The First Day on My Summer Vacation. I Got Up.

School's out.

Know how I could tell? The TV was on when I came down the stairs this morning.

I've made a lot of adjustments to my TV viewing habits in the past couple months. I used to have it on all the time. If I was home, it was on. It was my company. I didn't always veg in front of it (though it was nice to know that was an option), but it was on. I like to knit or crochet while I watch TV and that has been my excuse when I DO sit down to watch. "Hey! I'm being productive!" Lately I've only allowed myself to indulge in my hobby while MINDfully watching TV. That makes it sound almost Zen - which it is not. My definition of mindful TV watching is that I actually sit down to watch a show, not that I sit down to watch TV. It certainly doesn't mean that I only watch things that feed my mind. Hardly. It just means that I watch things by choice. Which reminds me: How can Glee be so predictable and still manage to make me cry? I hate myself when that happens. Stupid Glee.

We would love to be one of those families that doesn't even own a TV. And by we I mean Tom and I. And by Tom and I I mean the Tom and I that we picture ourselves being, not the Tom and I that we actually are. When we got married we didn't watch all of the same shows. On evenings where there was a conflict, either one of us had to 'give' or we ended up in separate rooms. Separate rooms are not good places for newlyweds to be. Compromises were negotiated. People were more important than TV shows. We're not newlyweds anymore, but we DO only have one TV. We watch together or we don't watch. We don't have a TV in our bedroom and we have been pretty adamant about not allowing the girls to have TVs in their bedrooms, either. Just the one. DVR and Netflix streaming have made it a lot easier for me to keep my casually made resolution to watch mindfully. I don't think I've seen a commercial in months. Stupid commercials.

But the girls? They made no such resolution. They are not as evolved as I am. Please read that with the appropriate level of sarcasm. So. So I think the next three months may be a steady stream of DeGrassi and Saved by the Bell and What I Like About You sprinkled liberally with Spongebob and The Marvelous Misadventures of Flapjack and Penguins of Madagascar. I don't think I will survive. It's not that these shows are necessarily BAD (Oh my dear sweet loving God, they are SO bad) - different strokes and all that - it's just that they are rerun incessantly. Over and over and over. I think there may have only been five episodes MADE of some of these shows, because it seems like they're always watching the same one. It doesn't seem to bother them. I don't get it. Ok, maybe I get it a little bit. Once when I was on bed rest I watched reruns of Soap daily for hours on end. But that was Soap, not Saved by the Bell and I was on bed rest, not summer vacation. Stupid reruns.

When it's sunny, I can go on the deck and read. There is no where in the house for me to read comfortably EXCEPT the room where the TV is, and when it's on, well... That leaves the computer. I can play on the computer. I sat down to my new obsession - Wordtwist - and the first word I found was 'sagging'. Nice. So I'm hearing America's Funniest Home Videos from the TV behind me and being judged about the natural aging process by the computer in front of me. Stupid computer.

It looks like today will maybe sunny. That cuts my rant short. Maybe I'll get to spend the day reading a good book in the sunshine. Maybe I can even get the kids to bring me lemonade. Hey! Maybe I can even get them to do some chores! (During commercials, of course.) Maybe it's gonna be a good day after all.

Happy summer!

Force of Habit

When I was still hanging on to my twenties by a thread, I dated a marine-biologist. He watched fishing shows for hours every weekend morning (and well into the afternoon sometimes). After he broke my heart (in the middle of a James Bond marathon - something I have yet to regain my taste for thanks to him...) I found myself watching fishing shows all by myself on the weekends after Pee-Wee's Playhouse was over, because I just couldn't remember what else to do.

I got over it, eventually. The boy AND the fishing shows.

