The Creepy Post

I had no idea that one of my favorite things to do with an iPhone would be to take pictures of things I find creepy. Here is a disturbing, puppet-like, eerily cheerful cobbler that I am both attracted to and repelled by on B Street in downtown San Mateo:


Here is a "shirt" that I spotted in a pharmacy. There are so many colors to choose from, each more stylish than the next! These shirts come from The Land That Makes Everything Ugly. I would like that land to go away:


And finally, here is something the spousal unit and I found strapped to the front of a small piece of machinery in an alley behind the infamous House of Humor in Redwood City:


So much creepiness, so little time...

Playing With Your Food

At lunch today, my eyes skipped over the too-fancy sandwich selection and the overly involved vegetarian lasagne, and landed with delight on the "Kids Melt." It was billed as muenster on a sourdough baguette which sounded, frankly, like a little piece of heaven. Here is what arrived at my table:



Did your Nesting Ground Mistress...

a) laugh so hard that Diet Coke spewed out of her nose

b) say, "Oh, there's been a mistake. I ordered the overly involved vegetarian lasagne"

or

c) ask for a bib and a sippy cup

I'll never tell. As an aside, I will share with you that I have violent feelings regarding olives, so I flung those things off immediately after I took the picture. Also, I did not eat the cabbage.

In other amusing food news, a few weeks ago Lea asked if she could have some of the 40 million tomatoes growing in the backyard. "Okay," we shrugged. She selected only green ones, and then sequestered herself in her room for awhile. Later, she unveiled this:


After she negotiated fifteen minutes with her father, it was agreed that she would bring the tomato family to the kitchen within one day's time. Five days later, Risa ratted her out, "Dad! Dad! Lea still has the tomatoes! She! Still! Has! Them!"

Lea has a habit of raiseing her eyebrows and pushing her tongue against the inside of her cheek when she's found out. On that day, she withstood the taunts and goading from her older sisters, and set about silently correcting her mistakes. Still, I think it was a long and humiliating march down the hallway for her and her contraband tomatoes.

The Withdrawal Post

Introduction/warning for those who are prone to dizziness: very few of the following sentences have anything to do with each other.

I'm experiencing some campaign withdrawal. That's neither here nor there, of course. Also neither here nor there: I hate—and I mean really hate—walnuts.

And one other thing: I've been sick since Halloween. The spousal unit, in an effort to ease my sleep (and his), braved the overwhelming wall of medicinal remedies at the pharmacy and brought home something for my cough. Well, I took it before bedtime last night, and for the next eight hours it felt like there was a small person in my throat sitting on my coughs so that they could not express themselves in the desired manner. I kept imagining this small person with his arms crossed over his chest, harumphing and sitting harder on my coughs every time he felt one about to come out.

Also: I'm reading the book Storycatcher by Christina Baldwin, and she describes a tribe in Africa...

(I don't know if this is true. The more I think about it, the more it seems like the kind of thing that gets forwarded in earnest e-mails. But never mind: the die is cast)

...that has an excellent way to deal with someone who has created a not-cool disturbance within the community. They stage a kind of intervention where they recount every good thing the person has done in his or her life, thus inviting that person "back into the better part of himself."

I am now amusing myself by imagining an intervention of this type happening on my street when, let's say, someone blows leaves at 5:00 am. We could gather round and say things like, "You helped me string my Christmas lights." "You brought my dog back when she ran out of the yard." "You helped me move my couch." "Your chocolate chip cookies are freakin' awesome."

The sky is lit with pink at the moment. Despite my withdrawal, despite the little person stuck in my throat and the one dozen boxes of Kleenex I have burned through in the last twelve days, despite my compulsion to relate possibly untrue and corny stories about an unknown village in Africa, I am feeling good. I am feeling much like will.i.am:

IT'S A NEW DAY.

If This Doesn't Turn You Into Mush...

