Scariest Thing Ever Would Be...

Well, I think you know where I stand on that, and with a scant short time to go, sorry dudes, but I gotta get this out there before the kids come home and the candy buzz kicks in and the soccer tournament on Sunday. Oh, and another costume party for which I have no costume (can one be the "financial bailout" twice? in a Small Town? I think not).

People of the internets, I am feeling kinda scared about Tuesday.  I am suspicious of the polls: polls are math and science and stuff and I get all queasy about it. So much for October Surprise. What about November Demise? I don't want to see that happen. 

So, two posts in one night -- see below -- and redundancy to boot. 

It's not over until it's over, so....

Wingman

So a few years ago, Barack Obama embarrased a young reporter -- a reporter who was trying to impress a certain pretty young thang -- by mistaking said reporter for a college student. Obama made some comment about the dude's "baby face" and everyone hardy har har'd, including the pretty young thang. Reporter dude was mortified, but all was made well after he received the following phone call:

Boomp3.com

I mean seriously people? Isn't it time we had a president like this? 

Have fun with all the witches and goblins and ghosts and Hannah Montana's coming soon to your front door. And save some candy for November 4th. 

Pumpkin Carving In One Act

Set: plastic carving knives, spoons, bowls, newspaper, pumpkins, Short Drunk People, Ms. Picket. Ice coffee. 

Scene: Short Drunk People deliver rapid fire dialogue at well-intentioned Picket as Halloween countdown clock ticks away.

And.... action!

Mom! Mom! Mom! Mommmaaa! Mom! Mommy!

Mine has hair! 

That's not hair; it's guts.

It's hair! It smells! It's hairy!

It's not hair, GFYO: it's guts.

Guts bleed: mine has hair. Stinky hair.

Can I eat it? 

(No.)

Can I make a witch? What about a vampire? 

(Picket to R: Make whatever you want. But looking at it for thirty minutes is not helping.)

Oh. Well, mine's gonna be funnnkkkkyyyy!  

No! Mine is funky! FUN-KEY. 

Mom's making yours so it's whatever mom wants to make.

(GFYO thinks.)

Mom, make mine FUN-KEY. 

Can I have a knife?

(No!)

(Two seconds pass in silence.)

(Carving knife is slammed on table by nine-year-old.)

I SCREWED IT UP! I HATE MINE! I QUIT!

(Nine-year-old storms off.) (Sigh.) (Nine-year-old returns.)

(GFYO is bored and wanders away.)

(R stares at pumpkin.)

What do witches eyes look like? Like this? (Attempts a glare but mostly, goes cross eyed.)

Do you know that it's a horrrrible time to sell a house?

(What?)

A horrible time. To sell a house. Did you know that?

(Um yes. Why do you know that, B?)

'Cause I'm down. To funky town.

MAKE MINE FUN-KEY yells the GFYO from two rooms away.

I'll probably be sitting here for like two days. I'm just gonna sit here with this pumpkin and wonder about it. I'm just gonna be sitting here forever. Looking at this pumpkin.

(Picket to R: Then put the little knife in and go for it. Just see what happens.)

Yeah, that's what I do and look, I made the dude from Monsters Inc!

But you were like crying ten minutes ago and like... quit.

Whatever, R. At least I'm done.  

MOOOOOOMMMMM! She's SOOOOO ruuuuuuuuude!

Am not.

Yeah you are.

(Picket: Enough! This is fun, people!)

She has the good knife!

I do not. I'm gonna pick out all the seeds and we can roast them.

You don't even like them!

Yes I do!

Nooooo, you don't.

MOOOOOOOMMMMM! She's so mean!

(Picket to self: lalalala, go to happy place, think happy thoughts, lalalalala.)

Mom, I think GFYO has a knife.

(Picket, chasing GFYO: GIVE ME THE KNIFE!)

Mom, is mine funky? Like funky funky funky? 

Mom, how do I make blood? Can I make blood? Would blood be cool?