This morning I woke up on the couch at 5:00 am with the TV still on. I'd fallen asleep trying to get through a particularly dismal SNL. Athletes are not funny, ya'll. Stop booking athletes. Except Peyton Manning. Book him a lot; he's the lone exception. But I've digressed. I woke up to a fishing show. As I reached for the remote to turn the TV off so I could roll over and go back to sleep, I realized that I couldn't stop looking at the screen. The volume was down to next to nothing and I know next to nothing about fish and/or fishing, so it wasn't the content of the show that had me mesmerized. The show appeared to be about two grizzly looking old dudes pulling ugly ass fish out of a murky lake. Nope. It wasn't that. It was the sky. The sky behind them was clear and blue and bright. I could not peel my eyes from it.

Just looking at a blue sky on TV was having an effect. Whoda thunk?

Tom? He doesn't watch fishing shows. He watches Ninja Warrior. One weekend a couple weekends ago he watched Ninja Warrior for ten hours straight. I shit thee not. I roll my eyes. I make fun of him. Sometimes I even get full on angry. But I have to wonder - if he went away for a weekend, would I watch it anyway? Probably not. It always appears to be rainy and gray on Mount Midoriyama.

Just Shoveling the - um - Snow

When I was pregnant with Lea, Tom and I were newlyweds renting a home in South Jersey. I was on bed rest due to pre-eclampsia. I was bored. It was a lonely winter. Friends and family called or stopped in when they could, but their lives were going on. We lived a couple miles down an old country road. We were isolated. When Tom left for work every morning, I would start counting the hours until he'd return. When he did come home, of course, he had to cook and do laundry and clean - he didn't really have the time or energy to socialize with me. Plus, as I may have mentioned, I was isolated and starved for human contact. Many of my attempts at interaction began with, "Today on Ricki Lake..." Yep. It was a lonely winter.

During that winter, we were hit with a big snow storm - the likes of which South Jersey hadn't seen in decades, if John Bathke, local anchorman extraordinaire, was to be believed. Tom was at work while Days of Our Lives was continually being interrupted with reports of the incoming inclement weather. I was secretly pleased. Not, you know, that m'stories were being interrupted - that part sucked - but that it looked like we were going to be snowed in.

I envisioned a long weekend curled up next to my honey - drinking hot chocolate, talking, maybe playing some cards - candles lit in case of a power outage, blankets wrapped around us to fend off the cold - it would be romantic. I entertained this fantasy while I watched the first tentative flakes begin to fall. There was no wind, so they fell straight down, sparkling as they landed and stuck to the already cold ground. It was beautiful. I couldn't wait for Tom to get home and share it with me. This was going to be great - a last shot at being a couple before the baby arrived.

By the time he got home, a few inches had already accumulated. He did not seem to be as excited about the prospect of being snowed in as I was. He threw together a quick dinner, then immediately donned snow gear and headed out with a spade - because we didn't have a snow shovel. (This was the first winter either of us had lived anywhere but in an apartment where snow removal was part of the contract - it hadn't occurred to us.)

We had a long circular gravel driveway.

The snow continued to fall as he shoveled. As the sun set, he came in the house and collapsed, prone on the floor, exhausted. The snow continued to fall. It was the weekend, so I figured the romantic portion of the snowstorm would begin the next day. I was mistaken. The next morning, he got up, had a cup of coffee, and headed straight back outside with the shovel. He would come in for breaks from time to time - to thaw his fingers or to grab something warm to eat or drink - then he'd head right back outside. The snow was relentless, but so was my man. He was gonna beat this mutha.

The next day I begged him to let it be. He was sore and tired and grumpy. But he went right back out in it. Part of his reasoning was that he was going to need to get out Monday morning for work and that would be much easier if he kept up with it.

"Much harder if you break your back."

"What?"

"Nothing."

Monday morning, of course, our little country road still hadn't been plowed. Our driveway was clear, but it was as far as he was gonna get. This was before the days when telecommuting was an option, so he was left with no choice but to call in, explain his situation, and let them know that he'd be there as soon as the plow hit our street.

It could've been a lovely weekend.

