Gettin' The Tickets

Doesn't seem like it should be the hard part, since we knew we had 'em coming, but things aren't always what they seem.

See, when we first walked toward the Library Of Congress, we could see buildings off to the right with massive lines of people. Well, I mean, you can see from the picture what I mean, and that was taken after the lines had gone down somewhat. "I'm sure as hell glad we're not going THERE," I said to Chris, looking at the lines.

When we got out of the Pre-Inaugural reception, we learned a few things. How to get out of the building we were in, where Bart Stupak's office was, that it wasn't getting any warmer outside--and that the lines I was so glad to be avoiding were the lines we needed to head for. They were made up of people who were waiting to see their Congressmen to pick up their tickets for the Inauguration. What a mess!

We started walking toward where we thought the end of the line might be. Since we couldn't actually see the end of the line, it was a daunting task, especially because there were at least two lines wrapped around the building and it wasn't clear where they were going. As we walked, we asked every fifteenth person or so what he or she was in line for, to be sure we hadn't moved on to some other group of people entirely. I thought of catching a cab to the end of the line, but I didn't think that idea would go over well with Chris. He doesn't like it when people seem weak.

Eight or ten years after we started walking the length of the line, we found the end. A man got in line with us and asked to use Chris's phone to call his wife, since we had left his phone at home. We ended up having a very nice conversation with him, which included various phrases like, "Did you guys work on the campaign? My wife did. I went to Arkansas, too, to work on the legal end of things, since I'm a lawyer. My wife ran the campaign in Arkansas." When you gave up your entire life for four months to work on a campaign and are feeling pretty satisfied with yourself for it, there's nothing like someone who ran the campaign in an entire state to take you down a notch. He then continued to tell us that his wife had graduated from law school with Hillary Clinton and had gotten her to appear at a fundraiser in Arkansas where they hadn't done too bad--they'd managed to raise $400,000. And he went on to explain that he had been at the opening concert the night before on the National Mall and had been seated next to John Cusack. By the time we finally got in the building a couple hours later, we were feeling properly humbled.

We had fun inside. Didn't take us long at all to find Congressman Stupak's office and get our tickets. They invited us to have a bite to eat, which was absolutely perfect because we hadn't had a bite to eat up until that point in the day, and it was approaching 4 pm. It isn't often that I've gotten to settle into the leather chair in a congressman's office with chocolate chip cookies, Coke Zero, crackers, and cheese to watch CNN, but that's what we did. We were watching, on CNN, the things that were happening right across the street, so we could have seen them anyway, but it was much nicer to watch them from inside.

We hooked up with a bunch of people who had worked on the campaign with us or who we had met at home at various times- lots of people our ages, so that was kinda cool. Gave us someone to talk to and we made some connections so we wouldn't find ourselves searching for a table at the Inaugural Ball. All in all, it was the best part of the day. It may have been because we in the presence of such highly esteemed people in such a historical city on the eve of such a historical day.

Or it might have been because I finally got to sit down, and because in Congressman Stupak's office, I was discussing the state of the world and the nation instead of chasing Chris across Washington. It was nice to feel respected and appreciated for a few minutes.

It Was, If You'll Pardon The Expression, Orgasmic

The Library Of Congress, that is.

It took us a while to get there. I plugged the address into my GPS and set it to give us walking directions, but the streets in DC are just weird. Besides that, Chris wasn't sure he wanted to trust the GPS. So it took us a while to get there. And we stopped along the way to get pictures of the buildings around Washington. I wanted pictures of them because they were grand, majestic, beautiful, humbling in their size and architecture. And because if I was taking pictures, I had a reason to stop walking for a few seconds. Ugh!

I was worried about that before we left. My legs are short. My feet are small. My body is heavy. I'm a little on the chunky side. And Chris isn't known for his sensitivity, especially when it comes to what he perceives as weaknesses, and not being able to keep up with him is a huge weakness. It just means you are lazy. I have never had eyes rolled at me so many times in one day in my life. But that's okay, because the pictures I took are beautiful. And it's all over now, so I can live with it. I have to admit that at the time, there were tears in my eyes more than once. And sweat pouring out of my forehead, and pain radiating from my feet and legs as I struggled to keep up.

We finally found a building that was, apparently, the Library Of Congress. The sign outside said so. We spent some time studying it, trying to figure out which entrance was most appropriate. We, of course, got pictures of ourselves on the (very large set of) steps in front of the building before we went in, partly for posterity and partly because I needed to breath before I attempted all those stairs. I made it, though. Well, I mean, there was no question that I would make it, but it was a bit of a struggle because I wanted to make it without having Chris wait for me at the top for a half hour. I almost kept up with him, though. I could make it up all the stairs in the world, I think, to get into the Library Of Congress. If you remember what I wrote a few days ago, you know that words, politics, and American Idol are what make me come alive. Well, American Idol is the least of the three, and words and politics are what I live for. So imagine: a building that has the word "library" and the word "congress" in it's very name. Just standing in front of the door nearly caused me to faint dead away.

We got in a line of people waiting to get into the building, all of whom had to go through a security checkpoint that consisted initially of a verbal check to be sure they had official business in the building, which was closed to the public. It didn't take too long before we were among those who were removing outer layers of clothing, sending electronic devices through a scanner, and walking through a magical little arbor made of scanning devices. Both of us were pronounced safe and we put ourselves back together and proceeded into the building.

The trouble was, we didn't know exactly what part of the building we should proceed into. We just sort of followed everyone else, and as soon as we saw someone who looked as though he might be an employee (By which I mean, he had a name tag of some sort on- in desperation, you make a lot of assumptions. Luckily, we assumed correctly.), we asked him how to get to the fifth floor where the Michigan Pre-Inaugural Reception was. He looked at us very oddly, as if maybe we had grown a couple of extra heads each, or had maybe escaped from the traumatic brain injury unit at a local hospital. Then he told us the elevators in the lower level were probably our best bet and pointed us in the direction of a staircase. We trusted him and joined the masses descending the staircase.

At the bottom, we found bathrooms, which were greatly desirable, but no elevators to the 5th floor. We used the bathrooms then wandered around looking lost for a few minutes until we found someone else with a name tag. We asked her exactly where the elevators were and what we needed them for and she informed us that we were in the wrong building. That prompted two reactions. First of all, Chris and I both became just a little irritated that no one had bothered to tell us A) that there were two buildings or B) which building to go into. The other reaction was mine alone. A LIBRARY, that requires TWO BUILDINGS? Ahhh... there go the shivers again. Imagine my reaction later when I discovered a third buklding as well!

My tired, aching, cramping legs managed to carry me out of the building, down the stairs, aournd the block, and into the second building, which we got directions to from at least three different people before we found it, mostly because Chris doesn't seem to be able to accept that fact that I can listen to and comprehend what other people are saying, and follow directions, and maybe do both better than he can. When we got there, we had to go through a security check yet again. Same drill- remove coat, make sure electronics are in the pockets or in your bag or placed in the handy dandy bowl the security check people provided, then step through the scanning arbor while your stuff got to ride through on a conveyor belt. Once again, we were proclaimed safe. It would have been easier, at that point, to have just been stamped or something. I've never been through so many x-ray machines and explosive-detecting devices in my life. I think I may be radioactive now.

We were much more successful this time. There were signs everywhere pointing us in the right direction and we easily found the reception. Outside of it was a table of women who had Michigan Inaugural Ball tickets available for pickup. We explained that Congressman Stupak had reserved tickets for us and that we were checking to see if we could pick them up. There were no tickets under Chris's name, which wasn't big deal to us. We just figured we'd have to pick them up at his office, where we were headed after we finished at the reception. The girl who was handing them out, though, wasn't so satisfied. It took us numerous explanations and another ten minutes before she let us get away, because she got it into her head somehow that we were picking up the tickets that had been reserved for the Congressman and delivering them to him. We could, very easily, have become the proud owners of 5 tickets, worth $200 each, that Congressman Stupak was having held for him. I guess we just have trustworthy-looking faces.