Mom, the kid on the news? It says he shot his head with a gun!

(Picket: Oh my god, where's the clicker? Turn off the TV!)

Mom, is mine funky, super funky? Mom, is mine the best, Mom? Mom, I lost my math packet! Mom, I'm hungry. Mom, when's Halloween again? Mom, I don't even think this looks like blood! Where's my math packet? Mom, Mom, Mommy, Mommaa, MOOOOOOOMMMMMM!

(Picket: OH. MY. GOD. Give me all the knives: we're done.)

Carving ends. Short Drunk People disperse. Guts and hair and knives and newspaper everywhere. Ice coffee tossed. Icy beer cracked.

Mom?

(WHATTTTT?)

I love carving pumpkins. Can we do it again tomorrow?

So Much Trouble

Dude(s) (?): I used to make mixed tapes.

This is better. 

Back in the old days Matt Pond PA was work. Now? Not so much.

Today was a crazy day. When I sat down to a screen that is more familiar than my own face, it was a lucky thing to see his email. It was a hallelujah for me to have a moment that was about nothing (and also everything) and to end up with this/his song.

Remembering what music is, I remind you: hit play, settle in, enjoy.

Alien

The Giant Four Year Old did not approve of the alien costume I had just spent hours an hour sewing hot-glue-gunning and could not be convinced otherwise. Until R put it on and worked it yo which hit the GFYO where it hurt: he is a performer after all (seriously, go watch that) and so he would not be outshone. From there on out, it was a solid twenty minutes of karate chops with all FOUR of his arms. I was pleased and slightly annoyed simultaneously, which is also a good summation of most of my days.

The Alien slunk up a few quiet hours later. Mom? he said. Uhhuh, I said.

I need a new friend.

Why? I said.

Because I don't have any.

While I didn't anticipate the GFYO saying that, I definitely didn't figure that kind of sucky news would come from a boy with four arms and twenty fingers. Maybe from a boy with snot pouring down his face or something like that, but definitely not from a fierce Alien kinda kid. Not from the GFYO.

I am pretty sure the dude has friends. I know he does. I think he's just tapping into some sense of his own...well, mortality is the wrong word: maybe its a sense of "i am not the ruler of every frickin universe I touch" and frankly, that's not necessarily a bad thing. 

Which is not to say I didn't internally freak out and start madly mapping out the play dates I would make. I did both those things. The Alien's four arms were flapping around as he tried to find the words to tell me what his brain was whirling with -- something along the lines of "you don't know where their houses are" so how could he possibly go over to play -- and maybe something about last year's BFF finding a new BFF -- and today there was something convoluted about what would happen if no one likes his toys which I considered just a ploy for more toys. Kids got game. And it should be noted, also got a $2 action figure.

Truth is, the whole thing is a little upsetting. Because he's four, because I lamely, wrongly figured boys didn't stress this stuff, and because, while I think the drama will be over before the weekend, it just sucks when your kid feels like ass. 

Just sucks when your kid has four super cool Alien arms that move in tandem and look nothing like the socks they started out as and you only have two human arms that, though they can hug and cuddle and stuff, will not be able to solve all the problems in his universe. Ever.

Plus, there's no "beaming up" option for earthlings like me.

There is however buckets full of candy round the bend, which works on all species I'm told. 

****

PS: I realize my recent mentioning of R's MRI might have caused some stress. Let it be known the pictures were of her arm, from an old injury (or something), and that she is perfectly healthy otherwise. Your kindness and concern does not go unnoticed. 

Ruthie's Daughter

This was not what I figured I would write today; in fact, I was so tied up in the meeting I had and the meeting I missed and the fending off of one problem and another all day, I figured I wouldn't write at all. 

But then the petty middle-schoolish anger I hold onto (can't let go of) (another story, another day) ruined most of the end of the hours, and it was enough of an anger that I wanted to write about THAT, and then thought better of it after talking to Susie, and so decided not to, then decided TO do, and then bed time happened. 