It was not.

That was fourteen years ago. Things change. Things stay the same.

We're under a couple few inches of snow now. Tom worked from home the last two days. The kids have been home from school. Once again, it was a perfectly lovely snow - white and fluffy and sparkling. Removing even a flake of it didn't occur to one of the four of us. Because we were huddled together under blankets around the fire drinking hot chocolate and playing cards? Hardly. Everyone is doing their own thing in the four corners of the house. It's the only way we can stay off of each others nerves. Plus, our fireplace has been out of commission for two years. People are particularly staying clear of me, because when the sky matches the landscape, and both are white, I tend to turn into the Wicked Bitch of the Midwest.

Shoveling seems futile.

Everything seems futile.

Most of my neighbors seem to be in agreement.

Most, but not one. She was shoveling when I went to bed last night at 10:30 and she was shoveling when I woke up this morning at 6:00. When the whole neighborhood is quiet - as it tends to be at those two times - it is extraordinarily loud and annoying; her diligence a judgment on our laziness. Last night I told Tom it sounded like someone playing drums - no - someone LEARNING to play drums. She is working my last nerve and I'm about to set my Flying Monkeys loose on her. I don't know where she thinks she's going anyway - our street has not been plowed.

Now would it kill somebody to bring me some damn hot chocolate?

I'm working on another novel this winter, and I thought I'd share a representative exerpt:

All work and no play makes Tammy a dull girl.

Something like seventy days till Spring. I can do this...

Just a Little Patience

Isn't it funny how we all long for things and then when we get them, they're not what we expected them to be at all? Towards the end of summer I was longing for just a little time to myself. Just a little time to myself with no obligations seemed too much to even dream of. I'd be willing to bet a few of you are reading that wistfully right now and thinking, "If only...." Well that's what I've got now. I've got all the time in the world. Every moment is "me time".

And I am bored out of my skull.

Apparently I'm not great company for myself.

I took a ton of books out of the library and even bought a couple in anticipation of an extended convalescence. There was a week there where I read voraciously, but now I can't seem to concentrate on even the simplest of plots. I can't stay on track for an hour long TV show, for Pete's sake. I have been knitting, but only small projects. I have no patience. A project I couldn't finish in a day or two would yield nothing but frustration. People try to visit with me, but I bring nothing to the table. Try having a conversation and having nothing to contribute. It's not fun. Especially when concentration is an issue. My conversations are more like lectures that I zone in and out of. I feel myself doing it, and I'm fully aware of how impolite it is, but I just don't seem to have any control.

Tom wants me to rest and heal.

I know I need to do this.

But I am so bored with myself.

Late last week and early this weekend I incorporated a few outings and some light housework. And now I'm in pain. I hadn't been in pain before, I'd just been tired and bored (and a little sore). Now I'm tired, bored, sore AND hurting.

So I'm back to taking it slow. Can anyone suggest a nice anthology of short stories? I bet I could get through a short story or two...

Baby steps baby steps.

No wonder babies cry so much...

The Bo Bice Incident

I've alluded to The Bo Bice Incident on a few occasions. I have never told the story here before, but perhaps it's time. With the Week of a Thousand Bands looming before me, I've been thinking about concerts past at the venues I'll be visiting. Saturday, when I FINALLY get to see Alice Cooper, I'll be doing so at the Ohio State Fair. The last time I saw a concert at the fair...

But wait.

I'm getting ahead of myself.

A little back story is in order.

I don't watch reality TV.

(What never? No never. Never ever? Well - hardly ever!)

I've never seen 'Survivor' or 'The Bachelor' or 'Big Brother' or even 'The Amazing Race'. I did watch the first go 'round of 'Joe Millionaire'. I am not proud of that. I am really really really not proud of that. But I'm being honest here, and I didn't want "I don't watch reality TV" to come off as high-falutin' in any way. It's just not my cup of tea. (I did watch celebreality on VH-1 for a couple seasons - not terribly proud of that, either). I didn't watch 'American Idol', though I did enjoy both seasons of 'Rock Star'.