Inside the reception, we didn't do much of anything. There were two hours of reception left by the time we got there, and we mainly stood in line to talk to elected officials like Senator Debbie Stabenow, Senator Carl Levin, and Lieutenant Governor John "I Wanna Be The Governor" Cherry. (That wasn't a slam or anything- he'd be a great governor. It's just amusing that he hasn't announced his candidacy yet, but he has been absolutely EVERYWHERE in Michigan lately, making it abundantly obvious what his intention is.) We met a lot of cool people, bumped into a few we knew from home or from working on campaigns, and got pictures with Lt. Governor Cherry and Senator Stabenow, the only ones we could make our way close to. The number of people in that room broke every fire code that has ever existed, I'm sure. If any terrorists had managed to make it through the security checks, we woulda been goners.

We talked to the chairman of the Michigan Democratic Party, said hi and bye to the Stupaks, and then escaped the chaos. There wasn't much to do or much space to do it in, and we had to figure out where the good Congressman's office was.

On the way out, we finally managed to meet up with some people we had worked on the Obama campaign with, including Miles the Hyperactive Squirrel. We got sort-of directions to where we needed to go, then started following Miles and the crew in that general direction. They all got way ahead of me, of course, because Miles is a hyperactive squirrel and everyone else is athletic enough to keep up. Chris finally, two street crossings later, decided to let them go ahead and wait for me, probably mostly because without me, he had no money for the rest of the trip. He seemed to think we had to go in the direction that Miles and Company had gone in, but I insisted that they had said they were going to the Capitol and we were headed to the Congressional Buildings. I got the eye roll again, but he called Miles to see what was going on and Miles told him we had to go to the Rayburn Building, in the opposite direction from the Capitol. I'm pretty sure Chris wanted to follow them to wherever they were going, but I wasn't a big fan. For one thing, we weren't invited, and I'm not comfortable just tagging along with people. For another, there is no way I could keep up with them all. And for one more, I didn't want to have to run all the way to where they were and then all the way back to where we were- keeping up with Chris for that long already had me worn right out.

So, we found the Rayburn building. It wasn't too difficult. The only problem was that there was a line waiting to get in. A big line. Like, if everyone in Escanaba lined up, that'd probably be about the same size. In fact, there were two lines and we couldn't really find the ends of either one, and we weren't sure there WERE two lines, and we weren't sure they were for the same thing, and it was all just confusing. I strongly considered catching a cab to the end of the line. We finally found it, though. And got in it. And waited FOREVER. Which is another story entirely.

But the Library Of Congress was definitely orgasmic. And that was without even seeing the books!

Once We Got To Washington

I was rather surprised, to be honest. There were not as many people around as I thought there would be. I mean, there were a lot, but it just seemed like a normal busy city to me.

Before we left, anytime I talked about the trip with someone who had been to DC, I always heard the same thing: "Union Station is beautiful." I heard about it so many times, in fact, that I told Chris that if Union Station was not the most beautiful *&#@ing building I had ever seen, I was going to slap someone. And it was actually pretty impressive. I'm not sure it merited all the rave reviews it got, but since there were too many Secret Service Agents and FBI agents around for me to feel safe slapping anyone, I settled for declaring it a beautiful building. It was pretty impressive.

Our first mission was to figure out what door to leave through. It wasn't easy. Two security officers and an Amtrak employee later, we made it into a big room. A Great Hall, if you will, with a majestic platform surrounded by a spiral staircase in it's midst, and a large stage flanked with images of Barack Obama and the insignia for the 44th Inauguration. We stared at it in awe for a few minutes before we got pictures of ourselves in front of the stage. Well, I stared in awe. Chris doesn't get overly impressed with things. I'm glad I'm me. Life seems more fun when you can get excited about all the little things.

We finally found a door, then. The only problem was that it was draped in white canvas. The white canvas actually formed tunnels going out of the building, tunnels that were heavily inhabited by Secret Service. I thought it was just amped up security for the days surrounding the Inauguration, but eventually I figured out that the Latin Inaugural Ball was being held there, and the President-Elect was going to be in attendance. Me and Barack Obama is kinda like a ten-year-old girl and the Jonas Brothers... I actually had shivers running down my spine when I realized I had touched the stage that Barack Obama was going to stand on. Is that really pathetic?

The first thing I saw once we finally disentangled ourselves from the white canvas maze was the Capitol building. Again, I had a shivers-down-my-spine moment. It was all just too much for me. We spent several minutes trying to get our bearings. Well, okay, we were mainly just trying to figure out what direction we should walk in order to find the Library Of Congress. Street vendors come in handy for that sort of thing. A few brief conferences with one or two of them had us on our way.

And for ease of reading, I will leave you with that for now. Up next? The Michigan Pre-Inaugural Reception at the (gasp) Library Of Congress.

To Begin With

I will tell you a little bit about Monday. I will get through the whole story, I promise, but it might take a few entries and a little backtracking to fill in what I've forgotten.

As I may have already said, I got up at 6 am, NOT my favorite time of day, but I didn't want to be in a rush to get on the right train after we figured out the parking situation and all that junk. We left our hotel around 7:30 so we could get on the 8:20 train. (I think. Things are a little blurry at this point, but I'm pretty sure that's what we did. It may have been the 7:40 one, in which case we left at 6:45. I don't remember what was plans and what it actuality.) Chris was not a big fan of this situation- since the hotel was 10 miles or so from the station, he wanted to leave 20 minutes before the train left. I insisted that between not knowing where we were going and not knowing the parking situation and just not knowing the train station in general, we should leave early. He finally agreed because I insisted. He was cranky the whole trip because I tried to get us places early, but so be it. I'd rather not be treated civilly than miss our trains and be late for everything.

We got in to Washington DC's Union Station an hour after we left. Then we had to go to Michigan's preinaugural reception and then go get our tickets from Congressman Stupak. And that's where the real fun began.

But this, like I said, is just the beginning, so I will continue later. At the moment, I am sitting on my bed in the Fairfield Inn Chicago-St. Charles, which we arrived at around 2 this morning, CST. It is a very nice bed and as much as I don't want to get off of it, I am going to, so I can go enjoy the pool for a little while before I have to pack up and get on the road.

The trip is almost over. Such a relief in some ways, so sad in others.

More Coming Soon...

I don't have time right now, but just a little hint of what is to come:

Got up at 5 yesterday, went into Washington DC, got in line to see the Inauguration, DIDN'T GET IN so I listened to the sound of President Obama (DAMN it feels good to say that) speaking without hearing the words until a man called someone who was watching from him and put it on speakerphone so we could hear it. (But if rumor holds true, Jesse Jackson didn't get in either, and I know for sure State Senator Mike Prusi didn't get in.)

Then I sat on the floor of Union Station for 5 hours.

Then I took a cab to the Smithsonian Museum of American History, which was NOT in any way as easy as it sounds, to attend the Michigan Inaugural Dinner Dance, and took a very reluctant cab back to Baltimore.

More later.

What A Terrible, Wonderful Day

My feet hurt. I can barely keep up with Chris. My muscles ache. I stood in line for a very very very long time to get my tickets, practically ran across Washington, and had to walk around an entire block and up a ginormous hill to get into the train station because the normal entrance was blocked off for the Latin American Ball. I am in pain, and tomorrow is going to be 10 times worse.

But I chilled in a congressman's office and watched CNN, which was pretty cool, and I met a lawyer who sat next to John Cusack at the opening concerts, and I talked to Senator Stabenow and Lieutenant Governor Cherry and met up with some old friends and I am all set for the longest day of my life tomorrow, but also the one moment I worked for 4 months for. Ahhhhh.

Okay, more details another time, because I am worn right out and have to get up at 5.

We're Here!

In Baltimore! At our hotel!

