That One Lady

I go downstairs to take my security photo. The result is not flattering. The security guy looks it over.

SG: You know, I’m sure you hear this all the time. You look just like that one lady.

Me: … No. Which lady?

SG: The first lady?

Me: Laura Bush?

SG: Nooo! From a long time ago.

Me: (Eleanor Roosevelt? Lady Bird Johnson? Dolley Madison?) Uhh…

SG: You know the one. The president was, like, young? And they had kids? And he got shot?

Me: You mean JFK.

SG: That’s it! You look like the JFK first lady!

Me: Jackie Kennedy.

SG: Yeah! Yeah.

Me: Well, that’s a flattering thing to say to a Democrat.

SG: Yeah. You get that a lot?

Me: Nope.

SG: Well, you look just like that lady.

Stepford Interns

So, I’ve worked with interns and “assistants” before. You know the ones. The ones who are reduced to tears because the copy machine needs toner. The ones who surf the Web all day, because their mom is your boss and you can’t fire them anyway. The overeager ones who want to take on important projects, but can’t seem to alphabetize correctly.

The interns around here aren’t like that. They meet you with files full of the information you were about to spend hours gathering. They say things like, “I thought you might need this when you arrived, so I’ve been keeping a database.” They smile and nod politely when you ask them to do something mundane. They’re efficient, bright, focused, and just a little bit creepy. Perhaps that’s because I’m bracing for a coup.

God Bless America

I’ve slept two of the last 48 hours. About an hour ago, I realized that I needed to start concentrating on breathing, because I seemed to be forgetting here and there. Also, I’ve had pizza three meals in a row.

Last night, I flew in on a red eye to Boston. I unpacked my ridiculously large bags, and headed over to the Democratic National Convention headquarters. I’ll be working here for the next month.

Who Knew?

My hosting service sends out a monthly newsletter. This month, the hosting service decided to start supporting a worthy cause, and they’re enthusiastic about it. I know because the newsletter reads:

“New DreamHost Charity: Leukemia!”

Apparently, Leukemia is something we should all be excited about.

Saks it Ain’t

Every Sunday this month, everything at the Goodwill thrift store is 50 percent off. I wait about fifteen minutes for a dressing room. Before I get in, the clerk clears everything out. Everything, that is, except for a single boot. That boot is in the corner, soaking in a puddle of urine. I notice it a few minutes into trying on clothes, and come out of the dressing room horrified. A woman with a baby stroller tries to push in after me.

“I’d wait for the next one,” I say. “There’s pee in the corner.”

She considers this, peeks in, waits until she thinks I’m far enough away to have forgotten about her, then enters anyway. With her baby. I approach the sales clerk.

“Someone peed in the dressing room,” I say. “You should call someone to come and clean it up.”

“Huh,” he says. “Yeah.”

Then he goes back to hanging clothes.

I go home and shower twice.

Overheard

Scenario: The Starbucks near Bryan’s office features Overzealous Counter Guy.

OCG: How’s your weekend? Not long enough, huh?

Woman: No, I guess not.

OCG: Yeah, me too. What can I get ya?

W: Do you have any lowfat muffins?

OCG: Aw. We’re out… Why not an apple fritter?

(Woman shakes her head.)

OCG: Awww, come on.

(Woman shakes her head.)

OCG: You sure? You can do it!

W: No. I’m afraid I can’t.

Mr. President

I remember sitting in class as a child and thinking to myself, “It’s 1981, I’m in kindergarten, and Ronald Reagan is president.”

I didn’t know then what being president meant, and President Reagan was a symbol to me, like our flag. I associate him with the part of me that still tears up when I hear the national anthem, and the part of me that knows I am fortunate to have been born here–even as I cringe at how our actions as a country have alienated much of the world.

President Reagan was the first president I remember, and I thought of him as a five year old thinks of her parents: benevolent, wise, infallible. I now know that isn’t completely true, of him or my parents, but it’s the memory of that feeling I miss, as much as the man.

Ronald Reagan was my president, and I adored him. I’m sorry he’s gone.

Free Time

Best headlines from this month’s Martha Stewart Living:

  • Frosting Like a Pro
  • Mum Pillow Covers
  • Setting a Course By the Homemaker’s Star
  • Embellish Envelopes

A Blessing

My computer done broke. Broke as in, “I sure hope you backed up your hard drive. Your computer’s done broke.” I hadn’t. I hadn’t even though I’m working on a book. For the record, not backing up when you’re working on a book is the stupidest kind of not-backing-up you can do. Fortunately, Lane Becker–who is wise beyond all measure–figured out how to get the information from my hard drive before I had to give the laptop back to Apple. Therefore, my lovelies, please back up, as you may not have a Lane Becker in your life.

I went to the candy store, because Lane is a man who deserves some chocolate. The woman behind me in line was excited because it’s Friday. Tonight is the night when her husband brings home a bottle of champagne, she brings home a box of chocolate, and they spend some time on the porch.

Friends, may your Friday be so sweet, and your computer perpetually hummming.

Bad Signs

Bryan calls information and asks for “the John Kerry for President National Headquarters.” There is a pause. The operator says something. Bryan responds, “No. With a ‘K.’ John Kerry… No… It’s K-E-R-R-Y.”