Let me amend that.

I didn't watch season 1 of 'American Idol'. Or 2. Or 3. But for some reason, I watched season 4. I guess the planets were aligned just right or something, I don't know. Maybe it's because it was around the same time as 'Rock Star: INXS' was ending and I'd been addicted to that and needed to fill the void. I don't really remember the whys, but I watched season 4 from day 1.

And I liked Bo Bice. He was my vehicle, baby.

Flash forward to the following summer. 'Saving Jane' was warming up for Bo Bice at the State Fair. My girls loved 'Saving Jane' and wanted to go to see them. My girls were pre-adolescent at the time and the song Girl Next Door spoke to them. Heck, it spoke to me, too. But they didn't want to stay for Bo Bice.

That was ok. I was pretty much over him and was a little bit embarrassed about having been as obsessed with 'American Idol' as I had been. It wasn't the first time I'd bought tickets for a show because I liked the opening band more than the headliner.

'Saving Jane' was great, and the girls were so happy. They were also so DONE. We had had a long day at the fair before the concert. Both girls were tired ALMOST to the point of tears. It was time to go. As we made out way out, the lights went down and Bo took the stage. We were in the hallway leading out of the venue, but could still see in. He opened with Vehicle. And my knees went weak.

I stopped in my tracks and, if my family is to be believed, pulled my hair and screamed, "I LOVE YOU BO!" then mumbled repeatedly, "So much pretty. So so pretty." The kids were no longer on the verge of tears, but I guess I was. Squealy fangirl tears. What Frankie referred to in 'The Rocky Horror Picture Show' as an orgasmic rush of lust. Now they just didn't know what the hell to do. They were stunned silent. They looked back and forth between Tom and I.

"Do we need to - stay?" my husband inquired. He knew that look, and I think he might've been hoping the after effects would still be in effect when we got home, nudge nudge, wink wink. "Do YOU need to stay? I could take the kids to the car..."

He was looking quite bewildered at his point.

He expected this sort of behavior with Joe Perry.

He expected this sort of behavior with Roger Daltry.

But Bo Bice? Really?

I didn't understand it, either.

I shook my head in the negative and we headed for the car. Both girls opted to hold hands with him. I think I freaked them out pretty badly. No child should have to see their momma in the throes of squealy fangirl bliss. I followed with my head bowed in shame, feeling a little numb.

After that, any time we heard a Bo Bice song, or saw him on TV, or even heard his name mentioned I could count on at least one of my beloved family members to pull their own hair and say "so much pretty!" Luckily for me, Bo never became what you might want to call omnipresent.

They've probably forgotten it by now.

I haven't.

Crap, two out of three of 'em read this blog.

I'm screwed.

See what I do to entertain you people?

It's probably not too early to start reminding myself: Alice Cooper is just a man. Alice Cooper is just a man. Alice Cooper is just a man...

ETA: Lea wanted to clarify her tears - I figured that was her story to tell, so I glossed over it. She wanted to tell it and did so here.

Dirty Jobs: (Don't be Pissed at Me For This One)

For all of you who were jealous of my TUESDAY, here's a little glimpse into my MONDAY. It might relieve a few of those jealousy pangs.

Ok. It's the bodily fluid post. Everybody does one eventually. Possibly not for the squeamish - proceed with caution. You've been warned.

On Monday I underwent the procedure known as a Urodynamic Evaluation. If you hear it without reading it it sounds sort of neat. Seeing the words in print makes it a little less so. Understanding the procedure itself makes it exponentially less so.

The Free Medical Dictionary defines it as:

a battery of clinical tests used to assess neuromuscular responses of the bladder to filling and emptying.

I don't think you'll be needing more than that. I might inadvertently give you a little more, though. Sorry in advance.

