1. To find love and let it in

2. To be promoted and have a job that better suits my strengths

3. To have a garden

4. To go to Egypt

5. To see my friends married in a Maryland horse paddock**

6. To get fit

7. To be in the sun as much as possible

8. To finish a book – writing not reading; the latter is more than a given

9. To allow my self to be: happy; at peace; more open when I should be; to trust those who have well proven they are to be trusted

10. To hide less

11. To conquer silly fears that I let hold me back because it seemed easier to let them at the time – or to admit when I’m being an idiot

12. And again – to find my love and to let them love me in return

*I assume that everyone who reads this has actually met me. If I am mistaken – hi. Nice to meet you.

**Not all my friends in a weird Moonie service, but two specific individuals whose love makes me go yippppeeeee!

London is stunning in the snow. It’s a confectionary wonderland. We went for a walk, I found a hole on a bridge (well one leg did – fell in up to my thigh and I couldn’t be more pleased that I did not get stuck), walked along a grey^-scale river, made a snowman and went ooh a lot.

There were parts of the day that reminded me of favourite snow days and snowy days past* -  so here goes:

1. In 1995, I was home from college for Christmas. We had a wonderful snow fall and a bunch of us decided to go sledding and boarding at a local golf course. My friend suggested that we all stay at his house. This seemed a good idea at the time. Four days later, blizzarded in, marooned in a basement, having eaten his most patient of parents out of every bit of food, the 15 of us questioned the wisdom of this plan. It got a bit Lord of the Flies down there (my friend and I used the last $12 we had to buy a dominoes pizza – and we paid by check. There wasn’t enough for everyone – and there was no more money. We bribed his little brother – let us use your room and we’ll share the pizza. We were discovered (apparently the famished can smell pizza two floors away) hiding in the closest munching away. The pizza was – ahem – shared. This is not my finest moment).

I remember Kevin and Steve reciting poetry and Billy, Jim, Koz and Co. playing “Just Like Heaven”. I remember Steve’s immortality and mystical powers being reconfirmed by his having the only car in New England not snowed in. He brought us coffee (we should have asked him to bring us home – but we weren’t very bright, and it was only day two). I remember Kevin walking from Danvers in his robe and hand-fashioned snow shoes. It got painful towards the end, but I wouldn’t change those four days if I could.

2. Until Heather nearly impaled herself on a hidden tree gate (Snow Angels are far more dangerous than many suppose), the MLK Blizzard of 2003 was a quite a day. We all met up at the only open pub in Brooklyn – The Brazen Head. We allowed Eric sharp projectiles and played Scrabble with Chip. It took us a very cold hour to walk a mile – but when you have a goal – you do what needs doing. We slumber-partied that evening too – but at least this time I knew we could walk home if it came down to it.

3. During my junior year of college, my roommate and I were taken down by the fiercest flu I have ever known. We had been unable to move for days, and the five-floor walkup prevented even the notion of a bodega trip impossible. The two feet of snow outside did not help. Then we got the call. “Ethan Hawke and Robert Sean Leonard are at (I can’t believe I can not remember the name of the bar – we loved that bar). You have to come. It’s a wrap party for their theatre troupe”. Robert Sean Leonard’s House character has nothing on his actual healing powers. We dressed, descended, and walked the 2 miles. We made snow angels on Broadway – which should be on everyone’s 101 things to do before you die list – yes – the list can have simple things) and met RSL. I have long hearted RSL, and the fact that I certainly looked as good as I felt and oozed plague did not prevent me from meeting him. I still introduced myself and was deeply uncool. Profoundly so. Again – not my finest moment, but one of my favourite.

I love snow days. I love their ephemeral influence and how even the most mundane actions are infused with a magic. How we are all 12 on a snowday – very happy, very silly, very open, very free 12 year olds. I always laugh most on days like today.

^Yes – I know it’s spelled with an a – but I have always preferred the look of gray with an e. It seems much more like the colour.  I don’t know why I do – but I do. So there.

*I have a feeling this one will be remembered too – it has the makings – a bit random – a bit of physical comedy – and spent with very good people, who were also dutifully checking email and keeping any non-work related activities to a sober minimum. Except when we made the snow man of course.

