Well that explains it.
Oh this is no political blog but I was just going to have to rip Willard (Mitt) Romney for being such a vapid Ken doll who refuses to declare defeat because he is on auto (there is a button between his shoulder blades, flesh colored of course, and it seems to be stuck in the “run for office” position) but then an “examination” of Willard was done bigger and better than I ever could do
I’ve despised him since his defeat of the brilliant Robert Reich for governorship of Massachusetts. Willard won for only one reason I can find: he is tall. Robert Reich barely reaches 5 feet. I am convinced people just cannot vote for an extremely short man over a tall one. To give my species the benefit of the doubt, there must be an evolutionary drive that compels us to honor tall over short.
Yet short people (like myself) have not been bred out of existence. I leave it to the evolutionary biologists to figure out. I’ve got bigger fish to fry.
Like American Girl Doll Books. Dare I admit, they’re not bad.
And birthday parties: this is absolutely the last time we host a party for more than five children. The goodie bags alone are costing more than I spend on shoes.
Hi-5: I kind of have a gay girl/gay boy crush on Curtis.
The School Nurse: Betsy has been visiting the school nurse approximately three times a week. She tells the nurse she has a sore throat and needs an ice pack to hold on her neck. The nurse takes her temperature and gives her ice and off Betsy goes. I feel it’s a way for her to manage being in kindergarten, being just six years out of my womb and off on her own all day to navigate social and academic challenges and having to ask to go to the bathroom.
The Headmaster: This evening Faith and I are having dinner at the home of the headmaster of Betsy’s school. He’s a kind and gentle man who invites groups of parents to his home once during the year until we all have had the honor and he has had a chance to meet and greet each of us. If there is a nurse there I definitely will say I have a sore throat and go visit her for ice and a moment of patting down.
Another thing about Willard: He’s not nice. Friends involved in the gay marriage excitement here in Massachusetts met with Willard at his Beacon Hill office and said he made some snide remark about same-sex couples.
My mother: Still dead. Though I find myself thinking one day there will be a knock on my door. I’ll look out my window and see news cameras and balloons and smiling anchormen and women. At the door will be my mother. “Honey, it was a joke! But we’re rich.” And then Ed McMahon would tell me and the millions of at-home viewers that my mother feigning her death by ovarian cancer won her 10 million dollars. “So don’t be mad,” my mother would say. But I’d be so freaking mad anyway. Just fantasizing my mother would assume I’d want money more than her makes me mad, which forces me to realize I’m just mad at her for dying but had to go and concoct a whole story about Ed McMahon to get to it.
Willard: If you were named Willard and you were going to choose a new name because Willard is such a duck-ish name, would you choose Mitt?