So to assess those neuromuscular responses, the nurse inserts a couple catheters. Yes I said a couple. I'll spare you more details. For now, at least, no promises.

This involves a torture chair of sorts.

I really didn't start this post with the intent of forcing you to visualize - stuff.

So I'm UP in this chair - I mean high up! And sort of half inverted. And the nurse says something about a fellow she had last week and I'm thinking "Holy crap! Boys do this, too? Oh dear, that can't be com..." she interrupted my thought train - or perhaps completed it - by saying, "of course a woman's urethra is only about an inch and a half long, whereas a man's is considerably longer." Heck yeah, it is! (my brain said).

So as the procedure went on - and it took almost an hour - every time I thought about how uncomfortable I felt - both physically and emotionally - I thought about how it would be way worse if I were a boy. And I took a little comfort in that. Usually boys just have nothing to compare to our uncomfortable procedures. This was - well - new.

As the test went on, I was supposed to tell her when, if I were on a road trip, I'd start looking for the next rest stop. I told her. She didn't let me pee.


She told me to tell her when I was getting pretty desperate for a rest stop. I told her. She didn't let me pee.


She told me to tell her when I'd need to pull over and duck behind the bushes. That was the part - the imaginary part, anyway - where I thought, well, we're back to the boys having it easier again. I told her and she said I could pee. IN A MINUTE. As soon as she set up this beer bong sort of apparatus under the chair, closed the curtain for privacy, then started a little tabletop fountain for modesty. Then she left the room.

Now this woman had recently inserted various catheters into various orifices and taped them down. She had just pumped my bladder full of liquids taking the direct route, all the while chattering cheerfully with me as an attempt at distraction. But she thought maybe I'd be too shy to PEE in front of her? She'd just made me admit I would've peed on the side of a busy highway by this point. I would've gone out in the lobby and peed in front of the reception desk at this point. But no, I got a privacy curtain and a little fountain.

As I waited for her to return, I wondered: What sort of person goes through their rotation in nursing school and gets to this part and says, "Yeah. This is what I want to do every day for the rest of my life."

Which was sort of a natural progression to "Mike Rowe should totally do this for his show."


Which led me to being alternately horrified and thrilled by the prospect of her coming back through that door with Mr. Rowe in tow.

See? My life isn't ALL freebies and funk. Sometimes it's downright pissy.

To Every Passion, There is a Season

I have been working like a thing possessed to finish up some knitting projects. While I am passionate about both knitting and reading all year, I tend to be a voracious knitter in the winter and a voracious reader in the summer. Not that either of those passions are seasonal, it's just how I've always approached both of them.

Knitting in the winter works for me for a couple reasons. The obvious one is, it's darn pleasant to have knitting on your lap when it's cold outside. Even if I'm working on small projects that won't fall all the way to my lap, there's something comfortable and warm about the yarn, the rhythmic clicking of the needles, the knowledge that when the work is complete it will provide warmth for me or someone I love. That's not always accurate, as I do make purses and summer items, as well, but even when it's not exactly true, that feeling prevails. Let's go for the stretch and say that if it won't warm their body, it might warm their soul. I do subscribe to the notion that there's "a kiss in every stitch" in that if I'm making something for someone, I tend to think about them pretty constantly while I'm working. I like to think they catch some of that energy when they receive something I've made.

The less obvious reason is: I like to watch TV. I know that's an unpopular thing to say. It would be better to say, "TV? We don't even keep one in the house." I wish I could say that sometimes, but I can't. There is a certain almost mystical air around those who have given it up. I hear those words and my head cocks, like they've just told me they were part wood imp or something. REally? How does one DO that?

I do watch a lot less TV now than I used to. A whole lot less, actually. But there are shows I like. I don't allow myself to love shows anymore, because my love is the kiss of death. (Arrested Development, anyone? Pushing Daisies? I mentioned Arrested Development, right? Still a little bitter about that...) I don't do Reality TV. None of it. I tried it a couple times. Someday maybe I'll tell you the Bo Bice story if you're very sweet to me, but not today. Nope, not my cup of tea.