There is nothing liking tucking in three kids to suck the venom out. 

So I thought I would write about R's MRI this weekend and how her painless riding in was my utter torture. I am not good at math, but I counted each breath she made in the tube because I was sure she might stroke out, or I would, and so, someone should be -- at least -- counting. 

I thought I might write about the soccer game and the cheating by the Big Bad Dad but I'd already decided that was 1) boring and 2) a boat load of potential real life problems for me. 

So basically, if you eliminate the anger and the kid shit and the trashing -- for me, for today, for any day: there was nothing I could write about. 

THEN, then, like a beacon of inspiration, my mother, Ruthie's daughter, sent this:

"And the line of strong, insightful sometimes querky (sp) women continues. You made me feel the love, smell the salt water and reminded me of how distressed she would have been. But Ruthie would have pragmatically moved on and would have dwelled on the incredible, beautiful progeny, the next sunset and the next amazing storm."

That was it: three sentences from my mother. Three sentences that took the whole entire crap day by the neck and whipped it right the fuck around, then slammed it to the floor, stood upon it's neck, with a steel toe, like a thug of knowingness, like a thug that has history on its side, and said, listen -- missus -- listen:

Do you see it? Do you feel it? The next sunset -- it will come; it will mean a new day. You can't stop it! Move onward. Brace yourself. Storms come, they pass. DEAL.

Ruthie's daughter should be proud.

***

Memory marches with life, but not hand in hand: as life moves on, memory moves in another direction. But it creates its own territory, its own living, breathing space in life: it swallows parts and leaves others to rest. It is, however, not life; it is, however, not you. 

 

Some More Truth

Remember when I told some truth? I'm doing it again.

***
My grandmother, who is dead now, who died two months before I got married, just before the seams came unstitched, just in time, her name was Ruthie and that's what we called her, not Grammy or Gramma or Nana or Tootoo, but Ruthie. We called her by her name.

Ruthie loved sirens from cop cars and fire engines. If she heard a wail of adventure, she'd snuff out one of the two butts she had smoldering and race to her car, a Ford Bronco with blue shag carpet on the floor boards. Sometimes she'd take me.

Oh damn, she'd say. A false alarm.

Ruthie loved storms most of all. When one would whip up in the summer, she'd cover me and my cousins in plastic tarps and wrap us in rope onto a wicker couch that sat on her partially covered porch so we could feel the fury of a storm on the ocean. She was sober then, she was sober all my life, but when I got drunk for the first time, I wondered: could anyone be that passionate -- sober?

She could be. She was.

She tied us to a bench, on a porch, because it was awesome in the most literal sense and because we wanted her to. She untied us before the wind ripped off our faces.

The rope was to keep us from washing away, my cousins and I said. But Ruthie knew better: we would never wash away. The rope was just a candle for a ghost story. It made the thing more scary, the danger more authentic, and when we shuffled inside, wet and brave and confident, I bet she snubbed her cigarette out, self-satisfied and proud.  

(I am only guessing at the cigarette part, because I don't know for sure. I don't know a lot of things for sure. Memory and reality rarely meet. Sometimes one pulls for the other.)

Ruthie was a matriarch who ruled with a sponge. She was an engineer and an artist. She was function in a whirlwind of her own chaos. Her capacity to charm us was second only to her ability to know us.

It all collided in the gifts she gave. Like the sewing trunks filled to the brim and the blank cassette tapes (twelve of  them!) and the giant, massive Christmas cookie dough ball wrapped in Saran, wrapped in a bow, tempting me and my cousin to devour in one sitting. Her gifts always had a note on the outside that hinted what was inside: "You will 'ache' to leave this behind."

She was a drunk for most of my mother's life. Her husband was a drunk too. They got sober shortly after I was born -- in a city on another ocean with other storms that had different names, very far away from them both.  While Ruthie's daughter was biding her time with a man whose promise was bigger than any typhoon, I was being born at the exact stroke of midnight and choices were made.