I’ve reread the first blog entries and was struck by how foreign, how strange that voice now seems to me. The early days were marked by tangible discoveries – of oddly shaped heaters, of television licenses, of holidays celebrating breakfast foods. I am, of course, still discovering – still learning. It matters little how much one moves or stays seemingly static, their life is still ever changing, ever offering new paths, adventures as well as good sofa-time. I remain, one year gone, full of excitement at my surroundings and awed by most days, but now my excitement, my awe come from more immaterial discoveries and experiences. I am still, and will ever be, struck by my great luck. How could I have met, fallen, into such a wonderful group of people – exceptional people. It is because of these people, that this year in London has not just been an aberration nor an experiment, nor a dream one returns from via flight nor mirror nor scarlet mary-janes, but a life – a very happy life.

To them I raise a glass that will not go dry nor be left half-full by some early closing time. To them, and to us: My heart is full for having found you; for having found my home.

Anyway – I am a big fan of weather cooperating with prevailing mood, so I thought it should be congratulated for being such a sport on this, the most miserable day of the year.

*I can get behind – a Most Miserable Day of the Year – but where are the festivities? If this were the US, Hallmark would be selling commiseration cards and florists would have stockpiled black roses – but this is much more of a DIY country – and boy did my fellow Londoners do their best to spread the misery on this morning’s commute. Bravo I say. Keep it up.

Also – as this country is so very pro-fancy dress parties (everyday can be halloween), we should be celebrating with Lemony Snicket events.  Dress as your favourite character from The Series of Unfortunate Events.  Toast with firey drinks and serve only spiceless cerviche (without popcorn) and peppermints.

*If you’re lucky enough to work on a high floor of a skyscraper however, you can take the unique opportunity to play office shipwreck. Move away from your desk, lift your feet off the floor and let your wheely chair keel you to and fro around your floor. If the winds are whipping right and proper, you should add some sort of stick and ball element for the popular variant – office shipwreck hockey.

I’ve spent an illuminating afternoon at The Tate. It was the final day of the Francis Bacon exhibition. Whilst there I viewed the 2008 Turner Prize nominations. I am a great fan of modern art, but admit that much contemporary art seems to be the sort of trickery that might be pawned off on a gullible emperor vs. a piece or series of pieces that are deserving of my time and consideration. When I walk through galleries lined with the fruit of our current genius’ minds, too often, two memories butt their way to the front of my mind.

1. In my friend’s first days of film school at NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts, a young man presented his first assignment: slides of photos shot pap-style of children in a play ground, backed by a soundtrack of jackhammers in action.

The still patient professor asked the student to speak to the meaning, inspiration and story of the project. The student, stunned that all was not obvious or far too profound to require explanation said words to the effect of “Dude – it’s art. If you don’t get that – well – there’s nothing I can say to help you get that. Dude, it’s art. Dude”.

It wasn’t art. Here is how each student and long-suffering prof knew it was not art. It was lazy. The kid was lazy. He expected the viewer to do all the work. He had no intent, no story. It was mere assemblage. In other hands, directed with a better mind, the same tortuous, self-absorbed slide show might find meaning by acknowledging that it is in fact a lazy bit of nothing. Perhaps it could be a postmodern masterpiece, but maybe, and even so…

2. The more potent memory is one (well reenacted in numerous galleries over a period of years) in which my actually painfully talented friend Chris would enter the room – survey – see – walk out of room -exit to street and say “Well, that was crap”.

Chris was always right. What he said wasn’t spoken out of a jealousy laced with late-20s hipster ennui. It was said when what we had just seen was crap. We might have gotten a complimentary glass of 2-buck-chuck or (ugh) a can of PBR, but he would usually be tweaked (for a short while, at least) on some talented-guy cellular level that is not understood by the majority of us.

***
The Turner nominations (on exhibit until January 18 ) were interesting, and some of it was both inspired and shared said inspiration*, but too much of it needed too much talking by the artists to get their points across.**

This bothered me. Not a great deal, on par with a kernel stuck in a molar. This is due to the fact that I approach viewing art as I do reading. This of course would be a problem if I were an art critic, but as I am just me, it will remain such with no harm done.

When I read, I consider 1. the story and how much I enjoy reading it, how hungry I am to read it…2. the writing style^ 3. How it effects me, my interpretation, etc. and 4. What secrets has the author hidden; what the words really mean.^^

When I was younger, my friends and I spent a great deal of time focused on point four, often to the exclusion of 1 – 3. We must have spent 47% of junior-year english class deconstructing Isabelle Allende’s House of the Spirits and 15% of that time was devoted to what Allende was really saying through Rosa the Beautiful’s green hair. The summer following graduation, we attended Allende’s lecture at Boston’s Harvard Club. One of us asked the question we had spent hours debating+: What is the meaning behind Rosa’s green hair? What are you saying?

