Married Life

For those of you still playing along at home: this pretty much sums it up. Let's just say when I put in the quarter, it wasn't anything I didn't already know about. On the other hand, I didn't expect to find actually being married to exceed my expectations this much.

Married Love

As our big day draws near, I seem to be honing in on all the love that's floating around. Today I met with my favorite professor, Brainy Linguistics Prof, and ended up spending two hours in his office. This is not unusual. We usually spend time talking about golf, his daughter, poetry and linguistics--in that order. Today we talked a little about his wife.

You see, I'm equally well acquainted with her, or maybe even more so, as she was my poetry mentor in graduate school. I took about six classes with her, and she's really responsible for my interest in linguistics. Most of my school friends are intimidated by her. Is it possible to be brusque and gregarious at the same time? Well, she is.

But today we talked about them more like a couple. He told me they'd recently vacationed in South America for their 20th wedding anniversary. Everyone I know seems to find it hard to imagine them married; I find it hard not to imagine them married. He's the math of language and she's the music. It fits.

In a lot of ways, they're the couple I imagine Mortgage Partner and I could become--a house full of books and good-natured jokes to feed the soul. While I certainly can't compare our career trajectories to theirs, I see the common thread we share: mutual respect of each other and ongoing curiosity of life. These things keep you together, but more importantly, they keep you engaged.

Technology Schmechnology

Today's post is brought to you by the word VPN. Yes, I know that's not a word. No, I have no idea what it stands for. All I know is that when I called my tech support guy at Corporate Behemoth, he told me the intermittent tech issues would affect my VPN. And that, in return, affects my bottom line.

See, I need this VPN-thingy in order to log into Corporate Behemoth's proprietary stuff--you know, like my e-mail, SharePoint, the things around which my work life revolves. And as I'm a contractor and get paid hourly, these tech issues mean I can't work, and therefore get no moola.

I am fortunate in that I do have another source of income (summer school), and that there are countless things to do around the house: fold the clothes that have taken over the guest bedroom, run (aka wogging) for 50 minutes on the treadmill, and chase dustbunnies around the house. However, what I want to do right now is make money to pay for our honeymoon. Cause you know, that gas we'll be needing to drive all over California/Oregon? Well, it's expensive.

And so far, blogging isn't making me money. Not that I'm complaining, because I don't do it enough to make money doing it. But, you know, any workweek hour that I'm not actively making money seems a waste to me. I've already done all the grading I can stand for one day (two papers), so I'm looking to use that other part of my brain (the one that enjoys technology and taxes).

In the meantime, I'll add some more laundry to the pile, consider downloading more music to my MP3 to making running more feasible, and slay some dustbunnies with the Swiffer.

Of Rocks and Rings

So I haven't managed to post any pictures of Florida yet because I don't have any. The ones I took on my phone look ridiculous, and I haven't figured out whether they're photoshopable. I will say though that a fun time was had by all. I look tan for me, but I don't have a tan. The weird burn lines have faded, even though I was still peeling (3 weeks later) last week.

More recently, a few good things are going on around here. My pal R. and I have been running every Saturday since I returned from Florida. I'm slow as hell and have a tendency to turn bright red and make horrible gasping noises, but at least I'm feeling the wind in my hair and the fat on my rear jiggle. She thinks we can run a half marathon, and I'm inclined to fall over laughing about that one, but I'll make an attempt at bumping up the mileage in the name of physical fitness (and swimsuit season). The downside is that the trail we run on has tiny pebbles that always seem to find their way into my shoes. Waah! Ok, not really a crisis, but I'm kind of a princess.

In other news, Mortgage Partner and I have decided to get hitched, and we're slowly spilling the beans around here to friends and family. We are getting married at home and hope to contain the festivities to the smallest possible number. The best part is we're leaving on our honeymoon the next day. Details to follow, because really, we're going to have a kickass honeymoon. We're staying in a treehouse one night! Seriously, that is so awesome. Especially since the treehouse has a toilet.

repartee redux

So...it's been a long time. I don't really deserve to have any blog devotees, considering my sporadic writing, but I sure hope I can win people back. A few people have commented about missing my posts, so I'll take that to heart and try to be more attentive to writing regularly.

In the meantime, I'm going on vacation with my sister and her brood. At this very moment, she's headed down I-29 toward Kansas City to pick me up. Then we'll drive all night, passing through Missouri, Arkansas, Tennessee, Mississippi, and Alabama on our way to Florida. We're spending the week on the beach of the Gulf Coast.

My sister and I made a similar road trip 19 years ago after she graduated from college. Only then, I was too young to help her drive. It was just the two of us in her electric blue Chevy Cavalier. This time, we're taking the Sherpa (aka a Ford Excursion), because 5 kids don't fit very well into a two-door Cavalier.

I'm looking forward to the sand and the Gulf, hanging out with my nieces and nephews, and an opportunity to have some girl time with my big sister.

If I can, I'll post from the condo. If not, I'll be sure to share some pictures when I return.

More Than a Feelin'

Not so long ago, I found myself driving in the middle of Iowa. Ok, middle of Iowa isn't really accurate; it was more like the northwest corner of Iowa. In any case, there's nothing but Iowa all around. Doomed to either listening to gospel radio or static, I hunted around my car for a CD and came across the Indigo Girls.

Now for those of you who had your major emo moments in the late 80s and 90s, you should really know every Indigo Girl song by heart. I don't know too many girls my age who didn't hunker down with the song "Ghost" after a particularly bad breakup. As I drove, I sang along with Amy and Emily, singing with particular gusto on "Closer to Fine." Despite the fact that I made it most of the way through the CD, I realized something about myself. I'm no longer that girl. You know the one who found "solace in a bottle or possibly a friend." I spent my late teens and early twenties being that girl, hanging on every word Sarah McLachlan wrote and shaking my fist in agreement with Ani DiFranco. Every poem I wrote in college emulated these singer/songwriter types. Every relationship I had fit into the cupped hand of this uber-emo superwoman.

All of a sudden I felt old. I realized that if I had to pick a musician or band to match my mood, I would rather be Boston. WTF? Am I an aging GenXer guy trapped in a 30-something woman's body?

While I know my latest devotion to Boston might have something to do with the general need to "rock out" every once in a while, I think this says something about how I've changed. This understanding of myself was underscored last night as I talked on the phone to a former student of mine, a precocious 18-year-old in the med school here. I didn't quite feel like her mother, but I definitely felt like her much older, much wiser big sister. She doesn't especially exude angst, but I couldn't help but be grateful I'm not 18 again. Oh sure, it's fun to experience the silliness, the first loves, the anticipation of a whole lifetime of opportunity. But I realized I'd much rather be at home, MY home, with Mortgage Partner, the animals, and a dining room table covered in school papers.

I don't even know that girl I used to be. I'm pretty sure I couldn't be friends with her right now, although there are a lot of things I wouldn't mind telling her, especially with regard to boys, her body image, and career choices.

I guess what this overly emotive post is telling me (as I'm telling you blogworld) is that I'm ok with who I've become. Finally.

Helluva(n) Ikea

I know, I know. I've been quiet lately. No good reason, really. Sick of myself? Sick of school? Needing of an extreme soul makeover? Ok, I'm not really full of existential angst; I just come across that way sometimes.

I spent some quality time shopping on the IKEA web site this morning. Why oh why don't we have one here?! I spent about $400 in my head, and my house looks better already. Just wait, you big blue and yellow box, my oversized piece of heaven, purveyor of lingonberries and all things Swedish. I am coming for you.

Ok, so I know too much retail therapy will land me on Oprah and/or Dr. Phil, but it just feels so good. If only I could give myself this kind of makeover: blow a few hundred bucks, go eat some meatballs in the cafeteria, overload the car, spend several hours cursing and sweating as I put some furniture together, and presto/chango new self!

Now I know this seems like I'm crying for a spiritual awakening. Perhaps I should go read that Eckhart Tolle book that Costco has in boxloads. Except that I've never been one for New Age self-improvement. No, in my case I decided to change my blog colors, a la HGTV, to make myself feel better. A little interior decorating if you will. Maybe I'll actually rearrange the furniture one of these days and pick a new format. If Blogger HAD a template that looked like an IKEA store I'd pick it. In the meantime, I'll keep churning these muddled thoughts around in my head and try to be more diligent about sharing them.

When You're So Tired of Yourself, the Only Thing Left to do Is Blog

I'm in a February funk.

I freaking HATE this time of the year. It's cold. It's dark. And there is not enough good TV or food in the fridge to satisfy my needs. All I want to do is watch Oprah and eat cheesy poofs.

I know, I know. That's not a very healthy attitude. Not to mention SO not figure flattering.

I actually got my sad, tired, ever-expanding ass on the treadmill today and wogged (that's right, only wogging accurately describes the pace at which I move) a little over 3 miles. It should have felt good. When I was finished, all I wanted to do was eat all the carbs in the house and take a nap. Bleh.

I'll pretty much snap out of it when it's finally March (thank gawd), but in the meantime I'm trying to avoid the self-loathing that seems to consume me and cause me to watch daytime television. I tried to watch Dr. Phil save a really, really sick girl with the worst eating disorder I've ever seen. Usually that sort of stuff makes me hate myself a little less, but it didn't work today.

Now that is one bad funk.

I like to think exercise will knock some sense into me, but as I'm really too lazy to do it as often as I should (more than 2-3 times a week), the results are negligible. I'm chasing the elusive runner's high, but I'm pretty sure it's a myth. Runner's delirium? Sure, I get that all the time. You know, like when your legs are so wobbly you fall off the treadmill instead of stepping off?

It may have to do.

Red Hot Love

In case you haven't noticed, it's Valentine's Day. I haven't been able to traipse through Target without running into heart-shaped love since the Christmas decorations went on sale. Suddenly everything seems to be red or pink, and you can buy Hershey's Kisses, Sweethearts, and High School Musical valentines in bulk. Ok, maybe I made that last one up because I haven't actually seen these, but I suspect they exist. If they make High School Musical panties, they make valentines.

Sweethearts are made for the text message generation. While my friends and I thought it was quaint to read "fax me" on a candy heart, I can only imagine how the youngsters are gaga over "UR Gr8", "I <3 U", "143" or "459" (That's I love you in text message shorthand.) And if you're not sure how you feel, my personal favorite "BTWITIAILW/U" (by the way I think I'm in love with you). Um, yeah.

In the olden days (aka the 80s and 90s), we passed notes: "Check yes or no if you think I'm cute." There was always the nagging fear that you might get caught in study hall, but it made clandestine love all the sweeter. And you really knew who your BFF was, cause she never hesitated to ask the guy you liked if he liked you back or even like-liked you back.

Mortgage Partner and I make lots of V-Day jokes using our 9th grade humor, and yesterday I helped sell raspberry mocha vaginas on sticks at the university. But truth be known, I think Valentine's Day is pretty sweet--even if it involves manufactured love in a box. At least people are taking the time to share their love. I might be a bit of a cynic, but that doesn't mean I don't enjoy pink and red, heart-shaped love once a year.

Happy Valentine's Week...Brought to You by the Pharmaceutical Industry

Recently I read an article where someone reminisced about the Valentine's Days of her childhood--complete with decorated shoeboxes for the valentines. I remember these days. Now I find it kind of humorous that we dutifully trotted around the classroom dropping our Bugs Bunny or Strawberry Shortcake valentines into people's construction-paper-covered Stride Rite boxes. I'm not sure what these rituals were made for other than an excuse to eat Smarties and chocolate cupcakes covered in pink goo.

As an adult, it seems Valentine's Day choices are less heartfelt. Ha.

I can get Mortgage Partner a card that plays an REO Speedwagon song, and perhaps I should tape a Cialis in it. You know, the pill they're talking about while the couple playfully wrestles the squirting kitchen hose?

Now while I joke all the time that MP is old, he's not that old. Not old enough to need a Cialis (although the couple in the commercial looks about 35).

He might be old enough for REO Speedwagon, but I won't rat him out.

I would like to know where my generation fits into this Valentine's Day commercial package.

Where is my card that plays Pearl Jam? What is our pharmaceutical of choice? When you're too young for Restasis, where do you turn?

Suspension of Disbelief

Right now, at the very moment I'm typing this, Mitt Romney is suspending his bid for the presidency. Now, I have to ask what that means. To me, it sounds like in this season of perpetual vitriol, he is creating a kind of political purgatory.

He's not dropping out, so in essence he's not really out of the game. CNN's link has a very decent explanation of what a suspension means, so I won't go there. But dang, this just gets weirder and weirder.

I have to give the businessman props for being a businessman--he knows when to hold 'em, knows when to fold 'em, knows when to walk away, knows when to run.

Believe me, he's counting his money.

The talking heads will surely be giving him accolades for truly acting like a conservative and, gulp, not spending money stupidly. If only more conservatives, ahem, recalled this principle.

Don't get me wrong. This guy freaks me out. I'm pretty sure he's a cyborg. But at least he's not beating the dead horse before it ends up in someone else's bed.

My Big Fat Super Tuesday

In case you haven't heard, you need to get out and vote today. And then you can put your party beads on and do all those bad things you're going to swear off for Lent 'cause it's Mardi Gras.

Here in middle America, the excitement of Super Tuesday is being dampened by our crappy weather. We're supposed to get rain, freezing rain, sleet (not to be confused by freezing rain), wintry mix, and snow. Our polling location is up the street at the neighborhood Catholic church, so I'm not overly concerned about getting out the vote. I could actually walk if I were so inclined, but I probably won't because I'm lazy.

Last night MP and I were discussing whether old people or youngsters would likely be more hindered by bad weather. I say the kids (I know them so well) because the old people like to get up early and do these things, thus they'll miss the worst of it. Since MO is a bellwether state for the Dems in this election, that could be a determining factor how this election will go. I'm not actually sure if I believe that, but I like the word bellwether.

And because it's not enough for the universe to have Super Tuesday and Fat Tuesday on the same day, it's also my friend Dorothy's 34th birthday. She's a little anxious, although I think her birthday has little to do with it. The big green tax machine for which we both work is laying people off today. I've told Dorothy many times that she's responsible for me having real, grown-up jobs in the years since grad school, so I hope her goodness covers both our asses in this situation.

In the meantime, we'll see how the roll of the dice works in this election season.

Laissez les bon temps rouler!

Sweet Old Lady

Tuesday MP and I said goodbye to Jetta. We knew it was coming--God knows that cat has more than her allotted nine lives--but it was still incredibly difficult. We were able to find a veterinarian who would come to the house and help her (and us) let go. Suffice it to say, she didn't go without a fight. In true Jetta spirit, she had to have the last word.

As an homage to a cat who has brought more light and life to me than I ever thought possible, here are a few of our greatest memories. Nine for every extra life she had and one for good measure.

1. The first night I had Jetta home, I tucked her into bed with me. She was about 6 or 8 weeks old. In the middle of the night, I noticed she'd disappeared. I was convinced our really large tuxedo cat, Ernie, had eaten her. I found her curled into a tiny ball under my bedside table.

2. Jetta in her kittenhood climbed my parents' godawful 1970s-era grass wallpaper. She would climb all the way to the ceiling and then be stuck there, mewing her head off for someone to come get her down. She also managed to climb the Christmas tree and various drapes.

3. Jetta has always had a penchant for carrying toys around. From a young age she has preferred either gold strings (like those found on Godiva boxes) or furry things. She liked to carry these around and howl mournfully. She especially liked to leave her "baby" (it looks like a raccoon tail with eyes) in bed next to me.

4. Jetta's perfect meal--in no particular order--would include bacon, a burrito, Haagen-Dazs, and Butterfingers. Chicken, hamburgers, and pork tenderloin aren't too bad either. She mastered the art of swiping food off a plate, and has more than once tipped a cereal bowl from my hand. She and Lena once tag teamed the perfect food scam: Lena chased her tail like an idiot, and while we howled in laughter over Lena's stupidity, Jetta stole sausage off of MP's plate. I don't think Lena got anything out of this deal, which was probably part of the plan all along.

5. While she was still able to jump up on the bed, Jetta liked to wake me in the morning by standing on my hair and chewing on it. If that didn't work, she'd meow (m'row) until I fed her.

6. Five pound, declawed, snaggle-toothed Jetta bitch-slapping our 70 pound Collie-German Shepherd mix, Mattie, into submission. 'Nuff said.

7. Jetta has always thought she was part monkey. She would ride on anyone's shoulders who bent over long enough for her to walk up. The pads of her feet are like soft little hands, and she liked to pat my face when I'd hold her.

8. One day, when I was especially upset with MP and bawling my eyes out, Jetta walked over to me and bit me. It was like "Ok. I've heard enough. Get over yourself." It cracked me up so much I stopped crying. She told me exactly what I needed to hear in that moment.

9. I could never close a door on Jetta without her having a say in it. Jetta has been known to stand and paw at a bedroom door (in particular) for as long as took someone to give in to her. If you've ever heard a cat paw at a door, you know there's nothing quite like the sound of their paws thumping on wood.

10. No one who has met Jetta could ever resist her. Jetta had the innate skill to locate the non-cat person in the room, and sucker him/her into total admiration. I've seen many self-proclaimed cat-dislikers melt after a few moments of the Jetta treatment.

I am grateful every day that I have spent two-thirds of my life with such an amazing soul.

Hard Times

Right now in our household we're dealing with the fact that our beloved cat, Jetta, is quickly fading. She is, in fact, 19 1/2 years old. Pretty spectacular for a cat. It's the equivalent of being about 95 if you're a person.

She walks, or rather hobbles, from one rug in the kitchen to a bed under the buffet. And that's about it. I fear it's time to make a judgment call, but it hurts me to do so.

This post isn't about eulogizing Jetta. That'll be for another day. But for now, I'm trying to keep some perspective about how she must be feeling.

The picture above is about 3 years old, and was taken not too long after Jetta scampered out the front door--only to have it close on her tail. This resulting in sewing her tail back together, thus the shaved tail with a pompom at the end of it. She was still quite active as a 16-year-old cat. And really remained so until about the last year or so, when she's gradually grown frail before our eyes. She looks so...plump in the picture, it's hard to believe she was ever that big. She's probably 9 lbs (actually pretty petite for a cat) in that one. If she weighs 4 lbs now I'd be surprised.

My niece has remarked that she can't believe Jetta's not a kitten because she's so tiny. And indeed sometimes I think of her that way too. It's the same way that old people become like babies in the end of their lives too. Yet instead of having that robust quality that kittens keep underneath their baby facades, Jetta is truly delicate. I feel I need to protect her all the time.

My friend Dorothy said she knew it was time for her cat in the end because she stopped purring, but Jetta hasn't reached that point yet. But I'm afraid it will come. I hold my hand to her ribs to feel her heartbeat, and my finger to her throat to feel her purr. They're still there. But the energy that used to emanate from her grows fainter daily.

Noodle

I love Mortgage Partner, but we cannot really discuss politics. It's not like we're Carville and Matalin, mind you, but I get way too emotional when he beats up on Hillary. And it's not like I even know if I'm going to vote for her. I just don't like confrontation. Those of you who know me know this. I cry in the face of adversity. Unless I'm pissed off. Then I just yell a lot (in a fabulous, articulate way).

Life around here lately has become Indecision 2008. I feel like we eat, sleep, breathe politics. We're even considering letting an Obama staffer sleep here. We don't call it a night without checking up on our friends, Barack, Hillary, and John.

I wonder all the time how I went from being a fairly apathetic Independent to actually giving a damn. When I was in high school, I worked on the newspaper with a guy who's a lot like MP. Opinionated. Pushy. Rabid. (Ok, to be fair, MP is pretty balanced. But he watches political debates like someone else might watch a Packers game, or in fact, how he watches Packers games.) He was in my face all the time about Ralph Nader--a name I can't invoke without smirking, just a little. At the time, I couldn't vote, so I really didn't give two hoots. Two years later, when I could vote, I registered Independent because I figured that's what I was--pragmatic, seeing across party lines, and ultimately, on the fence.

Voting didn't register in my way of life. Not even in 2000 when I attended a Gore rally with my unable-to-vote-in-America German roommate. We took pictures. It was a little like seeing any other celebrity.

Fast forward four years, and my thoughts on politics, and voting, changed dramatically. I saw the error of my apathetic ways. No longer would I worry about someone else to take care of the issues in the country or in my city. Since then, I have voted pretty much every time something comes up. I care about the direction of this country, and being a homeowner in the urban core has made me care even more about my city.

So at this point in the blog, you're all probably wondering why I would call this post "Noodle." Because I'm an English major nerd above all, I'm currently reading Bleak House by Charles Dickens. It's one of the freaking funniest things I've ever read (and I'm not kidding--I think the title is a huge joke on all of us who think the book is going to be dreary).

At one point in the novel, Dickens writes: "What follows? That the country is shipwrecked, lost, and gone to pieces [...] because you can't provide for Noodle!"

In the notes it says: "Noodle: The name for a fool, especially a political one." And I really think that about sums things up. About me. About how MP and I battle over to Clinton or not to Clinton. And while I wouldn't say that we're Noodles, I think we're both fighting against Noodles.

And that's something we can actually agree on.

You've Come a Long Way, Baby (not so much)

Enough with the crying already, people. When I wrote the post the other day about people making a big deal of Hillary crying, I had no idea it would continue for several more days. Really, isn't there other news out there? Good grief.

I will say though, the whole issue raises a few points that I have seen reiterated in the blogosphere lately. Let's call it the anti-Virginia Slim phenomenon. Blondie posted her take on the book Don't Be That Girl. I'm not sure how this book stacks up against others in its niche (Amazon suggests comparable titles like Man Magnet and Why You're Still Single), but books like these aren't new--they've just become increasingly better marketed and more flashy. I loved Blondie's take on the book and her own list of types of guys.

I remember when I was about 21 the dating book du jour was The Rules. This book is a creepy reminder of my early 20s when I hated myself enough as it was. What the hell was I thinking? I wasn't trying to land a husband. Even if I was, I'm pretty sure the rules portrayed in the book wouldn't have helped me net the kind of guy I wanted or needed.

Which also reminds me of a post Dorothy wrote the other day. Which pretty much scared the bejeezus out of me. Purity balls aren't a new idea to me, but that Dorothy wrote about them juxtaposed with Hillary crying on TV seemed to bring a couple of ideas up with alarming synchronicity (and I don't mean in a good Police kind of way). What I mean by this is the disturbing double standard that exists for men and women (and yes, there are other double standards out there that are equally disturbing, but those are for another day, Cranial Midget).

Why don't we care when Mitt Romney cries? (other than that he's a creepy dude we'd rather not think about) Why do we feel the need to "preserve" our girls for marriage? The whole idea of having an intact hymen freaks me out so much I can't even go there. But I will. I think one of the weirdest things I heard when I was a self-loathing adolescent was from one of my friends who said her mom wouldn't let her use tampons because "those are for married women." Huh?!

I guess my point here about Hillary and dating rules and purity balls is that despite all the progress women have made, we still haven't figured out what to do with them. Are we feeble or are we strong, because by God, no one (including some women) knows what to do with us if we show both faces.

Hillary Cried

I have to blog about the attention being paid to Hillary Clinton tearing up on the campaign trail today. I know there are plenty of people who have full-on animosity toward her (and one lives in my house), as well as others who are passionate about her running for president. Me, I'm on the fence about the whole deal. I have to say that a female candidate is extremely appealing to me, but I do have doubts about whether Hillary is the person we need right now.