Years later, after I left for boarding school and my parents owned my grandmother's house, my mother and father would tie themselves together with another rope, trudge off the porch against the wind and surf that had already eaten up half the sea wall and most of the lawn to get a better look at the storm. It was a hurricane that time. They would soon retreat for higher ground through waist-high water, a soggy rope between them, binding them, with the potential to kill them both. I wasn't there, but I saw the pictures and mostly what I saw is a version of a three-legged race that would eventually, metaphorically, go unbearably wrong.

Ruthie died before her daughter's husband failed her daughter.

She tied us to a wicker couch with rope so we would see how beautiful lightening can look on the ocean and how ferocious the wind can be when it forces boats into submission. I'd like to think she did it because she knew how foolish we would be the older we got, how over confident and stupidly secure we'd become: our legacy, our heritage, our genetic fucking code.

I'd like to think she was bearing us up for what we could not control, for what was bigger than us, as if her version of the storm could steel us from everything else. 

It didn't. It couldn't.

Adam + Steve + Ms Picket

I live in Massachusetts. 

Massachusetts is a state with many bad habits, some awful use of the English language, a great baseball team (presently losing), and a massive amount of history that literally leaks into us every day like lead from a window sill: it gets in the blood. 

It's especially true here, in the Small Town, the birthplace of the American Navy and the sailors who crossed Washington on the Delaware. If you weren't born in the hospital that hasn't existed in decades, you're not "from" here. Still, this is a town that expects you to make a mark: the letters to the editor are the best read part of the newspaper.  

We are a decidedly Blue State. We are the home of the Kennedys, of the John Quincys, of Paul Revere and also: George Washington slept here... and here... and here... and here. We are a mash-up of Pilgrim and Witch and immigrant Irish and we brought wikkid cool to the Nation.

Massachusetts was the first state to legalize gay marriage.

Next came California, where I spent my early childhood (acting all gay and stuff) and now, Connecticut has gone legal. I spent a solid 9 years (and did some damage, yo) in Connecticut (which I still pronounce in my head as con-eck-tick-cut). I consider it my home state, even though I shipped out of there 23 years ago when I was 15 (OMG! -- the math!) and started boarding school. In Massachusetts. 

(There were four on-and-off years in Rhode Island -- ok alright FIVE years -- with stints ski instructing in Vermont and raging against a point of light for months in DC. With three months in Jamaica trying to save the world. Which means: RI, VT, Jamaica -- watch out!)

My point is -- yes, I have a point (jeesh) -- that I consider myself somewhat of a veteran on how legal gay marriage changes things for all of us straight married people and for all you single straight people, and it is this:

A woman married a woman. A man married a man. 

Some of them had kids already (kids who would now be protected -- in divorce --- by the same law that protects the children of straight couples) (family values after all should be about protecting the most vulnerable). 

Some couples had more access and legitimacy to adopt and so, their families grew or began. Businesses sprang up. Time passed. Some marriages fizzled and died at about the same rate that straight marriages fizzle and die. 

But mostly: nothing happened. Nothing changed. 

I still fight with The Kid about stupid shit. We still trade the pants in the family and argue about control of the clicker. Our marriage hasn't changed one iota since they allowed everyone to get married here, and ps: no one has opted to marry their dog.

What has changed? My children's grasp of love. They see it in a way that is completely blind and all encompassing and also, what's the big deal? 

(Truthfully: I don't think they changed at all. I think they were born like that -- I think all babies are born like that: open and loving and good. It's just that we have the opportunity now, here in the MA, to put that goodness into action. Just saying.)

The bottom line: you people in all those other states, there is nothing to be afraid of.

Situational Comedy

While lost in the middle of the corn maze, R needed to take off her sneakers -- nothing new, since readjusting shoes is her speciality. Velcro undone, sweaty foot uncovered, she squawks with delight, "Smell the love, people." 