“Well…Rosa was beautiful and otherworldly, so I though ‘mermaid’, and to me mermaids have green hair”.

“And the symbolism of the mermaid would be – “

“No symbol – mermaids are beautiful and otherworldly. That’s why the green hair. It is uncommon”++

We were silenced+++.

“But…”

“No but. Sometimes green hair is just green hair. This is important”.

And it was. And it has been. From that day, I began to look and see – or to attempt to look and see – differently. It is, in our hypoanalytic world<, it is hard to see and often harder to accept what is really there. To see what is real. This is the trick. This is the 42. This is important.

But I digress…

When I visit a museum or gallery, I will look – read the card – look again – listen to the commentary, but I look first. I want to know what I see with only my own self to give context. I read and listen because I enjoy knowing more about what the artist was thinking, how the critics have reflected, but that doesn’t mean anything if I don’t try to see from the first.

When I come upon a work I really fancy, I feel a catch – a first kiss kind of catch. At times my eyes will fill, at others, when my legs have moved forward, my eyes protest and swivel back for one more stare. It may be an old master or a void sliced in burlap, but they are beacons, they call and I have no resolve to fight them.

With too much contemporary art, I find myself sans catch. Much of it feels soulless or deceitful or pretentious, too If you were meant to get this you’d get this. Nope. It is worth my estimation and appreciation, I will, but don’t expect me to exalt because you told me too. I am – all of us watchers are – worth more than your foxes and have a right to expect more from you, our artists.

This, patient reader, brings me to the crux. The second artist, Cathy Wilkes, specializes in found object installations. I unexpectedly spent a great deal of time in her room. I walked around the sculpture. I listened to the commentary. I was not caught at first, but neither was I sure what I felt. She was refreshingly less eloquent in her interview than through her work and this allowed the piece to stand on its own. It played with my ways of seeing. Reminded me to look in new or other ways. It opened in me ideas and internal discourse, but did not scream and was neither intrusive nor a bratty interloper. It remained in the back of my mind; allowed me to be floored by the Bacon exhibit. It did not impose. It waited until I was quiet and then it spoke. And then I listened. And then I saw. It is a very, very fine work of art and much deserving of the mantle it has earned.

***

*The standouts for me – on initial inspection were Goshka Macuga’s collages and Runa Islam’s short film Cinematography. Mark Leckey was awarded the prize on December 1.

**I wonder if the secret to becoming a successful artist in contemporary times has more to do with having a silver tongue than golden hands.

^I yearn for the day when the Brave Editor of legend, armed with a sole red pencil slashes away deadwood adjectives and burns to char heavy handed, insultingly pedestrian metaphores# so as to rescue us from the villainous Sententori. The Sententori are a tribe of writers, late of much renown, whose “gift” and “talent” can be had by anyone in possession of a Roget’s. They use 10 middling words when one well chosen one would do – and do much better. They write sentences – not stories. They know that a critic can excerpt only sentences and not whole works, so they fatten up unassuming clauses with innocent words, which are then offered like so much blood sausage. Believable dialogue, character development, plot development – humbug! It’s the juicy, fatty, sentence that gets noticed, that sells books.

What we need is a Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Stories. It’s in our best interest. Stories have a life of their own, and are willing to take others in their wakes.

And to you, dread Sententori – Lighting. Lightening Bug. Mark Twain. Google it.

#I don’t have an editor; see what can happen?

+So sad and yet, so true.

++Or words to this effect.

+++A feat myriad armies have tried and failed to repeat since.

<And we New York girls are nothing if not Queen over-analyzers.

A few of these very clever and rather wonderfully mad people are emulating their boss each Friday to spur us in our giving to Cancer Research.  Their boss has a dapper, yet particular style of dressing, and each week they will don matching togs in homage.  This week was blue gingham shirts, tan cords and deck shoes.  Few things I’ve seen have been cuter.

I hope that you will support these fine gentlemen in their cause, by clicking here and donating to the first (hopefully) annual Rowevember Fund. 