Here's how everything went down so far:

I slept in on Saturday and then got up and finished packing, an activity that was intermingled with several trips to various stores to grab things I forgot, and a trip out for lunch, too. I tried to go to bed again around 8 so that I would be rested up for the trip, because the plan was to leave around 1 am. I set my alarm for 11:45 pm and got in bed and closed my eyes and laid there until about 10:45 or so when I finally settled down enough to sleep. I woke up before my alarm went off, so there was just under an hour's worth of sleep there. I got up and jumped in the shower. While I was in there, Chris called. He hadn't had time to get to sleep yet because he was running behind on things. We decided to push back our departure time until 3 am. Chris was going to call me when he got up. I reset my alarm for 2:30 and tried to sleep some more. I fell asleep around 2:10, so there was another 20 minutes of sleep. I got ready, packed up my car, and went back in to say goodbye to my dad. It was three by then, the time we were supposed to leave, and Chris hadn't called, so I called him. He didn't answer. I waited a few minutes and called again. Still no answer. I left and got some gas, stopped at McDonald's to pick us up some "breakfast," dropped off a bill I had to pay, and drive out toward his house. I called again. No answer.

Finally, he called me back and said he reset his alarm without thinking. So, long story short, if it isn't already too late, we left around 5 am instead of 1 am.

We stopped in Gladstone to get gas and cappuccinno and orange juice and air up the tires. The air didn't work. We stopped again in Rapid River for air. Worked this time, and we started our video recording of the trip. Lots of fun! It started snowing.

We stopped again in St. Ignace for cookies and donuts and a bathroom break. It was still snowing. We crossed the Mackinac Bridge. Still snowing.

Roads were mostly okay, but there was enough snow to make a person worry, and then the windshield washer fluid ran out. We drove blindly on.

Our next stop was in Birch Run, to eat lunch at a place called Tony's that has awesome food, good prices, and fun staff. We had WAY more potatoes and eggs and toast than we could eat, along with some country fried steak. Then we gassed up again, bought windshield washer fluid and filled the holder, and took off. The fluid squirters didn't work. For the rest of the trip, we had to stop every so often to squirt washer fluid from a water bottle onto the windshield. Pain in the BUTT!

And that was basically the rest of our trip. Drive through snow and ice with short periods of good driving conditions. Stop. Wash windows. Drive more, mostly in silence. Stop. Wash windows. Get gas. Wash windows. Drive more. Stop. Wash windows. You get it.

But finally, after 17 and a half hours, we made it! The hotel had really horrible reviews online, but it was all we could get. I was afraid. Not too bad, though. Our room is a smoked room but barely smells. The bathroom door is filthy, but everything else is basically clean. And our room door, which leads outside, not into the hotel, is a little bent and broken, but it seems to lock fairly securely.

I unpacked some stuff, got some things ready for tomorrow, set my alarm for six, and came online to do this. Now it's time for sleep. On tomorrow's agenda: take train in at 7:40, go to governor's reception, pick up inauguration tickets, go to congressman's reception, and then do whatever. Come back to the hotel, maybe, and relax. We'll see.

For now, good night. Wish me luck getting through everything tomorrow!

I Just Woke Up

and showered. It is 12:47 a.m. In another two hours or so, I will be leaving on the trip of a lifetime- to see Barack H. Obama become the American President.

It snowed all day long and the roads are covered in snow and ice. I am afraid we will slide off the road or into another car. I am afraid we will hit a deer- or an elk, like we did last time I tried to go to Washington DC. I am afraid we will get in any sort of accident, really.

I am afraid that once there will be catastrophe on the train- a derailment or some such thing. I'm afraid there will be terrorists on the train who will shoot us or blow us up. For that matter, I'm afraid there will be a nutcase that ISN'T a terrorist on the train. I am afraid there will be a terrorist plot to blow up the whole train line, even. Or maybe just that we'll miss the train and not be able to get into DC.

I am afraid that, once we are there, something tragic will happen and either President Obama or all of us will get shot or blown up. I am afraid there will be some kind of gases released into the air. I'm afraid that when I am running around in Washington, I will get mugged. I am afraid I will miss the train and not be able to get back to Baltimore.

I am a worrier. I have spent a lot of time coming up with things to be afraid of, not by choice, of course, but just because that's how I am. But even with such a long list of things I am afraid of, there is one thing that scares me more than any of it.

I am afraid I will wake up and find out that this has all been a dream.

I am afraid I will suddenly come to realize that I did not spend 4 months of my life knocking on doors and making phone calls and living and breathing and eating and sleeping Barack Obama. I am afraid I will find out that on November 4th, I did not watch the television in half joyful, half terrified silence as Barack Obama stood on a stage in Grant Park and accepted the role of President of the United States of America. I am afraid I will discover that I did not really break down in tears outside of a Ernie's Irish Pub as it began to sink in that everything I had done was not in vain, and that I did not continue to cry all night long as I saw that every single candidate I had worked for succeeded.

I am afraid I will wake up and George W. Bush will still be our president and there will be no change and no hope and no call to all of us to make the world a better place to live.

That is what scares me most of all.

I'm pretty sure it will all be okay, though, in just a couple hours when Chris and I embark on our journey. In another hour and a half or so, he will call me and say that he is awake and getting ready. I will pack my car and drive to his house, stopping at the gas station and McDonald's and to pay my lot rent along the way. I will get to his house, put my things in his car, fire up my GPS, and we will be on our way. When day breaks, we will be driving through lower Michigan, finding beauty along the way in the winter splendor of the Northwoods. We will be on our way to seeing this thing that we worked so hard for finally become reality.

Maybe over the course of this trip, and over the course of the journey we are embarking on as a nation, some of the fear will go away.

Some Kind Of Wonderful

And yet, some kind of terrible, too.

Things seemed too easy, so I should have expected them to get more complicated.

Here's how it all went down. A bunch of us were chillin' at 8th Street (coffeehouse) on Wednesday because I was there waiting for my writers' group to start. Chris's phone rang. He looked at it and saw a Washington DC exchange. He assumed it was our esteemed Congressman Bart Stupak calling him back, because he had phoned in a question to the man's office. He was trying to find out if he was still in the running to be Michigan's First Congressional District Democratic Party chair, a position he has applied to be appointed to after our friend Stacy stepped down from the position to be the U.P. coordinator for the DNR. Chris answered his phone.

The voice on the other end proclaimed that she was Rachel and she worked in Congressman Stupak's DC office and she was wondering if Chris would be able to set up a 1 o'clock phone call with the Congressman on Thursday. Chris, who was slightly confused because the Congressman himself usually calls and has even given Chris his cell phone number, agreed to the call.

And when he finally got the call on Thursday afternoon, that's when my world fell apart. In a most wonderful of ways.

The Congressman first explained to Chris that he still wasn't sure about the First District Chair position because he was considering someone else for purely political reasons. Then he asked Chris who was coming with him to the Inauguration and if he needed another ticket for the Michigan Inaugural Dinner Dance, a $200 a ticket even we had both been invited to but had to decline because- well, because we're broke. The Congressman (this is awkward- usually when I am talking about him, I just call him Bart, but that would seem inappropriate if he somehow got his hands on this blog, so I am being a little more formal) said, "No, no, no. You have a ticket. I got you one. Hold on." He was gone for a few seconds and then came back and said, "Okay, no problem. I snagged you another ticket."

I wanted SO bad to be able to go to one of the balls you keep hearing about on the news, but I couldn't afford to. So this was the some kind of wonderful.

Now, for the some kind of terrible:
1. The Michigan Inaugural Dinner Dance is from 7:30 pm until 12:00 am on the night of January 20th, in the Museum of American History in Washington DC.

2. We are staying at the Quality Inn in the Inner Harbor area of Baltimore, Maryland, an hour away from Washington.

3. The only trains that will be running on Inauguration Day are ones with reserved seating. At all. I already purchased the tickets for these train seats, and we are set to go into Washington around 7:30 am and return to Maryland around 7:30 pm. You can see the problem here, I'm sure.

