrywart.  I have evolved.  Or devolved.  Or regressed.  Or been bitch-slapped out of M.A.D. Magazine.

You see, my son Jacob had a car accident.

Most importantly, he was unhurt.  He should, however, do a Subaru ad, because his Sub saved his life.  It was crunched, front and back.  Totaled. But Jacob only got a scratch when he reached in through the back window to retrieve stuff.

So now I worry.  But I won’t for long, thank God.  Or thank J.K. Rowling and Potterheads.

Because I just learned that somebody has finally invented a Weasley clock.  You know, that special clock at the Burrow in the Harry Potter books.  The clock that Molly Weasley looks at to find out how her family members are doin’.

The clock that lets her know whether a family member is in mortal peril.

Weasley clock 1

 

Yup.  Someone has invented a real-life Weasley clock that can let parents know when family members are at  “Home,” at “Work,”  “On the Way,” or in “Mortal Peril.”

After the inventor’s family, I’d like to be first in line to get one of these clocks.  Because I know that if I get one of these I will be able to sleep again when Jacob is out.  And that is worth whatever I have to pay  to get one of these.  I’ll even pay for shipping.

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Missing the Point

Jesus.

The news is on, and the pundits are all falling all over themselves to be the first to put a bar of soap into Donald Trump’s mouth because he uttered the word “pussy” when referring to Ted Cruz’s unwillingness to, should he become president, bring back waterboarding.

 

The Donald’s and the woman in the audience’s description of Ted Cruz is not the one I would use.  I personally prefer to call Ted Cruz “an asshole.”  Bu then, I’m not running for president.

But the media, the Fourth Estate, aren’t concerned that the top contender for the GOP’s candidate for President of the United States favors torture.  Favors one of the very practices that helped spread, helped foment, helped make terrorism an acceptable option to far more people who might just act on it.

The press is a bunch of pussies.

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Trump v. Fox — A Solution

You’ve all heard the news.

The Donald’s feelings are hurt and therefore, he stamped his feet, put his fingers in his ears and said “la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-.”  “Not going to debate.”

Of course, that leaves Fox and the debate moderators with a problem:  Too few folks on stage.

After reading this blog post from my home town, though, I’ve come up with a solution.

Empty suit

Image: Turbosquid.com, which I did not make up.

You didn’t click on the link, did you.  You never click on the links.

So I guess I’ll have to give you a hint.

The story in that blog is about a resident of my hometown who works as a photojournalist who met The Donald on a job.  The billionaire tried to sell JP Vellotti a suit.

The story, to me, is a metaphor for The Donald’s offering:

He’s a cheap huckster selling things that just don’t fit.

So in my mind, an empty suit, standing in Donald Trump’s 7th spot on the Fox dias tonight, would represent exactly what Trump has to offer the United States.

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