Thank you in advance and best wishes,

Becky

We looked for a restaurant, and the third we entered was very much the charm.   It was a small, well appointed tapas place, with an attentive staff and the best mushrooms I have ever eaten.  Even the dormant prawns looked happy to be offered up as a sacrifice to sustenance and base-laying. 

After dinner we went to the gallery opening.  It was a photography exhibition of rock and folk icons.  We each found the one we would want, if we were the sort of people who could actually grocery shop at F&M – Nick’s was a phenomenal iconic late 70s shot of Debbie Harry, Isa wanted Bob Dylan contact sheets and my heart was stolen by one of the aforementioned troubadour, Mr. Waits.

We left the gallery and met the first of many new friends this evening*.  He was a be-dreaded fellow with a lilting Caribbean accent, with which he sang a litany of the current London street names for all the drugs within the rainbow.  Nick seemed a bit concerned that I, being a foreigner, would not understand what the man was proffering.   I did though, as drug lingo may as well be Esperanto.  I laughed and replied, no but thank you and after some pleasantries we chatted about Obama winning the election, while Nick and Isa stared on in uneasy confusion.  We parted from “Charlie”** and moved to a pub down the lane.  Nick went for wine and Isa and I found a table upstairs.  I said something to Isa, and was approached by a man claiming to like my accent, New York and America (the Obama effect is fast and effective).  We chatted a bit, and then as they were leaving, his friend came over and also chatted with us.  He was apologetic, in the way of so many English men, but rather cute, and we would have had no issue with him joining us and sorrying for the rest of the evening.

Nick came back up.  Sorry went down, and I was regaled by Isa and Nick’s tales of adventure and survival.  I find it amazing that both have made into their 20s.  They have some serious luck on their side – though Luck does test its benefactors along the way.  Nick was attacked by one of seven potential baby-daddies of a pregnant shark he had been forced to photograph in Fiji.  Isa’s dad seemed to be running covert experiments on the heat-tolerance of infants, and both of them have a trove of tales that would dazzle even Jim Hawkins, Huck and Mowgli.

We were lied to by a rose-bearing man, chatted up by the denizens settled in across the way, and I learned that no matter what the bartender says – the men’s loo is not unisex just because it is unoccupied.  It is still decidedly male and a bit nasty.

A taxi took us each to our homes, and my new goal is to have “Nick’s House” added to The Knowledge^.  That night I dreamed sweetly of a London infused with the British versions of a new-yorkian population, and reaffirmed that this is exactly where I wish to be. 

*In New York it wouldn’t have been so extraordinary, but here people just do not come up and speak with strangers.  I am convinced that people meet all their lifelong friends and most mates at University and then decide they’ve reached their friend quota.  You may be lucky and befriend your colleagues – but pretty much everyone important in their lives will have been spotted and tagged while they are between the ages of 18 – 22.

**Yes, I know that was not his name, but his product – but it’s all I’ve got.

^What taxi drivers must know before they can become black-cab drivers.  It involves absolutely everything that is  mapped in London.  Everything.

It’s four in the morning.  I’m upstairs in bed wearing a white gunny-sack style nightgown with a calico print.  I am on my back, arms and legs akimbo, pressed hard against the mattress.  My eyes are wide and I am still.  I am waiting.  The blue and red lights spin and mingle with the rising of dawn’s cusp.  There are no sirens; there is neither a need nor a reason to alert the neighbours.  I knew there would be police.  I was told this.  I was told they come and tell you.  I didn’t need them, or anyone, to tell me.  I knew.  A child always knows.

My father was dying.  The police came to take my mom to him.  My father had been dying for as long as I knew him, but it is always a shock, always a surprise when the gerund becomes a noun. 

I have very few real memories of my dad, my Papa.  There are three I know are mine – four if you add up the shards and flashes.  The rest of what I know of him was bequeathed to me by my story-telling family.  They are quite gifted in this regard,** but they are not mine.  They are just stories.

To beef up such a paltry sum, years ago I began taking October 23^rd off from either school or work.  Papa and I would have a day together.  We’d have a nice lunch, wander the streets, visit a museum or two and often he buys me something pretty.  For years I felt him with me on these outings, but that ended some time ago.  Now he has moved on and I take more comfort in this than I did by his presence – but the missing and loneliness is more deeply felt.