4. The Dance starts at the same time that our train leaves. And after that train leaves, there is almost no way to get back to Baltimore. Our options are to A) hang out in the 'hoods of Washington between midnight and 5 am, when we can catch a train back to Baltimore, or B) take a cab back to Baltimore, which will cost us in the neighborhood of $100, if we can even get one. We may have an option C), which would be to catch a ride back to Baltimore with someone we meet along the way, or to stay with someone in DC for a few hours, but those are only possibilities if we meet someone along the way.

5. Now we'll move on the other part of the issue. It is going to be about 35 degrees on Inauguration day, and we are going to be standing and walking a LOT.

6. We are now, obviously, going to a ball. When a congressman snags you $400 worth of tickets, you do not decline.

7. We cannot bring any bags with us that are larger than 8" by 6" by 4".

8. Following this logic, then, whatever I wear to the ball, I will also have to wear to the Inauguration and the parade.

9. I suspect I will have to wear a dress and, if not heels, at least dress shoes.

10. I do not own a fancy dress and I do not wear heels, especially if I have to walk around Washington D.C. for approximately 21 hours, with only 4 and a half of those hours guaranteed to be inside of a building.

11. In the next 36 hours, I need to come up with a dress and shoes and accompaniments that I can wear all day long, outside, in 35 degree weather, and walk around in all day, and still look classy in at midnight. Oh yeah, and not get mugged or raped in if I'm walking the streets of Washington for 5 hours.

12. Some kind of terrible.

I may stop somewhere along the way and try to buy clothes. I can do this. I know I can. But at the moment, I am rather panic-stricken. Oh, well. I will survive.

Now I'm off to find clothes. HELP!

Three Things

really make me come alive- writing, politics, and American Idol. Writing is always around, politics is almost on a little sabbatical, and American Idol is back!

I almost missed the premiere- oh, the horror!

I needed a little human contact today. Just a little. Sometimes the fact that there isn't anybody I can just touch- someone whose shoulder I can place my hand on, whose hair I can ruffle, who's hand I can cover with mine as I talk- hurts so bad I can't stand it anymore. And so I made plans to see three different guys between yesterday and today. I was going to go visit Manistique yesterday and the Sandwich in Green Bay in the afternoon today, and when Appleton heard that I was going to be in the area, he decided he wanted to see me too, so I was going to see him this morning. Manistique got sick, so that plan died. Then there was snow and the Sandwich decided it wasn's safe for me to come see him because the roads were bad. I came anyway, because Appleton was still willing. Everyone kinda teased me because I had all these plans with different guys, but I did it because I knew. None of them really care about me that much. None are good friends. In fact, I haven't even me the Sandwich in person. And the fact that I wanted to badly to touch someone made me intent on getting here and seeing someone who would put an arm around me, touch me for a few minutes, let me feel connected with the world again. I had no idea that American Idol was starting tonight until I heard it on the radio on the way here.

And then I panicked. A man- and remember that men, although I do like several of them, are not on my list of things that make me come alive- almost distracted me to the point of missing American Idol! It's okay- I managed to find a way to watch it. Life as I know it is not over. But I can't believe I almost missed it.

I don't know why I like American Idol so much. I think it has to do with the fact that people who are average, every day people have a chance to make it big. I don't sing- not without hurting anyone within hearing range, anyway- but I dream of having one moment in which my entire life breaks through the barriers that have been put up and finally making it. And it's fun to watch someone go from being one of millions to being THE one- you get to feel like you know them, and so when they succeed, you feel like you are succeeding too. And the bad singers are just sort of fun.

It's been a long journey, from May to January. I've waited a long time. But American Idol is back. I almost missed it because of my weird need to feel connected with someone, but I got to feel connected to someone for a few minutes and I got to see American Idol and I'm writing right now and I'm going to Washington next week to see Barack Obama become our president and for a few days, life is right.

I could do with some more touch, though.

A Moment Of Panic

One week from right now, assuming everything goes as planned, I will be in Washington DC. I will have been to and left the Michigan Delegation Pre-Inaugural reception, spoken to the governor and the lieutenant governor, and probably Bart Stupak and Carl Levin and Debbie Stabenow as well, all people who got re-elected in part because of me. I will probably have my Inauguration ticket in hand, too. I'll be feeling pretty good. That's IF everything goes as planned.

I've been on many trips in my time that didn't work out. All of them involved my parents, of course, who were not big on planning ahead. There was the trip to Milwaukee, where we ended up broke because we left too late to go to the bank and we only had one check with us and ATMs had not yet been invented, and we merely drove around Milwaukee and Chicago for a while and then used the last of our money to go to the Milwaukee Zoo using my aunt's discount card and stay in a rent-by-the-hour kind of hotel, then coasted up to my grandparents' house on fumes hoping to borrow some money for gas to get the rest of the way home. There was the trip to Munising, an hour away, to see the fall colors, where we ended up in Duluth, 8 hours away, just because, and had to drive halfway back home before we could find a sleazy hotel room to stay in because all the good rooms were already taken by color-touring rich people who had planned ahead. There was the trip to a pow wow in the Sault where we drove through the woods intending to camp somewhere along the way and never did because the flies were too thick and ended up bathing after 3 days in the St. Mary's River, which felt like it had turned from iceberg to river only moments before we slipped into it. There were a million more trips just like those.

So the trips that are my own, I plan every second of. I think of every possibility ahead of time and try to plan for them all. For this Washington trip, I took over the planning, partly because we are traveling on my money and partly because I am afraid to let anyone else do it. I found out we needed train tickets ahead of time for Inauguration Day, and I bought them. I bought extra tickets for the other days we will be there, too, just in case it is crowded and hard to get tickets, or just in case we are running late and have to dash right onto the train. I have those in my possession now. I booked our hotel, and another for the trip home so we have a place to sleep, since we will, no doubt, be tired by then. I got addresses for every single place we may want to go so that I can plug them into my GPS and find my way. I have a list of things to pack a mile long, and a separate list of what I need to buy. I have my wardrobe planned for the entire trip. I look at the Weather Channel website daily.

And then today, I went to the transit system website to be sure my tickets will work at the station I intend to use them from. It took me an hour to find out that they will, because the tickets I bought are being discontinued and so the information on them is not easily accessible anymore. Thank god they are still being honored! That was what kicked off my moment of panic. Once I had discovered that the tickets were good, then I tried to find the train schedule, to be sure we can be in Washington when we need to. I found the schedule, reassured myself, and then scrolled to the bottom of the schedule just to read the extra information. And then I saw it.

MARC trains do not run on the following holidays: Martin Luther King Jr. Day...

It went on from there, of course, but that was when I completely panicked. Because I already had the train tickets, and because we needed to get into Washington on Martin Luther King Jr. Day, and because I thought everything was going to work out and then my world fell in on me.

45 minutes of panic-stricken typing and clicking ensued, as I frantically tried to forget about the money I had wasted and find some other way to get from Baltimore to DC on Monday.

And then, finally, I found a section of news releases and read them all in pure desperation. And one of them announced the MARC's Martin Luther King Jr Day schedule. Which meant they at least HAD a schedule. And the station we intended to use is open for normal runs, all day long, because of the fact that it is an Inauguration year.

And life is good again.

I Am Sad

today. I don't know why. There is no reason, really. I'm just sad. And everyone else is busy living their lives, so all I have to do is sit here and BE sad.

Everyone else has someone else. There are three people I can hang out with at any given time. And if they are all busy with someone more important than I am, I'm left alone. I don't want to go home because it smells terrible there and it makes me sick to my stomach. I can't clean until I get rid of the smell and I can't get rid of the smell until I clean. Such is life. I am sitting in a coffeehouse full of other people and I am completely invisible and all alone. I would sell my soul to have someone to talk to right now, but my soul isn't worth enough to do that.