While waiting desperately for the umpteenth sippy cup of milk, the GFYO says, "I really want that milk BECAUSE I HAVE A PENIS."

While chatting about the difference between things we want and things we need and hearing my lecture that nothing is free, B gestures to the playroom and reminds me (with the righteous brilliance that comes with being 9), "Unless its some crap couch on the side of the road, rigggggght Mom?" ("Please don't say crap," I reply and thus, WIN.)

I mention these things because it's not Nanny 911 that I need (though thank you Anonymous for the tip) (PS: probably a different Anonymous but you know, whatever). What I need is a laugh track that plays through speakers implanted somewhere in say, my shoulders or maybe in my ponytail, that is triggered every time one of my kids speaks. 

Because then I could break for commercial, make some fat fat cash, and blame the writers.

(I should mention that what I really want to write about is the fact that the three states I have lived in (for more than two months) have made gay marriage legal (um, yes, thankyouverymuch) and (surprise, surprise) I gots some ohpinions about that. But I need to get the Drunk People to bed before I get all thinky, which is kind of like Deeples' mathy but not as funny.)

 

Cure For Troubled Times

Or, "Head? Meet Sand"

Or, "And My Toes Look Awesome!"

I've been handling the barrage of bad news with typical steely calm by yelling at the radio. Granted, I have not shouted "off with his head" or "kill him" like some level-headed hatemongers McCain supporters, but I have been grimacing a bit too much and shaking my head like an imbecile and cringing and sighing and swearing and altogether, I don't think this is enhancing that youthful glow I am going for. I literally feel stress fractures cracking in my face -- on a good day! -- so I've decided that the most effectual plan to regain some calmness is to literally turn the news off. Which I did.

I decided to enhance the Zen by indulging in a pedicure at a slightly upscale salon (just doing my part for the economy, yo!). I care not so much for the color or the effect: I usually get impatient during the "drying" time and split before I'm due, which inevitably leaves a blurry smudge across any number of fingers or toes. But the acetone (is that what it's called?) is like valium to me (or glue?) and honestly, it's the cheapest foot or hand massage going. And relatively fast, considering. And a lot less painful than exercise.

This plan would have worked out as it usually does if not for the blathering bridesmaids who had literally taken over the place. I am all for love and marriage and girl/girl bonding but LADIES! Puhleeze! We do not all care about your updos or the shenanigans at the bachelorette party and frankly, I don't think the groom's mother was loving it much either. 

The redhead is wearing the sweater dress to the rehearsal dinner in case anyone wants to know and she is probably going to get really hammered at the wedding and dump a drink on the skinny girl. The skinny girl who "hates a french pedicure" even though (said the redhead) (with a gasp) "but WE ALL have to have the french pedicure" to which the skinny girl just rolled her eyes. And the one who hates makeup? She promises not to wear that really dark blush that was "probably meant for a black girl."

Still, at least it wasn't updates every six minutes on global financial freefall, so all in all, I recommend this plan wholeheartedly. If you can no longer handle the mounting doom and gloom, turn off the news and hit the nail place. (Readers with extra bits: there was a MAN in there, I shit you not, so the same advice is true for you.) God willing, you'll get your own gaggle of bridesmaids and voila! what election? what recession? war? 

I wish I stayed longer so I could have gotten an address because you know I would so be crashing that reception: open bars are really good for Zen. 

 

Spawn Interview Experiment

Because we are mavericks (you betcha), CarolynOnline and I hatched a little plot to pass the time have some fun with her Spawn and my Short Drunk People -- a plot that included mutually agreed upon questions and soundproof booths. The following interview of Tempel, 8, and Parker, 7, illuminates many things, mainly that Carolyn loves chocolate and her apples don't fall far from the tree. Katie Couric: eat your heart out!

(PS: The comments in parentheses are Carolyn's.)

What is a blog?
T: It's an online... an online... website that you can talk to your friends on.
P: A blog is a thing that you share things with your friends on.