*             *             *

October 23^rd – more than on my birthday or at New Year’s – is the day I do the Gauguinian roundup of where I come from – what am I – where am I going.  I think Papa would be chuffed by this year’s round-up.  He’d be thrilled that I live in London.  Our last name may be Irish, but he was orange to the core.  I was raised – and not in a tongue and cheek way – to be a monarchist.  He identified with our Scottish lineage, and I have grown to follow his lead***.  There are some other improvements I’ve made – though of course there are many more to be made.  I have recently received some very good advice from some rather fabulous people – old friends and new – including one who has been uncomfortably correct and off-puttingly insightful, though I have not been so completely honest with nor shown my appreciation to this person as completely as they deserve.  For what they’ve given, shown, me – though inadvertently – has led to the epiphany I have been denying, but now must face so I can at last move on.

*             *             *

One thing that often shocks me – since I am Queen of Hopeless Hope and can be a bit too silver lining-y for my own good – is that I’ve never wished he lived nor wondered how my life would be different if he had.  I don’t wish because he was immensely ill and how could I ever wish for someone I love to endure such pain.  I don’t wonder because it would seem to me a treason – not only to my super-woman mom – but to me.  I am who I am as much for his dying as I am for anything.  Good has come from it, a great deal of good in fact.  It is as it is as so often things are, so I’ll refrain from clichés and platitudes – there is no chicken soup for this soul; I’m a vegetarian.  I guess that’s about all for now – except – Papa, always I’ll love you.

*             *             *

* Other than in the way we people in our thirties – and/or from Peabody, MA – call people kid

**and many others.

***though I have developed a deep fondness for Ireland in recent years.

^/kick in the ass

I mention these films, for as it seems to me, to be successful in American politics in recent years, one need not be learned, savvy or experienced.  One must be a regular person.  I find it interesting that for arguablely the most important position(s) in the world, we have decided that skill and proven-records are far less important than an intangible likeability and relate-ability.  We have twice elected the worst leader in our nation’s history based on our desire to share an unbeer with him, though all logic, reason and yes, patriotism should prevented such an outcome.

When McCain chose Governor Sarah Palin as his Vice Presidential running mate, I thought it was the gaffe I had been expecting from his campaign.  His yelp moment, as it were.  I am gutted now to know that this choice has actually helped him. 

Governor Palin has warned us that things are about to get messy (about to?) and informed us of her sartorial approach to campaigning  (heels on, check; gloves off, check).  Well, I too am wearing heels, and as I am inside and it is not yet winter, I am also not wearing gloves,  so I am prepared to write a blog entry and run for national office.

Here is what I will not do in my little note below:

1.      I will not condemn her because of her home life.  I have long held that even such public figures as international-stage politicians should be allowed an aspect of privacy when it comes to their person dealings.  I do not know what pain a teenage pregnancy may have caused Palin and her family; I was not there to see the anguish and despair when the family learned that it had become an unfavourable statistic and I do not know anything about Palin and her husband’s parenting style or the circumstances that led to a teenage pregnancy.  It is similar to the Hilary/Bill stand-by-your-man period.  I can’t imagine something as painful as infidelity being played out on the international stage, and while I don’t believe I could ever trust a man who did that to me, I have not been married and have not had to make such compromises or choices to stay.*

2.      I will not support her on the basis of her “having it all”.  Having it all is a personal choice.  When I have children, I think that I will choose to balance family and career.  Others may want to be able to stay at home and raise their family, but are unable to financially.  Others still may be happy to be full time moms – or have no children at all.  The corner stone of feminism is that we can make a choice.  We shouldn’t look-down on people who have made different choices, nor should we think that merely having a career and family is having it all.  There are too many individual factors involved.  It is a silly point on which to choose a candidate.

3.      I will not condemn Palin for allowing her family to be scrutinized publically.  True, it would be a temporarily easier road for her family if the press wasn’t what the press is, but it is the way of the beast.  You want to be VP, you have to accept the invasion into your private life.  If you don’t want to be VP, you say no and stay in obscurity.  Again – it’s a choice.

4.      I will not say that she is an unworthy candidate because she is a hunter.  I may be a non-leather wearing vegetarian, but it is a choice I have made.  If I were face to face with Palin or another hunter, I would be willing and able to discuss the issues if the other party so wished, but I do accept that there are places in the country and the world where the killing of another is considered fun for the whole family.  For all I know, she is a subsistence hunter and only eats meat she has killed and skinned herself.  I doubt this, but sadly, being a hunter does not disqualify you from higher office.