...really, what will? Click on the image for full, heart-melting effect:



via Yes We Can Hold Babies.

24 Hours Later

Now that it happened, I'm not sure what to say. This is a good start:


People cannot stop crying. I explained the emotion to a friend: it's like having PMS and menopause while watching Atonement. It taxes the heart.

At Camp Obama we had to share our story of how we came to be involved with the campaign. I told my fellow campers that George W. Bush was sworn in to office shortly after Risa and Vida were born. Then came 9/11 and its aftermath of war and torture and racism and scapegoating, and hatred and...let's see what else? Oh, yes: disregard for the Constitution.

By the time 2004 rolled around, Lea was 2-years-old, the twins were 4-years-old, and I was beginning to question the wisdom of having decided to bring any children at all into what was beginning to look like a seriously fucked up place. Then Kerry lost, the tsunami buried entire villages, and Katrina made clear once and for all the danger of choosing to ignore the poverty that's right in front of our faces. "Helpless" is not too strong a word to describe my feelings at the time.

It wasn't until the New Hampshire primary and Barack Obama's "Yes We Can" speech—a speech delivered in defeat, remember—that I was able to change my question from, "What kind of world will my children inherit?" to "What kind of world can I help create for my children?"

That's why I joined the campaign, and that's why I'll continue to be engaged. Besides, our new President made a promise last night:

The road ahead will be long. Our climb will be steep. We may not get there in one year or even one term, but America -- I have never been more hopeful than I am tonight that we will get there. I promise you -- we as a people will get there.

I believe him.

"Let's Go Change the World"

Just One More Day

I'm sick. Normally, I'd take the kids to school and fall back into bed until it's time to pick them up, but tomorrow is election day, and I committed to helping Obama get out the vote, so I took some DayQuil, stuffed some cough drops in my purse, and dragged my carcass to HQ, where I was very happy to see the smiling face of J., one of my Nevada partners-in-crime.

I distributed call lists and scripts, fielded questions from newbies, and made some calls myself. I'm sure my voice caused some of the good people of Pennsylvania and Indiana to wonder how it came to pass that a frog learned to use the telephone, but never mind. While we're on the subject of illness, I'm worried about the health of some of my congressional district's most hardcore volunteers. Some of them arrive at 6 a.m. and work their asses off until 9 p.m. I expect they will all take to bed on Wednesday morning.

Yesterday was an Obama day, as well. Every corner of HQ was packed with furiously dialing Obama-ites of every conceivable age, color, and type. By the end of the day, they'd made more than 19,000 calls to swing states. I managed the portion of the phonebank that had spilled outdoors into the parking lot, which was partially tented by the campaign. It was about fifty people, and I was more than happy to pull their sheets, give them new ones, encourage them after a bad call, bring them water, whatever. Your Nesting Ground Mistress was all about service!


I met an older gent who told me that he had been a delegate for Bobby Kennedy (and later, McGovern).

"Obama and Bobby Kennedy are similar, aren't they?" I asked.

"Oh, yes," he said. He nodded like a sage. "Yes, yes."

"Well, you've come full circle then."

And he said, "Young lady, I think I have."

The Post Where I Make Excuses

Holy nuts! How did it happen that I haven't blogged in more than a week? Oh wait. I know:

1) As you've noticed by now, I am consumed by the election. There is nary a pinprick of space left in my head for anything else. The unprecedented levels of angst I feel prevent me from achieving restorative sleep, from expressing any emotion but worry, and from walking away from the Internet for more than an hour. Good God. I cannot wait until this is over. At the same time I wonder: what will I do when it is over? As my last hurrah, I will be getting out the vote (GOTVing!) on Sunday and Monday. What about you?!

2) I am also busy trying, once again, not to be the person who accidentally kills animals. You'd think it would be easy here on the Peninsula, but on my way home from a clay workshop (oh, don't ask) tonight, I almost hit another deer. Can I just ask: why is a deer doing crossing El Camino Real at 9:00 pm? What the HELL?