I'm hungry, starving. I can't eat at home, and the only place open on a Sunday night at 9 pm is McDonald's. I'm so sick of fast food I could scream. I want a clean kitchen to go home to.

If I had my way, this is the way my life would go tonight.

I would pack up my computer and go out to my car. It wouldn't necessarily be spring, but it wouldn't be this damn cold, either. In fact, it would be snowing light, fluffy snow that made everything look all glittery, but it would be pretty close to 30 degrees out. I would have mittens on, because in this ideal life, one of my mittens would not be stuck under my car seat covered in mud. I would have remembered to bring it in and wash it when it fell in the mud, you see. I would get in my car that was nice and warm because I would have started it with my remote starter, the one thatI did not forget to get a battery for, so it actually works. I would turn my headlights on without having to stick my key into the little slit where the knob used to be, because Heather would not have broken the knob off when I let her use my car to go canvass for Barack Obama when I was a neighborhood team leader and not allowed to go out and canvass myself.

I would drive to Elmer's Grocery and walk around for a while picking out assorted fresh veggies and fruits, maybe some pasta, some chicken or beef, something for dessert. I'd have a shopping list, because I would have planned this meal out ahead of time, but I'd have enough extra money that I could stray from my list and buy a little something extra just because it looked good. I would revel in the colors and smells and tidy displays in the grocery store, maybe spend a few minutes looking over the magazine rack. I might buy the latest issue of Cosmo, just for fun. While I was shopping, I would get a phone call. It would be one of my my friends, wanted to go out and shoot some pool. I would say no, because it's 9:30 on a Sunday night and I haven't eaten dinner yet, and I'd have to get up in the morning. We'd talk as I finished shopping, about all the little odds and ends of our lives. We'd hang up when I got to the cash register, where I would, of course, have more than enough money to pay for my purchases. I'd use coupons, too.

Then I'd go home. My house would not be full of junk piled up everywhere. It would be neat and tidy and clean-smelling. It would definitely not smell like someone had peed all over my carpeting. My dishes would be washed and put away, instead of piled up, dirty and molded, on my countertops, and there would not be hundreds of empty, unwashed food containers stacked up so my dad could use them to eat from instead of washing dishes.Everything would be clean and clear and neat, and ready for me to make my dinner.

I would put away my groceries, fold up my grocery bags and slide them into the space between my cupboard and my refrigerator so I could use them to return pop cans to the store and bundle newspapers on recycling day. I go into my bedroom and slip into a clean pair of underwear and a matching tank top, slide on a robe, step into fluffy slippers, pull my hair back. Then I would return to the kitchen and begin to wash and chop vegetables, add some sauce, saute some chicken, and throw it all together in a wok to cook while the rice came to a boil. While I was waiting, I'd page through the Cosmo and laugh at all the silly suggestions it gave women who were trying to attract a man. I'd be able to laugh, because I would no longer be lonely. I'd be involved with a wonderful, beautiful man who respected my body and my mind. In fact, in the midst of my dinner preparations, my phone would ring. I'd glance at the caller ID, smile, and turn down the seventies soft rock I had playing in my CD player, then answer the phone. "Hey, there, Loverboy," I'd say, in my most sultry voice. By the time I got off the phone, I'd be blushing while I added a few more veggies to the wok, because the owner of the voice on the phone would be on his way over. I'd set my smooth wooden table for two, light some candles, dim the lights, and run into my bedroom to spritz on just a little prefume. Just as the love of my life arrived, I'd be spooning dinner onto the plates and pouring two glasses of wine. He'd hold me close for just a minute when he walked in, then we'd talk quietly while we ate, stopping every so often to look at each other fondly. I'd let the shoulder of my robe slip down so he caught a glimpse of skin, and when he looked at me, I'd wink. When we finished eating, we'd slide the dishes into the sink and he'd gently rub my bottom as we disappeared into my bedroom.

Once there, I'd close the curtains and let the robe fall to the floor. He'd sit gently on the edge of the bed and watch, then pull me close to him and kiss me deeply. We'd turn the lights off as he slioped out of his clothes and I slipped out of mine and then we'd make love before we fell asleep in each other's arms. I'd wake before my alarm woke me and rub his back until he woke to hold me in his arms again for just a few minutes. Then he would get up and put his clothes on so he could go home to shower and dress for work. I'd take a long hot shower in a bathroom that was not flooded with urine and then wrap myself in a thick, soft towel as I watched the sun rise through my bathroom window.

If I could choose my life, that is what I would do. I don't have that luxury, though. Instead, I will go to McDonald's and buy food that I don't want to eat, but I will eat it anyway because McDonald's is the only place that's open and I can't eat at home. Then I'll go home. A wave of nausea will wash over me when I can't stand the cold anymore and I finally go inside, but I will hold my breath until I am in my bedroom and manage not to vomit. Then I will spray air freshener into the air outside of my bedroom to try and fend off the smell long enough to fall asleep. I will close my door most of the way, for privacy and to keep the smell out, but I will not close it all the way because if I do, my cats will cry all night long to get in or out. I will get in bed alone. I will probably cry, great gulping sobs. Eventually I will fall asleep, wishing more than anything else that I could be someone else for a day and know what it's like to live a life full of love and good smells and cleanliness. In the morning, I will wake up to my alarm, sometime around 10, and wish with all my might that I could go back to sleep for a very, very long time, maybe forever. I will be relieved and upset both at once that I did not get called to teach, because I need the money, but all my clothes are shabby and smell faintly of urine and I'd rather not have to try and look professional for the day. It takes too much effort. Eventually, I will get out of bed and shower and leave. I will spend the rest of the early part of the afternoon at Arby's, eating curly fries and a chicken salad wrap, with diet Pepsi that I wish was diet Mountain Dew, and maybe a Jamocha shake. I will dream of food that is fresh and healthy, something I made myself, something at home. And I will dream of love.

(Originally meant to be posted on the evening of Sunday, January 11, but it wasn't, due to a dysfunctional modem or router...)

Rejection Is As Rejection Does

Everything is rejection to me. I know it's dumb, but it's true. I called a friend on Monday- she was supposed to go work out at the YMCA with me and I wanted to let her know I was going to be late. She was asleep. She didn't go with me.

Most normal people would go, "Oh, she must be tired." Not me. I went right from "on my way to work out" to "I'm a horrible person that no one likes and she probably never wants to see me again and that's why she went to sleep instead of coming to work out with me." I cried, even. And I managed to get over it somewhat by the next day, but not enough to call her on Wednesday when I went to the Y again. Why? Because I was afraid she would "reject" me again.

I can't call people, EVER. I can actually feel my heart racing and my palms sweating when I pick up the phone. It isn't terribly stressful to call my dad, and I can usually call Chris without a problem, but the prospect of calling anyone else sends me into a panic. And if I happen to call Chris and he tells me he'll call me back because he's on the phone with someone else, then it's a few days before I can call him again, either. Why? Feels like rejection. An unanswered phone? Feels like rejection. A busy signal? Yeah. Rejection. And yes, I am completely aware how stupid that is.

Every time someone says they don't like something I do like, even if they're not aware that I like whatever it is, I take that as a rejection. If I am "texting" with someone, or chatting on Yahoo or MSN or some such thing, and they do not answer me immediately, or leave the conversation without telling me they're leaving, that's rejection too. Stupid.

What I want to know is why I feel so rejected. I don't think I think I'm a horrible person who only deserves rejection. I'm pretty sure I kinda like myself. And most of the time, when I am with people, I believe they like me too. Most of the time. So what's my problem? Why am I such a mess?

Maybe I should just reject this rejectable version of myself. But then again, rejection hurts.

Nothing Much To Say Today

And yet, I'm saying it anyway. Because I promised to blog every day.

Every writer should keep a journal. That's what they say, anyway. And I never have. I have the typical set of journals, of course, that every little girl gets for Christmases and birthdays, and each one of them has the first five or six pages dutifully scribbled on in my messy little-girl scrawl. But the last one is dated the year I was eleven. Since then, nothing.

