Haiti: "Te a fatige."

The earth is tired.

Words spoken by forlorn Haitian farmers. One cannot help but sigh. Or moan.

From National Geographic: "So what do you do if you live in the poorest nation in the Western Hemisphere, and the price of the primary carbohydrate—'Miami rice' from the U.S.—doubles? Mostly, you go hungry and watch your children do the same."

Such grim conditions are reality to Haitian mothers. Can you even bring your mind to the hell theirs must occupy? I simply cannot. I watched my sons inhale two helpings of sesame chicken at dinner tonight. As I watched them dawdle and chat and chew, all I could think about was Haiti. The people of Haiti. The mothers. And their sons.

Haiti has seen its share of hell. It is the Western hemisphere's poorest country. A long history of war, pillaging, greed, and destruction has made it so.

The recent earthquake devastation reeks of Katrina in its imagery, social classism, and utter despair. The income gap is more a canyon. The race and class divide is astonishing. The destruction is beyond my grasp. Katrina and the tsunami all rolled into one whirling nightmare.

Despite the bigotry masked as Christian righteousness that Pat Robertson spews, Haiti, and her people, did not deserve this. There was no pact with the Devil. Do people really buy this shit? If the Devil does indeed exist, I believe he looks a lot like Pat Robertson.

We are citizens of this planet. We share our humanity. Poor people do not love their children any less. Disenfranchised masses don't deserve less. We waste in one day what could clothe and feed a family of four in Haiti for days. As human beings who have so much, it is our duty to be giving. If you cannot open your passport to join an aid mission, then open your checkbook.

For just one day, I ask you to forgo that latte, Target impulse purchase, or eBay pair of Frye boots. Donate that money instead. What is so small to us makes an enormous difference to those in need.

We're giving here. Stop Hunger Now.

You can also give here:

Unicef

Yele Haiti (You can text "yele" to 501501 to automatically donate $5 to the Yele Haiti Earthquake Fund. The 5 bucks will be charged to your regular cell phone bill. It doesn't get any easier than this.)

International Federation of Red Cross and Red Crescent Societies (Text "HAITI" to "90999" to donate $10 to the Red Cross.)

Doctors Without Borders

Charity: Water


And one last thing, don't wait for tragedy to strike or the advent calendar to count down, be giving everyday, in whatever small ways you can. We recently wrote down our family values on a board in our mudroom, an exercise I often do to help my clients define their brand and messages. I figure we represent brand Dirt & Noise so why not give this a shot. Here are the values that define our family:

Respect.
Kindness.
Generosity.
Gratitude.

Now, to make those four little words come to life....

This isn't just about Haiti; it's about Humanity.

Wordless Wednesday: Freedom. Within Reach

Wordless Wednesday: Veteran's Day Salute

"Um, why are we getting the day off from school to honor animal doctors?" Bird, age 6

Food Safety: Caveat Emptor

"Caveat Emptor: is one of the many phrases I remember from my early days of Latin in the esteemed Dr. Larrick's class. (Sidebar: Every student should have been lucky enough to have had Dr. Larrick. He continues to inspire students in ways few can. Teaching is a gift. One that he keeps on giving. And for that we are thankful.) Anyhoo, "Caveat Emptor" is of course the commerce principle that means the buyer assumes the risk. It translates to "Let the buyer beware." We generally think of this in terms of purchasing cars, property, and pretty much anything from eBay, Craigslist, or the classified section (that is, if anyone still lists and buys stuff that way these days).

I never thought Caveat Emptor would apply to the food I buy.

We take leaps of faith everyday. We trust that the drivers among us will stop when the light is red. We trust our children's schools are secure. We trust that the bank protects our money. We trust that our municipality's water reading is accurate. We trust our cribs are tested and our toys lead-free. We trust the food stocked upon market shelves is safe.

Thanks to the likes of Stewart Parnell, the infamous Salmonella Peanut King, consumers can no longer afford to take a leap of faith when it comes to food purchases. The FDA has long been riddled with powerlessness and plagued with inefficiencies. Food safety, and in effect consumer wellness, has been on the back burner. It seems to me that we as a nation have focused more on making a buck and pulling a fast one on consumers than protecting public health. I'm thinking of the policies and attitudes of a certain eight years in the all-too-recent-past. Ahem. The FDA, through years of neglect and failure to modernize itself, has floundered in protecting us.