Why does your mommy write a blog?
T: Because you want your friends to know um like uh stories about me and Parker.

P: Because you want to share things with your friends.

Does your mom "work"?
T: You're an architect and you always have lots of artwork to do.

P: Yes, she... sheeeee (Did you write she two times? Uh huh. Don't!) She um. She draws buildings.

What does your daddy do?
T: He trades stocks. It's a hard job but once you learn it, it's easy. And you get lots of money!

P: My daddy trades stocks.

What does your mom love to do more than anything in the whole, whole world?
T: Be with me and eat chocolate.

P: Spend time with me and my sister.

What about your dad?
T: Do something with me and Parker and you.

P: Spend time with me and my sister!

If your mom could choose anything to eat, what would it be?
T: Chocolate.

P: Chocolate!

Drink? (editors note: I reserve the right to edit this answer.)
T: Oooo, that's a hard one. Um. Any healthy drink. (Sha. Yeah right.)

P: Beer...?

Who should be President?

T: Hmmm. That's another hard one. I would choose Georgia. (Georgia is T's best friend.) She's very trustworthy and all the other stuff a president is supposed to be.
P: What do you mean Obama and John McCain? You mean that? (Yes, I mean that.) Both.

What is a President?

T: It's the boss of the country but not exactly because the citizens chose him so that must mean the citizens must be the boss. He just carries out the laws and protects the country.
P: Its someone who keeps the state safe. (Like Batman?) Yeah, kinda like that.

If your mommy was the president (of the USA, not the PTO/Brownie Troop) what
is the first thing she would do?

T: Hmmm. Order chocolate.
P: I have no clue.

What would YOU do if you were president?

T: Get scientists to invent new medicines to cure diseases. (Oh sure she gets to be a hero and I'm a chocolate whore.)
P: The first thing I would do is I would get all the children and I would let them do whatever they wanted.

What do YOU want to be when you grow up?
T: A glass blower that makes glass animals. And a penguin trainer.

P: I wanna be an artist.

What is your favorite part of school?

T: Lunch and recess.
P: Reading.

What is one thing that your mommy does that makes you crazy? (editors note:
I reserve the right to edit this answer.)
T: Not let me play video games.

P: Puts me in my room for timeout.

What is one thing that you do that makes your mom crazy?

T: Not listen and hit my sister.
P: Disobey and scream.

What's your favorite thing to do with your mom?

T: Go somewhere with only the two of us.
P: To make dinner. And play games.

What is the very best of your day?
T: Hmm. When I come home from school and get to play video games.

P: School.

What is magic?  

T: Oooo. Now that one's really hard. Magic is something humans discovered that sometimes humans don't believe and that sometimes comes true.
P: Magic is something that you can't just have, you have to wish for it.

What is love?

T: Let me tell ya, love can never be broken in many ways. Love is when two people, or more, get a connection with each other that makes them bond. 
P: Love is something when you just feel like you like someone.

What makes you happy?

T: Lost of video games and tv and candy.
P: When I play soccer.

And here's an addendum to Carolyn's Short Drunk People interview.

Half In, Half Out

Sometimes when I come into my empty house, I hesitate at the front door: do I really want to bust the stillness of the place, the quiet of it? It's like a life existed there while I was gone and hauling in my noisy brood or my bags of groceries seems an insult to the peace that's settled in.

Sometimes -- most times -- I just barge through the door and hurl my crap on any available surface, start clicking buttons (answering machine, email), and survey the to-do list of a house suddenly a hot mess: call that one, put away that thing, find it, sort it, fold it, do it. I become a whirling dervish with a paintbrush in one hand, a sippy cup in another, an agenda tucked in one pocket, a permission slip in the other, good intentions everywhere but strewn all over the place.

Sometimes -- lately -- I am half-way in the house and half-way out. While I'm running the business of all of us, I'm also running for the hills: seeking a fantasy life on the road (in an RV!) writing that book about bumper stickers or learning to surf and home-schooling somewhere in Mexico or settling into a small but funky pre-war apartment in a big city where all my kids wear high tops, off the grid, on the grid, a part of the motherfucking grid: who knows, could be anything, could be anywhere. I am a first-class daydreamer.

