Well Done Sister Suffragette!

For the past few weeks, I've been seeing posts like this on ex-pat blogs cropping up the world over.  Finally, I get to add mine.

I'll give you three guesses who I voted for.  Okay, four.  I see Nader is on the ballot again, and I took the time to look up Bob Barr and the Libertarian platform--ol' Bob sports a very compelling 'stache, so it was a bit of a toss up.

This is the first time I've bothered with the whole process of registering abroad, and requesting an absentee ballot.  What can I say?  I hate the electoral college, and also, I'm mostly just lazy.  But this felt like a sufficiently historical, water-shed type moment that I felt pretty strongly about being a part of it.  So I jumped through all the bureaurocratic (a word I will have to look up each and every time I use it) hoops, and voilà--voting complete.

I was a little uncomfortable being asked whether or not So-and-so should retain his bench in the 3rd District Court, or if some other So-and-so should keep hers in the Appellate Court of Appeals.  Um, who? in the what now?  So I looked up all of their biographies, and made the rather arbitrary decision to vote 'No' on anyone who graduated anything cum laude from BYU, reasoning that any such person must be too wankerish to pass judgement on anything or anybody. 

Upon reflection, I'm thinking that might not have been the most kind or responsible use of my civic privileges.

Bad suffragette!  Bad!

More Sighing And Listless Flopping About

The writer's block continues apace. 

Srsly.  I got nothin.

Well, wait.  I got a few things.  What I ain't gots is the words, and the commas, and the sentences and stuff to string them together.

Gone.  All gone.  Flushed out to sea by the pissing rain.

At times like this I see no reason not to take gratuitous advantage of the fact that I've got three bottomless wells of aberrant buffoonery right here under my very nose.  Veritable fountains of childish nonsense that I can tap, and deliver to you in its purest state. 

For example, Boy's thoughts on love:  "Our hearts make love just like they pump blood.  And if someone breaks up with us, our hearts break and the love leeks out.  That means they bleed.  That's why love hurts."  Me thinks Boy needs to lay off the Hannah Montana, but that's not my point.  My point is, clearly he stole all my deep thoughts for the month.

She stole all my poetic grace:

And this one here stole all my literary gravitas:

That nice dance instructor is holding her hair back for her while she tries to puke it back up for me.

And speaking of that nice dance instructor, when Missy saw her for the first time she gasped in delight, put her hand to her heart, and avowed, "That black lady is so pretty!  I 'sink I need to cry about that."

I give up folks.  The kids are doing all the writing from here on out.

Sigh

Been in a bit of a blogger funk lately.

Feelings of inadequacy, hopelessness, and futility.

It's a dark morass.

Blame it on the rain. Also, too much time on other--better--blogs than my own two-bit little rag. Oh! And Shantaram--a massive, 1,000 page tome of a novel (not a book, mind you, but, you know...a novel) that I started a week or so ago. Jesus it's big. And good. But mostly just so damn BIG. It won't let me go.

I've had requests for pictures of the new car. Tallula, we're calling her, in honor of the latest Norwegian princess whose daft name--Emma Tallula--was announced the same day we picked up the Touran. I'll get on that soon. But she kind of needs to be washed already and there seems to be some disagreement as to whose power job that is. He says me because I drive it most. I say him because he's the one who cares so weirdly much.

So far Tallula has been a brilliant addition to the family, but she is a bit of a tempermental, noisy little thing. She beeps and hollars and dings at anything within a 3 foot radius. Takes some getting used to. Touchy clutch too; not nearly as forgiving as the crappy Kia. Damn prima donnas.

So nothing new or interesting here. Just checking in. I have a follower now--Hi, Follower!--and I didn't want my 1 follower to abandon me for want of anything new to read. It occurs to me that a quick post about how boring and depressed I am might not be the best way to keep 'em coming back for more, but it's all I got right now.

And Then Brigham Young Rolled Over In His Grave

Last week's blogging break was brought to you by:

Høstferie!

Week-long, school-free family 'enrichment', shredding parents' last nerve since the fall of frigging Man.

Now, back to your regularly scheduled blog.

* * * *

EM: George Washington was the founding father of America.

Boy: So?

EM: George Washington was the first president of America.

Boy: Of Grandma?

EM: No. Grandma wasn't borned yet. Not even Grandpa.

Boy: George Washington was Grandpa's father?

EM: No! America's father!

Boy: Did he have a gun?

EM: Of course. There was a war. An indepennant war.

Boy: Why didn't he have a mustache?

EM: Because he was America's founding father.

Boy: What did he find?

EM: Utah!