But I digress. TV. I watch. I used to watch a lot, now I watch a little, but I watch.

And when I watch, I knit. Because to just sit there seems like such a waste of time. I think I would become horribly bored and I know for sure I'd feel guilty about being non-productive. So I knit.

But TV season is basically over! Thanks to DVR's there's no real reason for me to watch reruns. It's time to set the knitting aside and dive headfirst into that big list of books I've been compiling.

Because summer is for reading like winter is for knitting. My favorite reading spot is - um - outside. Period. I love to read in my lounge chair that was bought just for that purpose. I love to read on the deck. I love love love reading on the beach. Which is not the same as saying I like a beach read (which I'll admit, I sometimes do). I have never had any trouble reading weighty stuff as well as fluffy stuff on the beach. I love to read by the pool. I love to read under a tree. Love love love reading outside.

And with the exception of Monk and Psych (Are they coming back soon? They should be coming back soon, right?), in the summer, there's nothing on TV.

Handmade Holidays

Y'know, there's always a big push this time of year to give handmade gifts for the holidays. Well, in my (perhaps somewhat biased, interest-wise) circle there is, anyway. I always try to do so for all the usual reasons. I make a lot of things myself, and I also try to buy handmade whenever possible.

So this morning, as I'm knitting away - more slowly than usual due to a particularly nasty and painful (and well-earned) callous on my left pointer finger - I sit down to watch last nights episode of my very favorite currently doomed TV show, 'Pushing Daisies'. Perhaps another day I'll lament why every time I fall unconditionally and irrevocably in love (why yes, I saw 'Twilight' with all its promises of unending love last weekend. Why do you ask?) with a TV show it meets an untimely death. But none of that is relevant to this story. What IS relevant, is that one of the characters on 'Pushing Daisies' is a knitter (How much do I love that, you ask? Only a lot, is all.) and, well, long story short (too late for that, perhaps...) a comment is made about (I'm paraphrasing) 90 year old grandmothers making gifts nobody wants.

Now this came on the heels of reading Kal Barteski's [i] Love Life blog this week, where she mentioned wanting to hand paint nesting dolls to resemble their family and give them to her very young daughter with the hope that she'd treasure them into adulthood, but the realization that she'd probably just try to flush them down the toilet.

These two reminders, in such close succession, made me almost want to put down my needles and head to the store. Because, while, to my knowledge no one has ever tried to flush one of my handmade gifts down the toilet, I have seen them show up at garage sales and in Goodwill bins. Ouch. I have come to the realization over the years, that there are people who appreciate items that are handcrafted and people who don't. Often it's a gamble. So I carefully choose my yarns and patterns, trying to find something that I think will not only suit, but please the recipient. I put more hours than folks could possibly imagine into it. I think about the recipient during all those hours of work, so, cliche as it is, there really is love knit in.

When I give that gift, it really is like giving a little bit of myself.

So when those gifts are rejected, I do tend to (rightly or wrongly) take that rejection very personally.

Sometimes I just want to quit. It's so much time, and I don't really save any money. You can almost always buy a decent sweater (scarf, hat, pair of mittens, etc.) for less than the yarn to make it would cost.

But every now and then, I get the reaction I'm seeking, and it's like crack. I know I'll never quit.

Last year I knit a cap for a casual acquaintance. He wore that cap all the time. It made me want to go home and knit him 10 more. I crocheted an afghan for an old high school friend when she got married over 20 years ago. When I ran into her at our 20th high school reunion, she said she still has that afghan over a chair in her family room. Awesome.

So, yeah.

I'm making a lot of gifts this year. Some will inevitably find themselves on the handmade equivalent of the Island of Misfit toys. Most of them, probably (to be realistic). But if even one gets to be a skin horse (come on, admit it, you've read 'The Velveteen Rabbit'. You know what I'm talking about), then it will all be worth it and I'll do it all over again next year.