(I know this because when someone is not where they are supposed to be, I can conjure the gore of the tragedy in full on 3-D and go swiftly to the phone calls I would make (and the words I would say) and the clothes I would wear and wait! -- there you are at the door, on the phone, come back to life! It's a small and pleasant jump to the good kind of daydreams which serve an entirely different purpose.)

I could chalk up this recent rash of not writing here or anywhere underwhelm/overwhelm to the season because seriously, man, the smell of new pencils and falling leaves and the sound of corduroy pants woosh-wooshing is like crack to me -- the high being the infinite possibilities of new beginnings; the hangover being exams. Which is a really lame metaphor and long-winded attempt to explain what is essentially either writer's block or distraction or maybe just being busy with being busy or maybe feeling guilty about sending one of my kids to school in pants plucked from the hamper. Not sure which. Not sure that it matters.

What matters is that the Red Sox won last night (and me and The Kid were there YO), R was caught on the receiving end of a note that read "Mrs. Teacher has a big butt", B has woken me up twice in the middle of the night in the last five days to tell me she can't find her retainer, and the GFYO is officially obsessed with Scooby Doo in what might be considered an unhealthy way. What matters is that the economy is in the tank, Tina Fey is a blessing to humankind, and my neighbor with three kids just shipped out to Afghanistan. What matters is that I sat down tonight (thanks Carolyn and Suzan) with ABSOLUTELY NOTHING to say and managed to spend a good forty minutes being all oversharey and loquacious. (Which is an awesome word by the by.)

What matters is all of this and none of this and exactly what is wordless in between, the split second between the foot over the threshold and the foot out the door.

My Sister Solves the Financial Crisis

It's still raining. The couch is still uncomfortable, no school again today, and I'm tired. I have to wait yet another 24 hours for the great Palin-Biden Debate (perhaps more entertaining than the Lincoln-Douglas ones) and apparently, there is something awful happening with the economy.

It's days like these, when even the internets seem boring and tivod House seems dull, that an email from my sister can switch it all around. And lo and freakin' behold, she does not disappoint. Witness the following -- the names sneakily altered to protect the innocent:

"Dear Family,

The economic prognosis (save John McCain’s “fundamentally sound economics” outlook) sucks. The prospect of getting any help with college tuition has all but disappeared.

NOT TO WORRY! I have a new plan. We will “Home College” our kids -- with your help. If all goes well, the school will remain open for the younger children of our illustrious brood.

Curriculum and Staff:

PE and Art/Art History/Agriculture – Mom

Small Business Dev/Real Estate/Economics – Brother In Law

Creative Writing and BS – Ms Picket (Minors for the latter are also offered by the entire faculty)

Risk Management/Sports Marketing – Other Brother-in-Law

Advertising/”Fair and Balanced” Poli-Sci – The Kid

Psychology/Intellectual Organization – Sister One

History As I See It/Food Services – Sister Two

Math and Sciences – Dad

Architecture/Yoga/Creative Arts – New York Cousins

The following seminars will be offered throughout the academic year by Other Cousin:
International Relations: "Why Palin can't really see Russia from her house"
So, This is College: "How to skip class and get the most out of your booze"

We will be accepting applications on a continuing basis. Enroll now as space is limited! Tuition is based on merit and need, as we, the teachers, realize we might need to pay our students to attend."

Despite being named Professor of BS, I am still down with the plan. Plus, imagine the online possibilities of the Home College with Visiting Professors from all over the blogosphere offering virtual classes in Modern Philosophy and the Overshare, Nutrition (featuring classes in Does This Wine Bottle Make My Ass Look Fat? and Pancakes for Dinner) or... what have you?

Economy be damned! We're gonna make these wikkid smaht kids even smahter!