Every so often I write something that isn't a poem, isn't a story, isn't an essay, isn't much of anything, really. I suppose these pieces are my version of journaling, but they aren't organized or anything, and I generally pass them off as essays even though they very obviously aren't.

Actually, I guess I do journal, in a way. I have a minor obsession with MySpace, specifically with MySpace surveys. Anyone who is on my Friends list knows absolutely EVERYTHING that is going on in my life, and every other thing about me. And I can't seem to stop doing them- I take them faithfully, to the great annoyance of the people whose Bulletin spaces I fill up. So yeah. I guess I do journal.

And that means this post is rather pointless, because the point I intended to make was that this blog is my method of journaling, and I was going to proclaim that since I journal now, I am finally a successful writer.

But nevermind. :)

I Love The Gynecologist!

Not the doctor, the workout machine. But it got your attention, didn't it?

I love working out. You wouldn't know it to look at me, but I do. And my favorite thing to do is use this workout machine that exercises your thighs. I don't know what it is called because I am illiterate in the world of physical fitness, but I like to call it the Gynecologist because it requires superhuman feats of leg-spreading to get on the thing and then has you use your thighs to squeeze the things- I don't know what you'd call them- together or push them apart, depending how you set it. I do it both ways. I love that thing. Maybe because, being fat, I have developed very strong legs. They do, after all, have to carry my body around all day. So I'm rather good at using the Gynecologist. It's the only machine I can set to the highest weight and still manage to complete 15 reps fairly easily.

Working out should, for many reasons, be a nightmare to me.

The first thing I have to do is brave the locker room. I am not a big fan of getting naked in a room full of other women, especially when half of them are aerobics instructors who weigh roughly the same thing as one of my arms does. I refuse to hide in a bathroom stall, though, like most of the other fat women do, because I read a proclamation by a fat activist who said that she believes society will never accept her body as beautiful unless she treats it as if it is and refuses to act as though it should be hidden. I admire her courage and her point of view and so I have taken them as my own. The only problem is, I am pretty sure she isn't as much of a klutz as I am, and she probably doesn't know as many people with small children who work out at the gym she uses. Because as soon as I have begun to exchange my clothes for workout clothes, I inevitably trip over a bench and slam my shoulder into a locker or have a small child run up to me screaming my name. In the locker room, I am the star attraction.

Once I've dressed myself in the one sports bra in the world that comes in my size and shorts and a tank top that allow my skin to breathe and running shoes, and once I've put my hair up so it doesn't stick to the sweat on the back of my neck and make me look like I haven't showered in three or four years, and once I've settled the headphones of my mp3 player comfortable over my ears so I can be in my own little music-filled world, I head into the workout room. My muscles yell at me if I don't warm them up before I hit the weight machines, so I start out walking a half mile on the treadmill. This is a nightmare all by itself. Walking is not on my top ten list of favorite things to do. My thighs bump into each other and throw my feet farther apart than they should be, which sets my back just a little out of alignment, which hurts. I force myself to maintain a rate of at least 2 and 1/2 miles an hour, and to walk an entire half of a mile (ooooh... tough, hey?), but between my back and the sweat that slowly emerges from my skin, I hate every second of it. The only way I can get through it is to close my eyes so I can't see myself in the mirror or all the people who might be watching me and pitying me because using the treadmill takes so much effort. I hold on to the bars on the sides of the treadmill, squeeze my eyes shut, and allow myself to open them to check my progress only at the end of each song.

When I finally finish, it's time for the weight machines. I go through a series of 5 or so machines meant to exercise your legs. As I said before, this part is easy. I look forward to it. My legs are pretty strong. Then I come to a string of machines meant to exercise your arms. Ugh. My arms are flabby and doughy and not at all strong. I set each machine at 10 or 30 pounds, which I recognize is rather pathetic, and am ready to kick each and every one of them by the time I hit my 15 reps, if only I had the energy left to kick. I sweat and grunt and try to lose myself in music and eventually I get through it. There are 2 things that get me past those stupid machines: the sit up machine (not what it's really called, but the name seems appropriate) that stretches my back out beautifully and after a few minutes of cracks and crunches makes the pain of the treadmill go away, and the knowledge that when I am all finished, I have the pool and hot tub to look forward to.

When I've finished the weight machine circuit, I spend another 5 minutes or so on the treadmill, walking slowly to cool my muscles down. I'm not working so hard this time, and my muscles are warm and limber, so I don't need to close my eyes and focus on the end. I can look in the mirror at the people behind me, look around the room. And this is the biggest reason of all why working out should be a nightmare. I can see all the thin, muscular, healthy people who surround me, talking comfortably while they run at top speed on the treadmills or step their way through an intense workout on the stairsteppers. They all look so- I don't know, gym-like? Cool and smooth and glowing, and they make it look so damn easy! Of course, there is a small collection of other fattish people scattered throughout the room, but none of them is as fat as I am, and they are all much more athletically inclined. Once in a while, I see a bead of sweat above a brow, but all I really notice is how easy it looks for them. Let's just say it doesn't make me feel the best about myself. And when I'm all done, what do I have to look forward to? Going back into the locker room, of course, to change into my swimsuit- yay!

But I've already said it: I love working out. Despite everything, I am motivated. Because when I've walked my half mile at 2 and a half miles an hour, or even pushed it to 3 miles an hour for the last minute or two, and I step off the treadmill sweaty and achy but still alive, I feel strong. I know that my body, even though it may seem like the enemy at times, is there for me. It will carry me through whatever I need it to carry me through. My muscles are warm and used and my blood is flowing and I feel good. And when I push my way through all the weight machines, I can feel every muscle in my body. I know they're all there. I connect with my body in a way that I don't at any other time. I build muscle and I build circulation and I build confidence. Locker room be damned, when I step out of the workout room, I don't care what anyone thinks about my flabby arms and sagging belly and well-padded thighs, because the muscles underneath them are strong and healthy and beautiful.

To the untrained eye, I might look like I've never met a treadmill in my life. I know exactly what assumptions people make about me. I'm fatter than anyone most people have ever seen, and to the uneducated mind, fat can be associated with laziness, filth, illness, stupidity. I know this because I've been accused of holding dear each and everyone of these attributes.

I am not any of these things. I am as healthy as anyone else, and as clean, and as active, and as intelligent. I am strong. There is no reason why I can't be beautiful.

And I can work the Gynecologist better than any skinny-thighed person I've ever met!

Baby, It's Cold Outside (And I Have Wet Feet)

And I'm not kidding. A couple days ago, I saw on CNN that somewhere in Alaska, the temperatures were nearing 50 below zero. I laughed at the Alaskans who were stuck with that stroke of bad luck, and followed that up with, "I'm laughing now, but in another week, we'll probably have the same thing."

I swear I was kidding. Famous last words.

I know it's cold because I am wearing four shirts and still freezing. And because the storefront windows downtown are frosted with ice. You'd think all that ice would insulate the buildings they adorn, but nope. Four shirts and freezing.

I'm tired of winter. I am pretty sure my feet have not been dry for more than 10 minutes- maybe 15- in the last 4 months. They got wet when I was canvassing for Barack Obama one day. It was 45 degrees out and raining Democrats and Republicans. (Yeah, that was dumb, I know, but I figured I'd bypass the cats and dogs thing and go with a theme.) Our county coordinator (this was before I took over that position) forced us to go out and knock on people's doors anyway. I had several people, whether or not they were Obama supporters, offer me towels, hot chocolate, and many other warm and comforting things. One person, a student of mine, actually, offered me a ride and I had to explain that I was actually out in that kind of weather on purpose and had to keep walking. I have never been so wet in my life, at least not for that long.