3) Workshopping has begun for my online class, and there are two or three stories up each week, plus writing exercises, and discussion. I'm a bit overwhelmed at this point and completely mystified by the two or three people in class who seem to have the entire week's work done by Wednesday. Time management has never been my gift.

4) Classroom volunteer-ism has also begun in earnest. I'm teaching Art in Action for 3 classes (this explains the clay workshop referenced above. Come on, you know you were wondering), as well as helping in Vida's writing workshop every Monday. All thoroughly enjoyable, mind you.

As per my tendency, a picture:


These two Cuban-American gents were surrounded by an angry mob after a McCain/Palin rally in Miami. The police were able to escort them to safety after a few moments, but not before they were threatened with violence by one of the crowd. I like what the guy on the right had to say afterwards:

Garcia had a message for his stocky, tweed-clad threatener. "You tell that guy he can find Tony Garcia down at the West Dade library every day from 7 to 7 helping people early vote. I'll be there from 1 to 5 on Saturday and Sunday. You tell him if he wants to kick my ass that's where he can find me. Come beat me up."

Because that's how Obama volunteers do it.

You can read the full report at FiveThirtyEight.

The Post Where I Pointedly Do Not Blog About Nevada

Thanks to the extraordinary navigational and driving skills of one J.G., I am safely home from our Nevada Drive for Change. The campaign has asked us not to blog (where, I ask, is the fun in that?) about our trips until at least November 5th. I am nothing if not a good Obama foot soldier, so I will comply. Let me just say, though, that I have a humdinger for you, and it involves your Nesting Ground Mistress, a pitbull, claws, and pure terror.

Since the following picture reveals nothing of top-secret campaign brilliance, I will post it. This is me and my little cousin Lui at the end of our first day (proper shoes were key):



I also want to share this picture—via DailyKos—because it practically kills me:



And, finally, here is my Daddy-o casting his vote for Obama. He was mumbling as he filled in his choices. "I'm changing ALL these motherf***ers, you hear me?" he said. "ALL of 'em..." Goooooo Dad!

Drive For Change Snafu or There's a Pattern

My four co-horts have all been assigned to Reno, while I have been assigned to Incline. I am feeling quite sadly adrift at the moment, but I have sent an e-mail to the powers-that-be to request re-assignment. No doubt they're being inundated with hundreds of similar requests, and I will be waiting all day on proverbial pins and needles.

There's a pattern in my life.

I've mentioned elsewhere that a mountain lion is stalking our neighborhood. The situation has created a ruckus that has forced kids indoors, created alarm at school, and transformed taking out the garbage from a simple errand to a possible episode of the non-existent television show, "Man vs. Nature." I heard today that the mountain lion is apparently camped out in an empty house a few blocks away. Whenever the authorities attempt to surround and capture it, the wily animal has already disappeared, leaving pawprints behind.

Now, according to the pattern I've detected in my life, the authorities should simply follow ME around. Because before this episode reaches whatever conclusion it's going to reach, I'm pretty sure the mountain lion will single me out for "special consideration." I've read all about what I'm supposed to do when confronted by this kitty. The first rule is Don't Run:


Sure. No problem.

The Basics

I've dubbed my online class "Ver's (Much Needed) Back-to-Basics Tour." In a way, it's a lot like traveling in a time machine to Kindergarten, and I mean that in the best possible sense. Because in Kindergarten you get to play and experiment and you get to screw up because isn't that the whole point? Screw up! Screw up so you can realize it's not the end of the world. Screw up so you can try better next time. Screw up so you know the difference between when you've screwed up and when you haven't.

Last week we had to pick one of Shakespeare's plays and create a new story based on its plot. For two days I resisted. I was not into it. I couldn't think of anything I wanted to do LESS. But then I woke up on the third day, and pounded out this thing having to do with the demise of a once-happy Head Door Man who finds himself in the much less exalted position of staring at a bank of security cameras all day. Based on The Tempest, of course. Was it good? Hell no! But it was sooooooo fun.