Well finally, in a bipartisan leap, the food safety bill looks like it's making headway to overhaul the FDA. Despite the fact that the Senate looks like it will wait until next year to address it, the bill is still getting some much deserved attention. It's at least a starting point. Slow but steady, right? The FDA, the government organization upon which we rely to ensure the food we consume is safe, has had puny resources to actually to its job, making us take leaps of faith in the grocery aisle, off restaurant menus, and in school cafeterias without even knowing it.

Spinach. Peanuts. Cookie dough. Ground beef. Chicken. Pet food.

Pretty basic items on any grocery list, right?

E. coli. Salmonella. Listeria.

I bet those aren't on your shopping list.


So where do we go from here?

Until our government gets rolling on passing and implementing this new food safety bill, it behooves us all to exercise Caveat Emptor in every food purchase we make. Even buying local, organically produced food does not guarantee it's safe for consumption.

Note that I write this a mother, a cook, a consumer. I'm not a pundit, a biologist, a lawyer, a lobbyist, or a politician. And my bet is that if you're not either, you too don't care about the in-fighting. We simply want to trust that the food we serve our children is not tainted. Food is sustenance, and should not be suspect.


Check out these resources for more information.
Safe Tables
@SafeTables on Twitter
Sign up for eAlerts about food recalls.
FDA food safety


PS
Thanks to Senator Dick Durbin of Illinois, Mike Taylor, advisor to the FDA Commissioner, Safe Tables and the fine bloggers (@GloPan, @punditmom, @morningsidemom, @soapboxmom, @jippert) who joined in on an informative call last week about food safety. Cheers to good health instead of just wealth!

5:00 Fridays

It was the breathing room I needed between the end of my summer residency and the beginning of my last semester of graduate school. Mother Nature was graciously hosting a soiree in the meteorological sweet spot of Chicago's seasons. I decadently slept in, briefly opening my eyes to bid Mac Daddy adieu before he headed to the train. As per my request, he left on the bathroom radio so I could lazily wake up to the tune of my internal clock.

The DJs, Eric and somebody I can't recall, were bantering about something banal. Their cornpone schtick was reason enough for me to drift back to sleep.

And then I heard the fright and horror and disbelief in their screaming voices. No 7 second delay that morning. What I heard was raw. On edge. And terrifyingly real.

The day was September 11, 2001.

And Mac Daddy was on the "L" heading to his office in the Wrigley Building on Michigan Avenue.

A building the radio was frenetically rattling off on a list of potential targets. A building that was being evacuated.

Phone lines were down. Trains were halted. The news was full of holes and questions and what ifs. The news was making me frantic thinking that Chicago was next.

And it was hours before Mac Daddy was home safely. Hours before I breathed.

Yet my measley hours of worry pale in embarrassing comparison to those who felt real loss and fright that day.

We all have 9/11 etched in our psyche in some fashion.

My calendar calls 9/11 Patriot Day. Even the book The Daily Cocktail serves up a 9/11 special.


American Glory

3 ounces champagne
2 ounces orange juice (pulp free calcium enriched, might as well make your drinking healthy!)
2 ounces lemonade

Pour all the ingredients into an ice-filled Collins glass. Garnish with blueberries and raspberries skewered on a toothpick.

Take a slow, cautious sip. Say a little prayer if you wish. Make a toast. Whisper thanks. Wipe a tear. Breathe.

Cheers, my friends. Here's to New York and Washington, D.C. and all the places scattered about the map that thousands of brave souls called home.

Palin/Coleman 2012

I hate to give Sarah Palin any air time but I must shake out the fuzzy details of the nightmare I had recently. I realize that statement is redundant.

You see, Mac Daddy likes to watch a bit of news before he hits the hay. The man is a news junkie, yet he somehow manages to also be tuned into all the latest hip hop and R & B music and slang that the cool kids are mumbling. I'm pretty sure he's not getting all that from the same source. Last I heard Anderson Cooper (heart be still!) wasn't beatboxing the headlines. Do people still beatbox? Is that even cool anymore? Clearly I am not the one in tune with music, unless you count anything from the years 1985-1986.

Mac Daddy and I are not generally TV-in-the-bedroom type of people but we do have a wee 13-inch television in our room. The thing is so small that Mac Daddy, with his bat in broad daylight vision, cannot read the news crawler or sports scores from bed. That is a sign of how small the TV screen is, not how enormous our bedroom is. I, however, can see the crawler and scores perfectly. Oddly enough, my eyesight improved with each pregnancy. Those boys gave me back fat, but at least I don't have to wear glasses anymore. I realize this has nothing to do with Sarah Palin. Well, she does wear glasses so I guess my non-sequitor is a sequitor after all. Anyway, I hate to watch the news before bed. Nothing like some sad, maddening, irritating, explosive news to bid you off for a journey into dreamland. I have enough trouble sleeping as it is; I don't need visions of Sarah Palin taunting me. And I sure don't need her whiny croak to be the last voice I hear before I fall asleep.

Because when the stars misalign, I have nightmares.

If both Sarah Palin and Norm Coleman tapped you on the shoulder while you were wasting away in Margaritaville, you'd bolt upright in bed too. All I heard was their inane chatter and Coen brothers' Fargo accents guffawing at deafening decibels in my dreams. I saw their Crest Whitestripped teeth glistening in their caricature smiles. My god, those two are living caricatures anyway! They were holding up a slew of sandwich boards, signs, stickers, banners, and other such paraphernalia announcing their bid for the White House in 2012. Palin/Coleman 2012. Shall I get you a bucket to toss your cookies in? I might have been dry heaving in my own dream. I'm pretty sure I was at least quivering, shaking a fist. It was one of those moments that I was asleep but knew I was dreaming. No matter how I tossed, turned, and stole the sheets, I could not wake up. Try as I might, I couldn't shake those two party crashers. It was as if Sarah and Norm were holding my eyelids shut and my brain tuned into their song and dance routine. "On with the show!" they barked.

Nothing like a presidential run from two people who are more cut out to be pageant contestants than running mates. Oh wait, Sarah Palin already did that, right? These two Limelighters thrive on speculation. They are ringmasters in their own media circus. Have I mentioned before that I loathe the circus? That's another story...

Let's see here, Norm Coleman fought, fangs and claws gripping at shredded threads, for a Senate seat he lost to Al Franken. He left his state in the hands of resident Nut Job Michelle Bachman while he tied up state resources to overturn Franken's win. Way to leave the people voiceless, Norm. Wow did he act like a high school forlorn boyfriend grasping pathetically to hang on to the girl. There comes a time when you must realize your options are exhausted. If Coleman really wanted to serve his state, he would have stepped aside, oh, seven months ago. He was in it for himself, not to serve his people. Duh. Transparency in government, right?

And then there's ole Sarah Palin, still trying to play the victim while she plays us. We are all on to her, aren't we? Tell me there aren't still Palin lovers out there. She's not even finishing her term as governor, and the half she did serve was spent mostly on the campaign trail in her $500 boots. I suppose Alaska will be in better hands now, right? Perhaps less soiled hands anyway. I don't really care if she writes a book, hosts a talk show, or runs off to the snowy wilderness to be seen only by the Planet Earth film crew. I just want her out of my life. If she continues to force feed herself to us, she's making herself a part of my life. An unwelcome part. America will never grow, improve, and thrive with the likes of her in the captain's chair.

It's time we arm ourselves with smart people at the helm. People who give voice to the mute, a hand to the disenfranchised, an olive branch to the enemy. Contrary to popular belief, and admittedly the bias of this blog, there are smart people on all sides...dare I say some smarter than others. Can we just agree to keep Sarah Palin off the national collective radar? Her 15-minutes expired months ago, and the clock battery died.

I need my sleep. And I could use some Disney-esque dreams to come true.

What America needs is less hubris, more humility.

5:00 Fridays

The cocktail wearing today's Dirt & Noise mantel requires no further explanation. Consider what today is...the last Friday that Bush is in office. This drink packs a punch so exercise caution and responsibility.

Adios Motherfucker

1 oz gin
1 oz light rum
half ounce tequila
1 oz vodka
1 1/2 oz blue curacao
2 oz sweet and sour mix
1 oz Sprite

Shake all the alcohol and sweet and sour mix in an iced cocktail shaker. Pour into a festive tall glass filled with ice, then add Sprite on top. Just for kicks, garnish with one of those tiny toothpick American flags poked into some blueberries.

Now party like it's January 20, 2009!

5:00 Fridays

Did you hear the news? This great nation of ours has turned B-L-U-E!!! Best of all, this red state of mine has voted BLUE for the first time in a generation; the last Democratic president elected in North Carolina was Jimmy Carter. Barack Obama has redefined what it means to have a case of the blues.

You might say that we live in a Blue Heaven right now.

And so today's cocktail is a toast, a cheer, a tip of my hat to the man, the President-Elect, Barack Hussein Obama.

Blue Heaven

1 shot of good quality vodka (I'm still using the organic Rain brand left over from a party.)
1/2 ounce of freshly squeezed lemon juice (No phony stuff tolerated here!)
1/2 ounce of blue curacao

Add all the ingredients to a cocktail shaker filled with ice. Shake, strain, pour into a tall, skinny glass with a few ice cubes. I recommend some star shaped ice just for kicks. Garnish with a couple blueberries and a lemon twist.

Cheers, to my fellow Americans and world citizens who are jubilant at this change of tide!

Change is Here, Boys

Dear Bird and Deal,

See that little boy in the photo up there? He grew up to be president of the United States of America.

A whole new world has opened up and presented itself to us today. Your world will be much different than mine. Barack Obama will become our new president. He will be the first black president in our country's history. I voted for him for you. You, my mixed race boys who are first generation American. You, my boys who can truly grow up to be president or anything else your hearts desire. You, my boys who already have a keen interest in your world.

Bird, when I showed you pictures of the past 43 presidents you asked why there were no women. Ah, you make me proud! Then I showed you Obama's photo next to all those white faces, and you remarked that he looks different, that he looks like me, like our beloved nanny, like you, like your little brother. Then you said that we really should not say "white" and "black" because we are really "pink" and "brown." To you color carries no baggage, no hate, no judgement, no preconception; it is simply a Crayola descriptor. You didn't understand why Obama is the first black president out of all these men. I talked to you about Martin Luther King and Rosa Parks. We read books that captured your undivided attention, yet you could not identify with the reality that once was. I pray that you never will.

During this arduous campaign for many nights I missed tucking you into bed, I hurriedly kissed you and Daddy as our paths crossed, I was absent from the dinner table, I was high strung and on edge, I was preoccupied. I was also sleepless, filled with anxiety and hope bundled together into one tight little knot. I was concerned about your future and what my generation's legacy would be to yours. I struggled with hefty issues of race and division that I pray will not litter your world. I knocked on doors, made phone calls, planned rallies, wrote articles, researched policies, and tried to make a difference. For you. I did this all for you, my boys.

And so today, after months, weeks, days, hours of worry and time well spent, I too am spent. I am an emotional wreck. Barack Obama will be our next president. It is true. It cannot be undone. You have no idea the elation strumming through my veins as I write those simple words. He is a great man who will fix much of what is so horrifically broken in this country. He is inheriting a disaster of epic proportions. He faces no small feat, but I know he, with the help of ordinary Americans like us, can heal our wounds. I am so proud to have been but a small player in his vast army of volunteers. I hope my actions over these weeks will influence you one day when you spike the political fever and pour your own blood, sweat, and tears into a candidate you believe in.

To say this day is momentous would be one of life's greatest under statements. Today is magical, hopeful, jubilant, and I would be remiss to say, a long time in the making. We not only watched history unfold before us from a front row seat, we rolled up our sleeves and put our our hands in the pot that cooked up this great day. We, along with millions of others, made history. When you read about this in high school one day, you can say that you were there, that your mom and dad got calloused feet, hoarse voices, and paper cuts galore to have the priviledge of supporting Barack Obama. You will have mountains of campaign memorbilia that I have tucked away for you. You will have photos and videos and newspaper clippings. You will say that your Nani shook Obama's hand in Berlin. You will realize that history is more than a textbook; it is a story.

America, the country in which you were lucky enough to be born and the country that Nani and Dadu adopted as mine, has made me proud. I have learned that legions of organized people fighting a battle based on justice, advocacy, and liberty will prevail. I have learned that a little idealism goes a long way. I have learned that great men and women walk among us. I have learned to turn the other cheek. I have learned that the power of one makes a big difference. I have learned that being driven by values and emotions is a fine way to go through life. I have learned that good guys win. I have learned to savor the moment. I have learned the taste of victory, victory for us as a nation.

Barack Obama, the man we have revered and watched and supported will be the first president you remember. Oh, what a magnificent start to your civic memory!

Bird and Deal, I am humbled this day. I am proud, exuberant, hopeful. Do you remember when we sang Woody Guthrie's song in church the other day and read the storybook of those famed lyrics? "This land is your land..." Well, my boys, it's true. Woody Guthrie got it right.

I love you to the moon and back again. Or as Deal likes to say, I love you to Obama and back again.

Mommy

PS
Check out these other posts. If you've written a post about your emotions and reactions to Tuesday's historic election, please leave a link in the comments.

Leslie Morgan Steiner
Morningside Mom
Queen of Spain
Pundit Mom
'Nother Yankee in Raleigh
DC Urban Dad
Mom 101
A Mom Two Boys
Mommy Pie

Yes We Can! Yes We Should!

We have 42 days to get Barack Obama elected into office. 42 days, the home stretch akin to the last weeks of pregnancy. The anticipation too explosive to control. The eagerness too much to articulate without wild Italian grandma-like gesticulation. The stakes too high to sit back on our seats of cynicism and complacency.

We must keep our sleeves rolled up, our feet moving, our knuckles knocking, our fingers dialing, our words debating. We must all be the Little Engine That Could, 10-fold in purpose.

Think you don't have time to help the Obama campaign? Think your vote is enough (while it is fantastic, it is not enough given the political, social, environmental, and financial climate in our country today!). Here are some easy things you can do to make a difference. Trust me here. Easy, fast, fulfilling. Consider it the Big Mac of Obama tasks.

1. Make a donation to the campaign: www.barackobama.com. You can even go to MoveOn and get even get a free sticker, button, or T-shirt. I did. I wear my Obama gear proudly.
2. Host a fundraising event at your house. Throw some brats (as in the German sausage, not the neighborhood bully) on the grill, buy some German beer, and invite friends over for Baracktoberfest. It's a cheap, fun way to raise money. And don't ya just LOVE the idea? Beer makes everything better. No lederhosen required.
3. Make calls on behalf of the campaign from the comfort of your home. All the information you need is right on the website: www.barackobama.com. Practice different voices and accents if you want to. Just make the calls!
4. Buy an Obama button, T-shirt, bumper sticker, or yard sign and use it as an opportunity to talk to people about why Obama should be our next president. These items are readily available online in a variety of places: Cafe Press, Obama Zen, Etsy. A friend's beagle even has an Obama button on her collar, and they make lots of friends at the dog park.
5. You don't have to know about every single issue, just talk about the issues that matter to you. Your passion will come through. I've heard some harsh words about my passion, but it's worth it knowing I am doing all that I can to give my country the giant Etch-A-Sketch shake it needs. There's not enough Tylenol in the world to cure the McPain that lurks.
   
6. Contact people you know in swing states and talk to them about why they should vote for Obama. Point them towards resources to read and investigate on their own.
7. Travel to a swing state (NM, NV, CO, MI, OH, VA, NC, NH) to canvas. The campaign can arrange a free plane ticket and place to stay. Go to this site to find out more: Travel for Change. If you live in California, you can travel to NV for a weekend to canvas. The CA Obama headquarters has arranged buses to transport people.
8. Remind everyone you know to make sure they are registered to vote! The deadline in North Carolina is October 10. Cliche as it sounds, Every. Vote. Counts. Go here to find out if you are registered.
9. Send this post to everyone you know!

It is the action of one person, in aggregate, that makes the mountain move. Do it for our purple mountains' majesty.

And the next time you're feeling angry and frustrated about the election, take a deep breath and watch this for a little inspiration. We Are the Ones.

9/11: It's a Date

I still cringe a bit inside when I see the time read 9:11 on the digital clock atop my nightstand. Those two simple numbers said together carry a heavy weight.

Will September 11 ever just be a date again?

We lived in Chicago on that fateful date seven years ago. Mac Daddy had just left for work while I was leisurely waking up to the radio left on in our bathroom. I was relishing my loafing time between a graduate school residency and the upcoming last semester of school. I had planned on spending the day strolling along Lake Michigan with a mug of coffee and the Poisonwood Bible tucked in my tote bag.

Then the frantic voices of newscasters interrupted Katrina and the Waves.

World Trade Center. Towers. Plane. Crash. Terrorists. Pentagon. Crash. Pennsylvania. Collapse. The words hammered through the airwaves like cymbals thrashing right in my ear. My brain was incapable of stringing it all together to make any sense.

I bolted out of bed and flipped on the TV. I feverishly tried to reach Mac Daddy. He had taken the subway to work. On Michigan Avenue. In the Wrigley Building. A Chicago landmark. All cell service was dead.

It would be over four hours before I heard his calming voice telling me he was coming home. By cab.

Nine hours later, I was still planted upright with stoic posture in front of the TV. Trying to reach our New York friends was futile. We worried most for our old friend Tony who worked in the American Express building on the World Trade Center campus. Tony's penchant for the last minute might have saved him that day. Turns out he was home downloading music for his stint in cubicle city so he hightailed it to work in a cab instead of taking his usual subway route. The route that dropped him him off at the World Trade Center stop.

I believed in god the moment we heard from a very shaken Tony. And then I prayed. To whom, I do not know. But I felt lost, shaken, frightened, and keenly aware of a new world order. It was then that Mac Daddy and I decided to move somewhere inconsequential. Not out of fear or paranoia; we simply wanted a hassle-free, idyllic life.

Another friend lost colleagues and friends in the Pentagon that day. He was spared, a life saved to live up to his future promise.

We had an impromptu candlelight vigil on our street that night. Children, students, black, white, young, old, liberals, conservatives, Catholics, Unitarians, trash collectors, bankers, urban natives, farmland transplants. We lined the street in silence. Simply being together with the hopeful faces of children was comfort among us. The silence deafening. Children started a chorus of America the Beautiful. All the grade school patriotic standbys followed. Firefighters and EMTs drove by, sirens silenced, flags raised, hats off. We cheered for the brethren of rescuers that night. Turns out super heroes don't wear tights.

I remember landing in New York a couple years later. The emptiness left by the Twin Towers was surreal. It seemed like a limb had been amputated from an otherwise pulsing city. Those towers grace the pages of many family photo albums. Those towers take center stage in many books and puzzles lining our shelves. It's almost a trick to the eye to gaze at the skyline now.

And so today, we've been listening to Woody Guthrie singing This Land is Your Land. Deal doesn't understand its significance, but I do.

Palin in Comparison to Biden

Is this Candid Camera's PR stunt to relaunch the show? Has Ashton Kutcher gone politico on us?

It's all aflutter in the media today. Carville uses the word "vexed" to sum up McCain's odd choice of VP running mate. Begala says the choice is irresponsible. I'm on their team.

Sarah Palin. Heard of her? Nope. Me either. Joe Biden. Heard of him? Thought so. For the record, I'm so voting for his son Beau one day. He's not running for anything right now, but I'm keeping my sights on his political future.

It's no secret that I'm an Obamaholic. Of course I'm biased. But guess what, I'm a blogger, not a journalist. I simply opine, not report.

But seriously folks, let's look at a couple points regarding Ms. Palin.

1) She's a first-term governor of Alaska, the state of 670,704 citizens. And three electoral votes. And before she became governor? She was mayor of a town of 9700 people. Dudes, that's waaaayyy smaller than even Mac Daddy's hometown in west-of-nowhere Wisconsin! I bet most people in the lower 48 consider Alaska a foreign country.

2) Her lack of experience is laughable. Imagine the crib sheets she's gonna need when asked who our top foreign enemies are and how would she deal with them. Could she name all those dictators we're dodging? I can't but I'm not on a presidential ticket. Some doofus on Fox News actually said he thinks Palin has great foreign policy experience because Alaska is close to Russia. Hardy har har! Those conservatives are funny. Or are they just stupid? I somehow think the guy was not joking.

3) Palin could be McCain's granddaughter. Ageism is alive and well as much as sexism is. But guess what? I don't want a geezer drilling holes in my teeth, cutting out my tumors, flying my 747, driving my son's school bus, or controlling the red button. I don't even want the shaky handed white haired lady with too much red lipstick in the creases of her mouth at the Chanel counter apply my eyeliner. Yes, I am an ageist. But look, the reality is I'm petrified (see point #4).

4) McCain is 72 years old. He has battled cancer 4 times. He's not a spunky guy by any stretch. Should he not fulfill his bucket list, America is left with an inexperienced vice president to take the helm. Not to be morbid, but this is a real concern. McCain has defied the odds over his lifetime. He's no cat with nine lives. Not a hep cat, fo sho. We're at war with two countries and face potential nuclear threats from two more. Do you really want a newbie to make the call?

5) Did I mention that McCain met Sarah Palin one time before choosing her as his running mate? One time six months ago. Geesh, arranged marriages in India start off with more intimacy than that! I bet Pawlenty feels pretty snubbed. Romney too. I have more years of experience in student government than Palin has in public service. And look, we're only 4 years apart in age. I bet some of my schools were bigger than the population of Wasilla, Alaska.

Now let me tell you what's on my mind from a mom's perspective. Sure, Sarah Palin is a mom. A working mom, a term that makes me shudder. WE ARE ALL WORKING MOMS FOR CRYING OUT LOUD!!! Now she's a hero for giving birth to a Down's Syndrome baby. Rather, a hero for keeping him. Devastating, no doubt. I'm not discounting the courage, faith, and unconditional love she and her family demonstrated. But listen, plenty of people have challenges and heartaches. I am so turned off that the media is using baby Trig as a pawn. What really eats me is that the McCain camp puts Palin on a pedestal because she is a working mom. If I hear one more thing about "from breast pump to Blackberry" I'm gonna poke someone's eyes out. This is a farce. Am I the only one to see the transparency of this decision?

In this case, the woman is spotlighted for balancing motherhood with her career, yet so many of McCain's policies and perspectives squash women. Fair wage? Nope. Education for women? Nope, they don't need it, remember? Maternity leave? Sure, unpaid and your job's not guaranteed. And healthcare for kids? Nah. Pull yourself up by those bootstraps and get yourself some of that tasty orange St. Joseph's aspirin. Palin is nothing more than an exploited pawn to make the McCain ticket look like it truly embraces the plight of the working mom and women in general. Seriously hanging-on Hillary supporters, are you going to fall for that? You are a smarter bunch than that. I could stomach Meg Whitman over Palin.

Does it really help women everywhere when Alaska magazine puts Palin on the cover with the headline "America's Hottest Governor?" Yeah, I get the double entrendre. The problematic piece is the subhead "she's more than just a pretty face." Excuse me while I upchuck in the corner. Would we ever, ever make such statements about a male?

Here are some talking points that Republicans committed to memory today (I know this because I hear them all saying the same thing over and over again. Cliches, all of them.):

She governs the biggest land mass state. I guess size does matter if you're Republican.

When Sarah puts her mind to something, she does it. Well, ain't such gumption sweet? Just what I want in my PTA president.

She's got grit. Whoa, cowboy! I live in a house of dirt, I don't need more grit.

She's a mother. Um, yeah (insert Office Space inflection here). Last I heard the same people who tout family values don't actually value motherhood. Ironic, no? Picture this, a Democratic woman has a baby and goes back to the rank and file of work in six days. Heroine or heretic? You bet your ass that the Republican pundits would declare her a disgrace who was unfit for motherhood as well as a hormonal twit unproductive in the workforce.

She's a hunter. Am I to be impressed that she shoots the caribou and fries it up in a pan? Someone alert Charley to make a new ad campaign. Oh, and someone actually said that moose is Palin's "favorite meat product." I don't have a favorite meat product. Isn't Spam a meat product? Is that really the best they could pull out for her bio?

She has a son with Down Syndrome and a son off to Afghanistan. As my friend Julie said, it's like they pulled Sarah Palin from central casting. Is she really a mob member in the witness protection program who's been given a new identity? Is Sarah Palin real or is she an avatar? Are we in Second Life?

Sarah Palin is the most loved governor in all of America. I bet I could find 670,000 to give me an approval rating of 80% too. Just give me time to find more friends on Facebook. Let's not forget that GW Bush had approval ratings in the 70s at one time, and look at what a complete ninny he has proven himself to be.

Now it's clear that I too am vexed by McCain's choice in running mate. More than vexed, I am sore. Sore that he's choosing a woman as a political pawn to win the election rather than really, really think about the long-term ramifications on our country. But I guess being self-centered is the Republican way.

Everybody's All American

I grew up in a cul de sac neighborhood eating Ho Hos, hot dogs, and PBJs like all the other kids on the block. I played Atari and stayed up late to watch Friday Night Videos. I begged my mom for Gloria Vanderbilt jeans and Nike sneakers. I had a massive crush on Shaun Cassidy. I was a Brownie and a Girl Scout, even sold cookies door to door. I played field hockey and lacrosse. I went to prom, three times. I pledged my undying love to a sorority. I went to fraternity formals and tailgates. I was a school crossing guard and ran for class president. I oohed and aahed at fireworks every July 4th and eagerly tore into presents every December 25th. I ate up American history class (thanks to the fabulous Ms. Malone) and registered to vote as soon as I turned 18.

You could say I lived the all-American life, cliches and all.

I wasn't born an American. I was raised one.

If you want to get technical, I was born in Calcutta, India (a place the Department of Homeland Security fiercely scrutinizes in terms of immigration now). I've been in the States for 39 years. It is my home. While I look Indian, I am all American. I speak like an American, butchering a French accent as much as my classmates did; I even have a surprise Southern drawl if I have a few too many Yuenglings with my neighbors. I married an American (from the Heartland, doesn't get more American than that!). I have two boys who are first generation American. I have an American passport. To the world, I am officially American, on paper.

My children are 100% American, no matter how you look at it (or them). Sure, they are bi-racial, I suppose. I don't think of them in that way. Apparently many people do. Some people have even asked me if I'm their nanny. In typical Mac Daddy fashion, he says it's because I look too good to have had two kids. Ha! He just knows what to say to get him some hot action. This was a timely article in our local paper, considering an exchange I had with a neighbor Friday night.

Picture this: Four families sitting around the yard, chowing down some pepperoni pizza and cracking open some Miller High Lifes, children running amok, neighbors stopping by to say hey. The conversation turned to the movie "Star Wars." Mac Daddy proudly said he's never seen it (It's a point of pride and conviction for him at this point.). Oh, the crowd went wild, jeering him for being so out of touch with possibly the greatest piece of pop culture ever. I chimed in with "I hated Star Wars."

Jokingly, a friend said that hating Star Wars was practically unAmerican. Ha ha ha. We had a good laugh at that Chuck. Then another neighbor pipes in with, "Of course it's unAmerican. Look at who you're talking to."

Silence struck. All the fun and folly evaporated at that instant. I could feel my eyes on fire, my skin crawling, my heart racing, my teeth clenching, my brain reeling, my angry words swirling in my brain. I burst. How could I not?

I retorted with an emphatic, "Actually, I AM American."

"Well, not really. You weren't born here."

"That's not the only thing that makes someone American."

"Well, you're not American like I am."

"I didn't realize there were degrees of American-ness. I have lived here for 39 years. I was BRED an American. I lived all but one year outside of this country when I was a baby!" I was screaming now.

"Well, you weren't born here. You missed a year here." Was she seriously arguing this point?!

"Oh, I see. You absorbed all your American-ness in that impressionable first year of life.'

"Yes, that's it." Really?! Are you freaking kidding me? Does she really think this? Should I smack her or what?

"You know what? I actually represent the REAL America. The one that is based on the melting pot and freedom and immigration to a new world? You know, the one in history books regaling stories of Ellis Island and the first settlers? I am as American as they come and don't ever tell me otherwise. My family CHOSE to be American, never taking it for granted for one single second."

With that I stomped inside, fighting back tears. How could she question my identity?

In this day of mixed races, ethnicities, and religions among families, there are no easy physical identifiers anymore. Isn't that the beauty of our country? Is that not our brand? My heritage will always be Indian, and don't get me wrong, I'm damn proud of it. For starters, our cuisine and literary contributions to the planet far exceed America's. My neighbor likely sees that as not being proud of my country. Well you know what? Sometimes I'm not proud of my country. I'm certainly not proud of the numbskulls running it right now. What makes me proud is that I am free to state my opinion without fear of retribution.

I campaign fiercely in every election, taking time off from my paying job. Would I do that if I weren't an American who cared about her country and wanted to protect it? I am a proud American. Patriotic songs make me cry, and they did even before 9/11. When I was a kid I won a Mini Page contest for the Fourth of July. I took a popular car commercial of the day and drew pictures to go along with it as my way to depict America (Clearly advertising and marketing spoke to me from a young age.). I won the contest and got my picture and photo printed in the paper. I think my mom still has the clipping. She was that proud.

Now don't go telling me I'm not American.

The principle still sticks; our heritage is mixed. So any kid could be the president.

Bird and Deal are first generation Americans. It's a pretty momentous hallmark in our family tree, and they'll be remembered as such generations from now when their children's grandchildren research the crazy, mixed up lineage it will surely become. My parents are naturalized citizens, which means they took a test of American history and likely know more about the electoral process than most people who are born citizens.

When I was six years old I got the Dr. Seuss My Book About Me. I clearly remember counting all the spoons and buttons in my house so I could complete the book with utter precision. One of the questions was about what I wanted to be when I grew up. In my childish chicken scratch I wrote "President," only the S was backwards. You have no idea how disheartened I was when my teacher told me that I would never be President because I wasn't born in America. I was heart broken. Sad. Infuriated. Bummed out worse than any forlorn lover in a billboard topper country music ditty. What else was an ambitious six year old to aspire to? I crossed out "President" and wrote "Pediatrician." And um, that didn't come to fruition either. I could secure a spot in the record books as the only Indian in the world who's bad at math and science.

In any case, I'm not suggesting we change the Constitution. I applaud our forefathers (and the unmentioned, uncredited foremothers) for the ingenious framework they created for this fair country I call home. I was watching some Schoolhouse Rock with Bird and Deal and explained to them that America was founded on the principle of embracing the similarities of all who tend and walk its soil versus fighting over the differences.

My, how times have changed.

So pummel me for being an Idealist. You may say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one...

Something struck a chord in me when we were watching The Great American Melting Pot. Why can't a black man with roots in Kenya, Kansas, and Waikiki be our next president? Read the lyrics and you're sure to see what I mean. I'm living vicariously through Obama. After all, my teacher didn't say I couldn't be President because I'm a girl.