It didn't stop raining for the next month (that could be a slight exaggeration), and as soon as it stopped raining, it started snowing. And everytime I go out in the snow, my shoes and socks get wet. Taking them off doesn't help, because I'm short, which means the bottoms of my pants get wet, too. And I can't very well show up at the mall and take off my coat, then follow up by also removing my shoes, socks, and pants. That doesn't go over very well. And my purse, while it approximates a small suitcase, is not nearly big enough to hold an entire change of clothes for the lower half of my rather large body.

I would give anything to have dry feet. I am pretty sure I'm beginning to grow webs between my toes. And while I'm sure ducks and platypuses (platypusi) have wonderful lives, I'm not one, and I don't want to be one.

It's January now. In another month, the whole groundhog thing is gonna go down. Punxsutawney Phil the Groundhog will crawl out of his hole, look for his shadow, and pronounce spring's impending arrival. As a resident of Michigan's Upper Peninsula, I am here and now going to pronounce the whole ritual a crock of shit. Good ol' Phil could see six hundred shadows and we still ain't gettin' spring 'til well into May.

And my feet still won't be dry. This is how it will all happen. There will be a few days in March when it warms up enough for the snow to melt a little and the dirt underneath it to turn to mud. the snow that's left will turn brown and ugly. Everyone will wish it was still winter because spring is so ugly. And then it will snow again and everyone will wish it was spring because winter is so cold. April will come. We will have our traditional April Fool's Day storm- what, you thought it was spring? HA! FOOLED you! And then things will begin to melt in earnest. Snow will no longer wet my feet. Instead, I will tromp through sticky, gooey puddles and pits of mud, and the mud will wet my feet. April showers will flood the still nearly-frozen ground. And May flowers? No such animal. It will rain more in May than it did in April and my feet will be soaked in the waters of spring.

Finally, by the beginning of June, the mud will begin to dry. In June, my feet will be dry, too.

And as soon as they are, I'm goin' to the beach.

In 16 Days

Barack Obama is going to be sworn into office. Our first African-American president, which is only a big deal because it shouldn't be such a big deal. The focus of one of the largest, most all-encompassing presidential campaigns ever. The latest in a long string of leaders serving a nation that needs, more than ever, a strong leader. A personal hero of mine.

And what is even more amazing to me is that I am going to be there to see it happen.

The minute that Hillary (of course I supported her to begin with; she's a Clinton!) conceded, I began learning everything I could about the man named Barack "if they knew I would run for office, they never would have given me this middle name" Hussein Obama. And I found out that if I had done that earlier, I probably would have supported him to begin with. I have found absolutely nothing to suggest anything other than that he is a decent, intelligent, charismatic man who knows how to take charge and give in, both in turn.

In July, I geared up for the campaign. I talked to people, heard what their issues were, learned everything I could.

In August, I began to meet some of his campaign staffers at the national level. I got to know our local staffer fairly intimately and spoke at house parties and began making phone calls to undecided voters. I manned the Democratic Party booth at the state fair and reassured dozens of people that Barack wasn't going to be shot on sight because he was (this part uttered in a whispered tone) black. I reassured a few that even someone who is (again, in a whisper) "the N word" can be a strong leader. And I celebrated with hundreds that there could be new hope for our nation.

In September, I walked in parades, proudly sporting a Barack Obama t-shirt and campaign stickers for a handful of other candidates. I spent no less than twenty-four hours of every weekend knocking on doors and handing out campaign literature and asking questions, answering questions, gently persuading voters to at least listen. I made hundreds of phone calls to people who loved Barack Obama and people who hated Barack Obama and people who had never heard of Barack Obama and people who had dozens of questions and concerns and opinions, but mainly to people who weren't home or didn't answer their phones. I heard Barack Obama speak, in person, after waiting in line for 5 hours after 24 hours without sleep, and knew that everything I was doing was worth it.

In October, I was the living dead. I did not sleep beecause there was not time. I ate only fast food, because it was--well, fast. I coordinated efforts with people I forged instant friendships with and people I hated on sight. I knocked on more doors than I had ever even seen before, some of them 8 or 10 times throughout the month. I woke up in the middle of the night talking to imaginary voters on an imaginary phone in my sleep. I soothed egos and intervened in verbal wars between staffers and volunteers. When the campaign sent Michigan staffers to Indiana and our staffer stayed behind with an unrealistically large area to coordinate, I took over the efforts in my county--did his job, 12 hour work days and all, without his paycheck, and without mine, too.

For a few very hazy days in November, I coordinated, in my county, the most massive Get Out The Vote effort EVER. I campaigned for Barack Obama and a state representative who broke her hip and completely disappeared from the scene three weeks before the election. I knocked on even MORE doors. On Election Day, the culmination of it all, I was separated from all the people I had gotten so intimately involved with and sent to another county to coordinate their final Get Out The Vote effort there, arriving home bleary eyed and nervous an hour before results started coming in.

And at some point during the evening of Tuesday, November 4th, I heard a reported on CNN say that they were tentatively calling the election, in favor of Barack Hussein Obama. I cried harder than I have ever cried before. Because in that moment, I knew that I had succeeded harder than I had ever succeeded before. I made immediate plans to surround myself with friends on January 20th to watch President Obama take his oath of office on a big screen TV, and stare enviously at the millions who were there to see it in person. I never dreamed I would be one of the millions.

But 14 days from now, I will be in a car, probably driving through Ohio, on my way to a cheap, dingy hotel in Baltimore, and on January 20th, I will be freezing to death in a crowd of millions of people while I watch Barack Obama place his hand on the same bible Abraham Lincoln placed his hand on so many years ago and swear to uphold the duties of the office of President of the United States of America.

I have succeeded.

2/2 re I go to Barack Obama's inauguration in a couple weeks. :-)

1/2 So... I don't have anything deep or insightful to say, really. I just wanted to find out if this whole mobile blog thing was gonna work befo

People Who Define Themselves

generally defy the definitions they give themselves. I think.

The other day, some friends and I went out to dinner. Now, the members of our dinner party were of various ages and backgrounds. There was a gay guy. I define him as such because he goes out of his way to define himself as such, often and loudly. (One couterexample, I guess, to this whole theory, 'cause I'm pretty darn sure he really is gay.) He is just shy of 21 years old, and he was there with his latest boyfriend, who is just 17. Then there was his roommate, female, former alcoholic and drug addict, 21. Her friend, senior in high school, 18, gets a big kick out of chilling with the older "kids." A friend of mine I've known forever, age 26, in many ways closer to my world than to theirs, although it is he who has pulled them into my world. And then there was me, age 30, substitute teacher who has actually taught many of the others at the table.

As generally happens when a group of people who know the same people get together, the topic of conversation turned to some friends we have in common. We were discussing another "friend"- a close friend to the former drug addict, not so close to me- who is the epitome of immature. Maybe not so immature for her age and stage in life, as she is 18 and has just finished her first semester of community college, but immature nonetheless. To me, and to Hepzibah (that's what we'll call the 26-year-old friend of mine, rather than using his real name), anyway, she is almost unbearably immature. Drinks too much, talks about drinking even more, tries any substance, controlled or uncontrolled, that anyone offers her, tries WAY too hard to impress people by playing the part of the cute, giggly, flirty coed. Fake. Annoys the hell out of people. The main problem is not just that she is immature but that she follows the rest of us around wherever we go and doesn't understand that her behavior is more appropriate with her high school friends than with us, specifically me and Hepzibah. That was the long way to get to this point. In any case, we were talking about her. And then Maribell (that's what we're calling the 18 year old friend of the former drug addict) asked, "Do I seem immature like that to you guys? I mean, I don't think I'm immature. I always look around at all the other kids at school, like in my chorus class, and think, my God, they're more immature. I've always been mature for my age, though."

That's what I'm talkin' about. I've never heard a single mature person in the world say that he or she is mature. Ever. I'm not sure if this is because they are mature enough to avoid it, or because they don't need to mention it, or because once they say it, they cease to seem mature, but they just don't do it. Maribell is mature by her own standards, sure. She is very possibly more mature than many other high school seniors, but you don't score any brownie points by explaining to someone how mature you are. In speaking about her own maturity, she defied her own definition of herself.