5.      Attempt to sway anyone who actually has the same opinions on issues as she does.  That’s a lost cause.  If you have considered the various sides in a thoughtful, meaningful way and have decided that you should have the right to take life as you see fit, prevent people who are in loving, committed relationships from having the same rights and privileges other people, that unless a woman’s life is in danger she should raise a child, regardless of her means and ability – or force someone to carry a baby to term that has been conceived by rape so that every day for nearly a year one must be brutally confronted by the proof of such a destructive attack, believe that the FBI has or should have international jurisdiction, that there should be no additional punishment for hate-crimes, that stem-cell research should be abolished, that creationism should be taught alongside evolution as a valid theory, that people are not mostly responsible for the current ecological crisis, believe that the polar bear and beluga whales are not endangered animals and that the US government should be sued to remove them from protection, believe that the handgun ban should be overturned, that Iraq is the biggest threat to US security and believe that faith-based programs are sufficient to aid social ills and that government programs are unnecessary and wasteful, well then enjoy your candidate.  You are perfect for each other.

Now some questions for her supporters:

1.      You or a loved one has just been diagnosed with cancer.  You are amongst the minority of fortunate Americans that have adequate health insurance.  You have your choice of doctors.  Do you choose a highly rated, board certified oncologist, or do you decide to go to an intern from a barely accredited medical school for your care plan and treatment?

2.      Your car is making those strange clanking noises again, and there is a that nagging burning-rubber aroma when you hit 55.  Do you go to a trained mechanic, or do you get your neighbour’s kid, who is taking shop class, to poke around?

3.      You are happily employed in a company for 20 years.  You have a superlative record and have steadily moved up the ladder due to your diligence, long-hours, consistent job-training and development.  You are strong, fair and well respected and have, with the compromises and sacrifices that are part of the succeeding in the American Dream, managed to balance home and career.  Your boss has retired.  They have tapped you for the position.  You have earned it.  Your company’s owner has a son who has just graduated from business school.  He is 26 and his total corporate experience is an internship and learning at his parent’s knee.  He is a smart person.  He has potential and great ideas, but little in the intangibles that make a great leader.  He doesn’t really understand how business works outside of B-school models.  He doesn’t have the most developed people skills, and has a tendency to speak firmly about situations he does not fully understand.  He also has a habit of picking up only bits and pieces of the issues prior to making hard and fast decisions.  In fact, while he may be a great leader with a decade of focused and legitimate experience under his belt, he is at present untested and green.  He is given your promotion.  You now answer to him.  And you’re ok with this?

If – and only if you answered intern, neighbour kid and sure should you think Palin is ready to the task.  If you answered bco, qualified mechanic and uh-uh, and yet still think being a mayor of a town of less than 6,000 (as of 2007) and a state smaller than 16 US cities, who has absolutely no national or international political experience, then please explain your reasoning.  I am curious.

If you do send reasons why you support Governor Palin for Vice President, some issues I’d prefer not be the cornerstones of your argument, as they are meaningless and only take focus away from an actual argument:

1.      The liberal media elite.  This myth has less truth in it than The Iliad.  If you are still under the misconception that all media is out to get the right then I suggest you purchase a radio and tune into your local talk stations.  Also, there’s a little thing called Fox Network.  You may have heard of it. 

2.      Obama is a terrorist, unproven and hangs with unsavoury people, so there.  Really?  Really?!?  If I were a political advisor for either party I’d be a bit wary of this gambit.  Truth is, the unsavoury are as drawn to power as the “good”.  Everyone in politics – at any level – and in most businesses will at some point in their career meet or be associated such characters.  McCain has been in the senate an awfully long time (especially for a “Washington outsider”).  Does he really want people to get inquisitive about the names in his rolodex?  Speaking of which – does Palin?  Some interesting things take place in Alaska – some big money things.  You think everyone she has broken bread with is squeaky?  Also, McCain might be able to use the experience card – but a supporter of Palin should accept the fact that evoking it is very pot vs. kettle.

3.      Yea!  A Woman in Power!  Yea!  I find the choice of Palin and the idea that I should be proud she is so close to power because she and I both have two x-chromosomes profoundly offensive.  I supported Hilary.  Not because she was a woman, but because she is a serious, intelligent politician who understands how the system works, is able to make difficult but necessary choices, and has a vision for how to fix the Nation’s problems – problems that have infested the world at large.  I did not support her because she is a girl.  I am offended by the idea that one woman is the same as another – and please read the subtext – that is what Team McCain was saying when they chose this untested, inexperienced and ill-informed person to be his running mate.  Get me a dame – any dame will do.  And my god, it worked.  There are capable Republican women out there that could have been chosen.  I can think of one, Elizabeth Dole.

Now that all that is out of the way, here are some of the reasons why I just can’t believe Sarah Palin is the Vice Presidential Candidate for a major party:

1.      As mentioned above, she has been governor of the 47th state in terms of population for less than one term, and mayor of a town of 5,469 people prior.  My company has more people than Wasilla, AK.

2.      She didn’t have a passport until last year.  Sorry, but this matters.  She was not some person unable, due to financial constraints, to travel, she chose not to do so.  You cannot be an effective Vice President of the United States of America without some insight into other cultures.  Her apathy to experiencing the world outside her nation makes me question her commitment and understanding of the complex geo-economical and political landscape into which she will be thrust.

3.      Of course, none of the candidates have been President or VP before, and there will be a learning curve, but the other three come to the office with essential knowledge so that they can jump right in.  What does she actually bring to the table?  How long will it take her to understand the basics needed to even grasp the issues she will be charged to manage?

4.      Intelligent, informed people cannot possibly believe in creationism.  Sorry – that is non-negotiable.

5.      Joe Sixpack?  This is a pejorative term and people shouldn’t be cheering her for using it.  There are other “folksy” phrases she could have chosen to speak about the working class population – but Joe Sixpack?  And how exactly does she speak for him?  Is he in a Union – or did he used to be until the factory closed down?  Is he concerned about foreclosure?  How he will heat his house?  Educate his children?  What exactly does she say when she speaks for Mr. Sixpack?  Which proposals supported by the Republican ticket will improve his life and the life of his family?  Tell me.  I am very interested in hearing which GOP initiatives will improve the average American’s life more than those put forth by Senators Obama and Biden.

6.      She supports limiting our rights and turning back every clock she can find on hard fought for and necessary laws of our great nation – the fabric of our great nation.

I love the United States.  I am proud to have been raised there and I understand our impact on the global stage and why we have to be so careful in our domestic and foreign policy planning as our mistakes can – and are- spinning the world off its axis.  

I believe that the offices of the President and Vice President should be treated with grave respect and that the people in those positions should be exceptional.   I believe that believing that Sarah Palin is the right choice for Vice President is deeply unpatriotic – yup – you read that correctly.  How can you profess to love this country and to care for its development, its future and its people and not want the best people available to steward it?  You can admire Palin for what she has accomplished if she inspires something within you.   There are many people I admire whom I do not think should hold executive office.  She is just the wrong person for the job.  She does not have the necessary skills to succeed.  She will not be effective.  She will damage us – and though it seems hard to believe that our reputation could get worse –it will.  She and McCain will make the world a more treacherous place. 

Respect yourself and your country enough to be able to separate a likeable woman, if that is what she is to you, with a leader.   These are serious times.  These are dangerous times, and much of the danger was created by our own bad choices.  It is our duty to fix what we can with expediency.

She is able to steer us to better days?  She is not even prepped to answer questions in an interview.  So, she either has no opinion on issues at hand, she is afraid to speak outside guidelines set by the campaign, or the campaign doesn’t see the point in prepping her in the least as policy is not what she’s there for.  If they don’t trust her with talking points, how can we be expected to have faith her to be a solid Vice President?

* I will point out a fun little historical fact though: there were two key arguments in the suffrage movement.  The first was that women deserved the right to vote based on the fact that men and women are equal and should both be entitled to the same rights.  While this was the motivation of the second movement, the argument of the second team was that as women could clean house and mend socks, so too would they be able to tidy up the nation.  There was also a bit of a wink and a smile, to hint that by being good wives and daughters, they would agree with and support their husband’s and father’s ideals, and so by granting a woman’s right to vote, men may actually be get a second say.  It was the argument needed to expand support for suffrage, but still I have often wondered if the ends did justify the means.  If we had won the right in later years based on equality, would women now be better off vs. living in a country where such a keystone of freedom was won based on Victorian concepts of a woman’s place?