This week we have to re-write the first paragraph of our workshop story using three different points of view. Again, I resisted for the entire weekend. But I did it yesterday, and I learned all this crazy stuff about my characters. See? Going back to basics is very good and helpful.

In other Nesting Ground news, I'm gearing up for my weekend in Nevada where my cohorts and I will be—fingers crossed—closing the deal for Obama (in that state, at least). The campaign suggested we stay at Circus Circus, but there's no way your Nesting Ground Mistress was going to sleep in a $39/night room. Not even for Barack. So we've upgraded significantly, which I think will be excellent for canvassing morale and our general disposition(s).

I've just realized that I don't like posting without including a token picture or two. So...here is a gorgeous picture of Michelle Obama giving a big hug to Barack's half-sister, Auma (via Obama Daily):



And, making a complete 180, here are our spawn just before they timidly made their way down the catwalk with the Spousal Unit at his company's holiday fashion show. For the record, I tried to get Vida to tuck her ear under that hat, but she refused. "It feels FUNNY," she said. I wanted to say, "Well it LOOKS funnier," but I didn't. Rhetorical question: does that make me a good mother or a bad mother?


There are a few more shots on my Facebook page, and if you are my Facebook Friend, you may see them. If you are not my Facebook Friend, why are you not?

America The Beautiful

Holy freakin' freaky. November 4th cannot get here fast enough.

Not To Go On and On, But...

...I will.


I couldn't bring myself to actually purchase this month's issue of GQ (the cover has a Barbied-up someone licking her lips and offering up her breasts for your, I don't know, intellectual edification?), but I had no qualms about reading this article about Arnel Pineda and Journey online:

ARNEL PINEDA, who turns 41 this year, has been performing in bands since he was a teenager, and by now he has mastered virtually every kick-ass lead-singer move known to rock. He can launch his compact body off the drum riser and land without twisting an ankle. He plays excellent microphone-cord air guitar. He knows when to do the reach-out-and-touch with the fans in the front row and when to turn the microphone stand upside down and lift it above his head, as if calling down the lightning. He knows how to do these things because he is a professional lead singer and a good one, which means he is a virtuoso whose instrument is his own charisma. He is also adept at the parts of the lead-singer job that involve singing.

Link

Speaking of people who are extraordinarily gifted at their work...at last night's debate, did Obama not clean the windows with what's left of John McCain's integrity? Yes, he did. I'm sure this kid agrees:


Via Yes We Can (hold babies)

The Year

Complete election frenzy everywhere I look. Little signs of life for McCain/Palin are popping up in front of various houses around the neighborhood, each one eliciting a groan from my children, whom I have trained well. "Don't you mean McPain & Failing?!!" they say to the signs as we pass them in the car. They laugh like it's something they just made up, when in fact we don't know who made it up, and they've been saying it for weeks. I do my requisite scolding, complete with a line about the fact that Barack would not want them to speak disrespectfully about his opponent, etc. etc. They pretend to listen, and then they start singing along to Arnel Pineda again. They will forever remember this time in their lives as The Year Obama Became President and The Year Arnel Joined Journey and The Year Something Happened to Banks.

My friend K. just sent me this gorgeousness from yet another group of creatives for Barack:

Labor

I was about to write that I don't know much about the labor movement, but that isn't accurate. I know a little bit about the labor movement. Camp Obama, though, was the first time I'd ever been in a union hall and witnessed firsthand the commitment, pride, and organizing prowess of union folks.

Anyways, I saw the video of this speech by Richard Trunka (of the AFL-CIO) on Andrew Sullivan's blog, and I was floored by the way it meets racism head-on and, of course, by its forceful endorsement of Barack Obama. A good way to spend nine minutes before tonight's VP debate: