This evening I’m watching the Vice-Presidential debate just to see if Biden and Palin live up to their billing. So far Palin is doing a good job parroting the catchphrases she’s been spoon-fed the last few weeks.
(9:15) She’s trying to get down-home and go back to the convention speech talking points, but she got cut off by time. Biden is doing a good job staying away from attacking her, which I think is a good idea, but I would love for him to stick a pin in her bullshit mayor and governor stories on live TV once and for all.
(9:31) Palin is rambling about climate change, ducking the question completely. She actually said that she thinks the climate change we’re experiencing could be nothing more than a naturally occurring event.
(9:37) Biden just made a definitive stand for same-sex unions and property rights, but not marriage. I need to do more research on the actual party planks here.
(9:42) Biden: “We will end the war.” Palin: sputtered. She sounds flustered now. She tried to repeat the “Obama cut funding” line for the second time, and Biden nailed her on it again.
(9:49) Palin is trying to define diplomacy, and I’m not quite sure she knows what the fuck she’s talking about. Biden just crucified her in his response.
(9:56) I’m sorry. You should be disqualified from consideration as a presidential or a vice-presidential candidate if you say “nu-cu-lar” twice in a sentence. I don’t give a shit if Miriam-Webster won’t take a stand on it or not.
(10:10) Gag. More Wasila bullshit; more Democrats-will-tax-you bullshit. Biden gave her a little Home Depot in return, which sounded good, but his McCain=Bush shpeil is getting a little old, and she called him on it. Oh, wait, what’s this? Talking about Biden’s wife as a teacher, she mouthed some platitudes, saying “Her reward is in heaven”. That sounded like a rehearsed down-home speech to me. It will win her big points with the PTA and Christians.
(10:21) ZZZZZzzzzzzzzz…
(10:30) It’s over, and the talking heads are yammering. My take: No train wreck, which is what I was hoping for; each candidate did pretty well. I’d call it a draw.
Locally, the lawn signs are sprouting all over the ‘Ville, and even though our lawn is shaggy, we own some prime real estate for pissing off the local Republicans. I’m looking for something subtle, like a 4’x8’ double-sided neon billboard with fireworks, but I’ll settle for something a little smaller. How much fun would it be to drop five of these Hebrew rally signs on the lawn? I’d hear no end of people complaining about “Arabic” propaganda, I’m sure. Or I could really fuck with their heads and slap these all over the place…
But seriously, I might get two of these, maybe one of these just to counteract the “Family=man+woman” sticker next door, or even the Catholics for Obama sticker here just to let ’em know the Papists are still alive. I do wish they had one of these in a newborn size so Finn could show the family colors, and find one of the “Mama for Obama” stickers I saw a few weeks ago.
Then again, for $25, the support pack is a good deal too. I may wait until some checks roll in to spend more money, but I think this is a good place to start tomorrow morning.
How sweet is this? A 1982 Fleetwood Hearse for $1,800.
Hi, Finn. We had a good couple of days this week. On Sunday and Monday, you sacked out for a good long time after the 2AM feeding, allowing your mother and I the luxury of four hours’ uninterrupted sleep. Of course, a third night was more than we could hope for. Last night it was as if you were possessed by a demon who would not let you rest before you screamed yourself hoarse. No amount of rocking, walking, singing, shushing, binky, boob, commandment, cajoling, pleading, praying, swaddling or changing would calm you to the point where we could coax you to sleep. When we were able to get you to calm down, you closed your eyes for no longer than thirty seconds before shaking yourself awake and commencing to scream again. It was about 6AM before I was finally able to get you to settle, and when you did sleep, it happened like I clicked off a light switch. To keep you from waking Mama, who needed a break after spending the whole day with you, I cradled you on my chest and fell asleep downstairs on the couch with the light and TV on, unable to move for fear of waking you again.
On your good days, it’s alternately comforting and terrifying to have you stretched out in bed between us, because I love to know you are safely asleep, dreaming whatever it is newborn babies dream of, and afraid you might wake up crying for milk or a new diaper or just for the heck of it. This conflicting set of emotions guarantees I am awake for at least an hour after we put you down, ears cocked to any sign of unhappiness or distress. Because when you start crying, you make the Baby Jesus cover his ears in sheer auditory pain: changing your diaper is like climbing into an air raid siren to prepare a tax return. It’s loud, it’s messy, and someone will feel like they got cleaned out when everything is finished.
Your cord hasn’t come off yet, which is still a little gross. Mama and I have this thing about bellybuttons. It’s more than a thing, really; it’s sort of an allergic, nervous reaction to touching the whole area, ours or someone elses’. Your cord is like a little black snakeskin stuck to your tummy, and it gives me the heebies when I have to change your diaper. We have to do “cord care”, which is supposed to help it dry out and fall off, but it’s still there, taunting us. Cord care is essentially just wiping it with a little alcohol and trying not to think about how it must feel for you; luckily you can’t form words yet and say things like quit knocking the damn thing around, OK? it feels like it’s still attached to my frickin’ lung, and it’s more than a little uncomfortable, jerk. It will be a banner day when the cord does come off, because Mama and I both get grossed out just looking at it. And, we are obviously hoping that you will be an innie, because outies are just nasty.
You do have one very interesting new habit you’ve picked up that makes me laugh every time it happens. Your father has, for as long as he can remember, sneezed in threes. One, two, a pause, and then three. Sometimes four or five, if I’m wading through a field of ragweed or dusting under the bed, but always at least three. My genetics have apparently passed this strange rule on to you, with an absolutely endearing, heart-melting twist: You will sneeze that little baby sneeze, wrinkling up your face as they hit you like bolts from the blue, one, two, three, and then in perfect cadence directly afterward, an exclamation: Agh! as if to say, ain’t that some shit?
Papa’s new mission in life is to get that on tape somehow.