And the today, a group of us had lunch together. I was there, and Hepzibah was there, along with Hepzibah's sister, and two other friends of ours, both twenty-something college students home on winter break. One of them is a guy, homeschooled and slightly geeky, but a decent guy nonetheless. The other is a girl, thin, expensively highlighted hair, delicate features. We'll call her Girly Tomboy. The topics of conversation consisted mainly of Girly Tomboy's many would-be suitors and their obsessions with her and college classes past, present, and future. At one point, she said, "I feel sort of like a beautful disaster. People look at me and see this" --at which point she gestured so that we all knew she meant her face and her body-- "and they think I'm perfect, and then they go to get into my car or something and see what a mess I really am."

The fact that she called herself beautiful, perfect, even, made me think that she probably isn't as beautiful as she seems. Beautiful people just are- they don't need to point out their beauty, talk about it. And the thing is, before she defined herself as beautiful, I probably would have called her beautiful, and that was in large part because she seemed unaware of how the world looked at her. But now that she has, I can't look at her and see beauty anymore. Instead, I look at her in search of flaws so that I can disprove her statement.

Maybe it's just me. I know that I'm somewhat of a rebel. I don't like to do things people tell me to do or think things that they want me to think, so it may just be in my nature to try and discount what people tell me about themselves. But somehow, in the deepest, most thoughtful part of myself, I really think that people who define themselves defy their own definitions, even if only by making people look at them more intently and find all the things that don't fit the definitions.

Or maybe I'm just jealous because I don't have the courage to define myself as mature or beautiful. Maybe.

A Startling Confession

I was out of bed- or awake, anyway, as I am pretty much confined to my bedroom and there isn't anything there to sit on besides my bed- by noon today. And I paid most of my bills. So far, it is a good day.

That, right there, is the problem. And so, on this day, the second day of the year of our lord (I, personally, think the year belongs to everyone, but that's the commonly accepted formality) two thousand nine, am making a startling confession: I am a loser.

If you know me only casually, you won't believe me. I fake it well. If you know me well, you won't want to believe me. I'm too kind to be a loser. But since you're most likely a stranger, I think you'll take my word for it.

I know I am a loser because it shouldn't be a celebration-worthy event to pay your bills or get out of bed. Especially if you get out of bed at noon and pay your bills with your father's money. There are a thousand ways in which I am a loser. Here is a brief list:

1. I live in a mobile home. (Ie., I am trailer trash.) It's a nice trailer and the others around it are nice, too, and it is really in no way different from any other manufactured home, but still... I live in a trailer.

2. My father lives with me. I realize this isn't the same as living with my father, but it still does not do much for me. Hard to believe people accept you as an adult when you explain to them that you aren't allowed to have friends over because your father said so... or because he is sitting on your couch in his dirty underwear.

3. I do not make enough money to survive on. I could, but I don't. I used to. Then I took several months off of work to get Barack Obama (and a bunch of other people) elected. At the same time, I was taking care of my decrepit father and trying to exist in a house that is filled with the scent of urine from his diabetes-spinal-problem-induced lack of bladder control and with piles and piles and bags and boxes and piles of junk that he brought with him when he came to stay and is now using to make my living room into a foxhole. Gets a little depressing at times, which makes it hard to sleep and then makes it hard to get up when the phone rings at five a.m. and a cheery electronic voice asks me if I would like to accept a substitute teaching job for the day. And the economy is bad, so parents can't afford tutors for their children. And I lack confidence, so I never send my writing anywhere. There are a million reasons why I don't make enough money to survive. At least with my dad living with me, I get to use his. It's a symbiotic relationship, of sorts. Not a healthy one.

4. My house smells like urine. (See #3 above.)

5. I have not been on a real date in roughly 30 years, 6 months, 12 days, and 19 hours. Not that I'm counting. And yes, that is exactly how long ago I was born.

6. I hang out with the students, not the other teachers. I don't mean to. It's just that I forged a few solid friendships, and the other half of one of those friendships is a man who has a rock star persona and some minor delusions of grandeur. He found some people who are willing to look up to him as if he is the figurative rock star he wishes he could be. They are all in the 17-23 age range. I am 30. Age is not an issue with me, at all. I have friends that are 8 and I have friends that are 80. It's just that when we go out for the night and are joined by a gaggle of barely post-teenage girls, we do the things that post-teenage girls do, not the things that adults do. It's hard to break away and be an adult. (And I have to admit, while I'm not a big fan of the gaggle, the students in general are more fun than the teachers.)

7. I do not sleep at night. I do not wake up in the morning. Instead, I go to bed in the morning and get up in the afternoon. That is not something winners usually do. I can, on occasion, wake up in the morning, if I have a reason to do so. It isn't THAT bad. I don't shirk responsibility. But when responsibility has shirked me for the day and I have nothing pressing to do, I can barely pull myself out of bed by noon.

I could go on, but I'm tired of downtalking myself- just as tired of it as you are, probably. So I am publicly setting some goals. Maybe fear of humiliation will make me stick with them.

Goal 1:
I will completely clear out my home office and explain to my father that if he is going to continue to stay with me rather than going to the home that is waiting empty for him, he will need to use a use a bedroom as his foxhole so that I have the use of my house.

Goal 2:
I will accept whatever teaching jobs I am given, even if I haven't yet slept and cannot stop crying. High schoolers are experts in drama and will accept without question that it is allergies making my eyes tear up because they told the same lie a hundred times themselves, and after a few nights without sleep, maybe I will punish myself into sleeping at night like a normal, functional adult.

Goal 3:
I will attempt to publish something, somewhere, for money. I know I'm good enough. I know I can. I'm afraid to, because I'm afraid I will prove myself wrong, but it's time to get over myself and try.

These are not New Year's resolutions. I don't believe in them because you only think about them on New Year's Eve and then generally forget about them. These are life resolutions, because in order to preserve my life, I need to follow them. I will not be a loser anymore.

Well, okay, I might, because it's kinda fun sometimes. But I'll only be a loser when I choose to.

In The Beginning

My life is exciting sometimes, I swear. But today was definitely the most uneventful day of the year.

Yeah, that was a pathetic stab at humor, I know. But pathetic humor is better than no humor. Right? Humor me.

How did 2009 start for me? Let's see. I got up around 10:30 this morning. Okay, that's not quite accurate. I WOKE up around 10:30 this morning. Not too bad, since I didn't get home 'til 4:30. Except then I went back to sleep. I woke up again around eleven and told myself I was awake for real. I didn't feel tired anymore, so I was pretty sure it would work out. But I didn't have much to do, you see, because I am sort of, for the time being, a prisoner in my bedroom. Long story that doesn't fit in here, so I'll skip it, but in any case, I decided I would just close my eyes for a while and daydream. You know, imagine myself into a life I really want to be living. That lasted around four seconds before I found myself waking up yet again, an hour later. I went through that cycle a few times before I finally turned on my computer around two-thirty. Yahoo, MSN, MySpace, and Skype, I can stay awake for.

Things I intended to do today: pay some bills, do some laundry, clean up a little, install my new printer, get some writing done for Large In Charge, work on the manuscript I am editing, have dinner, play Scrabble, and start a blog. What I did: went to Pizza Hut and had dinner (while I finished reading the January issue of Cosmo and not while I edited the manuscript, contrary to my plan), played Scrabble (while I ate chips and salsa, Hershey's Candy Cane Kisses, and chicken noodle soup, also contrary to my plan), and started a blog.

But I didn't cry today, so I will consider today a day of good beginnings. I have embarked upon the adventure of a new year with, so far, no tragedies. And I started a blog.

My mind, not so differently from anyone else's, I suppose, works in deliciously random ways. We'll see what tomorrow brings.