November 6, 2000
I Don't Know Jack

[and i don't care]
 


 
Hundreds of years from now, when archaeologists are sifting through the wreckage of *FootNotes: A Cyber Journal,* struggling to put it all into some sort of historical perspective ... I know exactly what they're going to be saying.

Archaeologist #1: So when was this stoopid journal written, anyway? During The Pleistocene Era? Or Clinton/Gore?

Archaeologist #2: I dunno. She doesn't write about politics, so we can't use that as a point of reference.

Archaeologist #3: She writes about her FEET a lot, though.


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I'm sorry. I can't help it. There is a very good reason why I don't write about politics.

It's the same reason I don't write about Advanced Calculus, or about Gilbert & Sullivan musicals, or about vacuum-assisted photovolaic descaling and grinding systems.

I don't write about politics because I don't know jack about the subject.

I realize that simply "not knowing jack" about certain subjects hasn't stopped me from writing about them in the past. (See: long rambling monologue all about baseball, September 1998.) I further realize that not knowing jack about politics doesn't stop bazillions of other people from talking about them/thinking about them/writing about them every single day ... sometimes in terrifyingly obsessive detail.

(See: *Jumping on the Lincoln Bed = Punishable by Agonizing Lingering Humiliating Death.*]

But still. This is my website. This is my voice you tune in to listen to, day after day. These are my opinions/my observations/my blatherings being put forth on a mostly-daily basis. And that means that *I* get to choose which misinformation I pass along to you ... and which misinformation I allow the rest of the cyber universe to pass along.

(Read this: other Internet journalers can tell you how to vote. I'll tell you how to make Bed Picnic Bruschetta. We'll all be better off.)



David has an interesting theory about alcoholism and arrested development.

(Well ... it's not "his" theory, probably. I'm sure someone else came up with it first. But since he is the only one of the two of us who ever went through any sort of formal twelve-step recovery program, I get most of my information about this stuff from him. He's been right about everything so far.)

The theory is that the age you were when alcohol became a problem for you -- in other words, the age when you crossed the line between the occasional beer at a party and stashing a bottle of Smirnoff's in your underwear drawer next to your Pep Club socks -- is the age you'll remain, emotionally/ developmentally, until you either sober up or die.

This makes perfect sense to me. It helps explains why I spent twenty-two years of my life feeling seventeen years old inside.

It helps explain, for instance, why I spent all those years sitting around with a phone in my lap, waiting for "him" to call. (And why I believed that if and when "he" called -- whoever "he" happened to be, at any given moment -- my life would be made instantly and permanently perfect.)

It helps explain why I spent so many years believing that money should be spent the instant you acquire it, and that borrowing is better than earning, and that paying back a loan is *optional,* and that saving for retirement is stoopid because you're just gonna be too old to ENJOY it, anyway.

It helps explain why I never acquired a lot of the critical life-skills necessary to exist as a functioning adult in today's society. (Read this: I can't light the pilot light, I never learned to change a tire, I suck at parallel parking, and I still don't know what a mutual fund is.)  I may have been an adult on the outside ... a married mom of three, a secretary, a *grown-up* loading up her shopping cart with Pampers and Hamburger Helper ... but inside I was stuck at seventeen. I figured somebody else would always take care of the difficult stuff for me, so why should I be bothered learning any of it?

It certainly explains why I never figured out what I wanted to be when I grew up.

And it helps explain, maybe, why my political development was "arrested" shortly after I cast that first rookie vote for Jimmy Carter (as my proud Dad stood outside the voting booth with his Instamatic, waiting to record the moment for posterity).

I mean, it doesn't totally explain this stuff. There are other factors involved, like genetics and environment and circumstance ... and being married for sixteen years to the singularly most apolitical human being on the planet ... and the fact that I happen to find politics only slightly less coma-inducing than The Golf Channel.

But I honestly, fervently believe that those twenty-two years of polluting my brain and my body with alcohol on a semi-daily basis retarded my growth in a lot of critical areas: emotionally, socially, physically, morally, psychically, karmically ... and politically. I froze at seventeen for most of my adult life. And it's probably going to take me some time to catch up to the rest of my age group.

In the meantime, it's probably best that I stick to writing about the things I know ... Executive Assitude, Maybelline, long-distance motherhood, feet, hot mix asphalt technology ... and leave the political commentary to the experts.


 
So am I planning to vote in tomorrow's Presidential election, you ask?

I absolutely am. Registering myself to vote was one of the first things I did when I moved to California. Of course at the time I was mostly interested in acquiring a piece of I.D. with my new California address on it ... but at least I registered.

Have I made up my mind who I'm going to vote for?

Yeah. I have. I'm not optimistic about his chances, but I'm going to vote for him anyway.

Do I have any clue what all of the other stuff on the ballot means? The propositions and the prepositions and the measures and the motions? And am I going to vote on all of this extra stuff, even if I don't have four-fifths of a clue what I'm voting for (or against)?

No, and no. I'm only going to vote for the stuff I understand. It's a system I can live with.

Am I going to tell you who I'm voting for?

Nope.

My vote, like the other great mysteries of the universe -- Who built The Great Pyramids? Is there life on Mars? Who really shot JFK? Why the fudk do they keep remaking bad TV series from the 70's?  -- remains a carefully protected, closely-guarded secret ... now and forever.


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Archaeologist #2: Hey! Maybe she wrote and told her mom who she voted for!

Archaeologist #1: Nope. Doesn't look like she ever ever answered her e-mail.

Archaeologist #3: Yeah, but look!  Here's a great BRUSCHETTA recipe!

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Congratulations to my sweet baboo for winning a big buttload of
message board awards this weekend:
* "Bwahawhawhaworwhateverthathillbillycuntsays!!!" (Best Sense of Humor)
* Life of the Party
* Most Creative
* Best Male Poster
* Poster of the Year
[he says, "of course they forgot about *Biggest Dick* " ... but that's another story for another day.]


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