Bottom line: The bad reputation handmade gifts get through popular culture is ridiculous. Not every handmade sweater is twice as long as it should be with three sleeves. Not every color combination a handcrafter chooses is garish and/or random. And the gamble is worth it for just one of those few and far between wins. Give handmade.

Dear Mr. Michaels

Lorne, that is.

Anyone who has had any sort of in depth conversation with me has probably heard me quote something from SNL. I'm pretty sure I've inserted SOMEthing into every conversation I've ever had. With anyone. Ever. If that's an exxageration, well excuuuuuse me!

I've been proudly on board since day one and I've stuck it out through the downswings and reveled in the upswings. And I may be in a minority when I say, even the universally agreed upon low points had some redeeming qualities.

Last Saturday, Justin Timberlake did a surprise cameo. This was not a low point. Not at all.

Now here's the thing: I don't love Justin Timberlake. So anyone who is currently singing (out loud or just in your head) "Tammy and Justin, sitting in a tree..." can just stop it right now. 'Cause it's not funny. It's like - Horatio Sanz levels of unfunny. I don't like his music and I've never really seen his serious acting. But when he's on SNL? Oh my goodness. This week he had me laughing so hard I couldn't see straight. I had to re-watch his Weekend Update sketch because I was laughing so hard the first time I missed good stuff. He is just gold on this show. Gold I say! A match made in heaven.

So. If I were the queen of SNL - here's how I'd distribute hosting duties for a 4 week month:

Week 1: Justin Timberlake
Week 2: Alec Baldwin
Week 3: a former cast member
Week 4: some flavor of the month hawking their latest project

I'd ditch athletes altogether. Maybe I'd allow them to do cameos sometimes. I don't know. I'd have to think about that on a case by case basis. Peyton Manning was pretty funny... Politicians doing relevant cameos will always be welcome.

I think it would work! And I'd love to see former cast members. There sure are enough of them, enjoying various degrees of success.

Well, I'm not the queen of SNL, of course, so I don't reckon we'll be seeing my plan go into action any time soon. And it's just possible that Mr. Timberlake and Mr. Baldwin wouldn't be as enthusiastic about performing monthly hosting duties as I would be about sitting on my couch watching them perform them.

So I'll content myself with whatever the real king of SNL sees fit to offer me. And I'll continue to get warm and fuzzy every time I see the Mr. Bill Mastercard commercial.

Also: I mourned Gilda longer and harder than I mourned a few people I actually knew. Maybe I should've saved that for Post Secret...

Live, From Johnstown PA, It's Saturday Night!

My parents - my mother in particular - had decided not to vote this year. Mom was having a hard time making her mind up and they were going to be visiting us on election day and she thought she'd let the deadline for an absentee ballot pass. She was relieved. I was a little distressed.

Then, this past weekend on SNL, my hometown of Johnstown, PA was featured in a not very flattering light.



This has apparently caused such outrage in my town that folks - like my mom - who were committed to being non-committal - have decided that it's too important to let it slide. Mom found out it wasn't too late to vote absentee after all, and she did. I don't know how she voted and I don't need to. I hope she agreed with me, but if she didn't, she needed to voice that, too.

Isn't it astounding that a late night comedy sketch show that I'm pretty sure my mom has never watched an episode of in its entirety provided the impetus for her (and who knows how many others) to go out and vote?

I'm not sure how I feel about this...

I love Saturday Night Live and The Daily Show and The Colbert Report. I think they're brilliant. It astounds me, though, that their influence would be that far-reaching. Like I said, my mom never saw the show. She just experienced the outrage.

Ah well, I suppose for whatever reason the result was good. Mom and Dad voted after they'd consciously decided not to.

Use whatever motivation you need to get out there and vote next week, too!