But back to the crying.

The fact that anyone thinks this is news isn't surprising. The presidential campaigners can hardly breathe under the watchful scrutiny of voters and the media. And that's as it should be. But that one of the candidates has a *human* moment during this scrutiny is apparently newsworthy. I feel for Hillary here. You know she has to be tired and frustrated, and no doubt, just a little mad too. Good lord, people, she really does have feelings!

My worry is that her breakdown (which is not exactly what I would call it) will be misconstrued as her "working" the crowd. I suppose that's possible. She is savvy to political maneuvering. Political candidates can't eat a piece of cherry pie without the act pointing at their patriotism.

On the other hand, maybe she cried because she was moved to do so. How very girly of her! How weak, how pathetic. How typical! The naysayers will have a field day with this one.

As many woman know, crying in moments of duress is part of the hormonal package. I have been accused (more than once) of crying to manipulate something in a situation. Yet, that's rarely the case. More often than not, I've had to fight the tears back, to look strong, to NOT act like a girl. When the tears have flowed it's because I couldn't hold myself together enough to keep them in.

This is probably the situation Hillary found herself in earlier today. Call her calculating or even false (a lot of people do), but I sincerely believe her tears were not a theatrical production today. And while it's refreshing to know that a politician might have a moment of vulnerability, I suspect Hillary will be accused of being weak. (That is, if she's not accused of faking it.)

We Love "The Wire"...and That Ain't No Bunk

Mortgage Partner (aka Cranial Midget) and I are hurriedly catching up on season 4 of "The Wire" so we can hop into bed with the latest and final season that begins tonight. If you're not familiar with the show, go rent the first season and prepare to cringe. A lot. As with many other HBO shows, this stuff is not for the faint of heart.

What it will give you is a glimpse into the world of cops, gangsters, and politicians. As someone who lives in one KC's more historic hoods, I treat "The Wire" as a lesson in living in the big city. This scares me just a little, but I'd rather know what's out there than live in an ivory tower (or a beige box in a 'burb) and not consider what goes on in the rest of the world.

There is something just a little strange about finding reality in scripted television, but I know the little piece of heaven MP and I have scraped together isn't the only way people live. I guess you could call it roadkill fascination--like a mess so bad you can't help but look at it. Which is probably why most of us watch reality TV if you think about it.

Only "The Wire" is better than that. People are nastier, funnier, and more believable than they are in real life. And you will find yourself loving them--even the gun-toting thugs--because you realize even they have a little humanity in them. Most def.

A Caucus Race

I'm so happy to know I'm not the only one who thinks of Lewis Carroll when I see the word caucus. I've included a handy link here for those of you who aren't up on your Alice in Wonderland. Indeed, as it is the day of the Iowa Caucus, there are other bloggers out in the universe making this reference. However, I'm not sure how many of them are considering the etymology of the word.

On this news this morning, the announcer suggested the word has roots in Native American language (Algonquin--I had to look this up). The suggestion is that it comes from caucauasu--one who advises.

However, the dictionaries generally credit Latin caucus or Greek kaukus (hey, if you use a k, it makes it Greek, right?). Both these suggest a cup or vessel and might relate to what the caucus-goers are doing, namely drinking. In Alice in Wonderland, the caucus is used to dry off. And everyone knows that drinkers need an opportunity to dry off, or dry out.

Frankly, I kind of prefer this meaning. I'm not sure how much advising goes on in a caucus. Methinks there is more running around in circles. If the Republicans weren't so worried about turning off their base, they would be cracking more jokes about the Democrats running around in circles a la Lewis Carroll. But that would be WAY too liberal literati. Apparently the Republican caucus is more organized, more 6th-grade class election-like. Everyone places a piece of paper in a box. Democrats run around a room and pile up under signs designating their choice. To me, that is much more in the spirit of a caucus.

In other news, I promise to be a more faithful blog contributer this year. My life is slightly less frantic than it was. And I know you've been waiting with baited breath to read up on word meanings and other random musings.