A New Chapter

On February 7, 2014, I celebrated an anniversary.  On that day, I had not had a full-time job for two years.

holy cow

Those who know me already know this about me – I like not working every day.  I don’t like thinking about from where my next dollar will come, but I no longer place any value on myself in reference to my work status.  I used to.  After I was fired from Mintz & Hoke in 2003, I learned not to.  I figured if they could fire me after all I had done while working there, I needed to rethink who I was.  There is a party game.  It goes like this.  What are you?  Name three things.  The most true thing first.  For years and years, I was

1.  A production manager

2.  A wife

3.  A friend

production managerWife-t-shirt friend1

Two and three varied, but for 20 years, I was a production manager first and always.  A cruel lesson I had to learn, but like many tough experiences in life – I am so much better for it.  Cancer – better for it.  Battered woman – better for it.  Infertile – better for it.  All true.

Now this sound like it could be a depressing blog but I tell you, it is not and will not end up that way.

smile face

I am selling my condo that I have owned for the last 10 years.  I can no longer afford to live here.  It is my favorite place I have ever lived.   I suppose I could find two lousy-paying full-time jobs but I don’t want to.  And lucky for me, I have another option.  I am moving in with my parents. (Plus a huge shout-out to the Affordable Care Act AKA Obamacare.)


And this is what this blog is really about.  Me, moving back to my childhood home.


You read about this all the time.  You are reading about this now.  We are living in a strange world.  This economy is in an uproar.  I always did the right thing.  I saved money.  I supported myself.  I owned my own home.  Three times I bought a home.  I started at the bottom and made my way up to a spot where I could do what I wanted.  Within reason.  I remember buying my first house in 1985 and when we came out of the closing, we had about $100 left.  But we made a comeback.  We were careful and frugal.  And later on we, and then I, went on nice vacations.  I drove a relatively new car.  I picked up the tab.  If I wanted something new, I bought it.  New Nikes.  A prime rib to feed my friends at dinner.  Sushi once a week.  A mani/pedi.  A book.  Flowers for the dining room table.  A pizza delivered.  A massage.  Just regular stuff.  Nothing too extravagant.  What everyone wants to make life nice.  I don’t buy any of these things now.

nike sushimani

When I was a kid, I moved to Florida.  It was 1977.  I answered an ad for a job with “Kelly Girls” to work at a printer as a secretary/receptionist.  Voila!  The rest is history – I went into printing – remember drinks around the table – what are you – I am a production manager.  I was made for that job.  I had never heard of a production manager when I was growing up and all at once, I was one.  And I was good at it.  But print is dying a slow and painful death.  It won’t die all the way.  It will reincarnate as a smaller type of business.  PDF and the internet took care of that.  And I’m OK with progress.  I love the internet.  I was a library freak when I was a kid and I’m an internet freak now.  I love looking stuff up.  I used to keep a dictionary by my bed.  I read in bed.  Every night.  I liked to open an encyclopedia to any page and read about what I landed on.  Encyclopedias are gone.  Now we have Wikipedia.  And I like Wikipedia too.  And Google.


So I was laid off two years ago and I looked for a job.  But I had been working in printing since 1977.  This is 2014.  I am 58 years old.  It is hard enough to get a job at my age, but I’m a one-trick pony to employers.  I know what I am.  I know I am not a one-trick pony.  I’m smart and funny and patient and passionate and flexible and fast and a very good student.  But I have given up on convincing anyone new of that.  And I no longer worry about it.

I have done some volunteer work at the daycare at the Y.  That led to a job as a sub Pre-K teacher.  I helped a friend with an older relative.  That led to respite care.  And work through Care.com.  I’ve done some editing for a university alumni magazine.  Now I’m driving escort cars.  With the oversize load sign on top?  And the flashing lights?  And a CB radio and orange flags?  And I have to say, I love it.  And it pays quite well.  Not much going on in the winter but it’s good.  No politics.  No crap.  No fighting.  And if there is, I pay no attention.  I go where they tell me.  I do what they tell me.  Then I go home.  I am going to try to support myself for a long time doing this.  My “friends” say I am a paid escort.  I love them too.

pre-koversize loadcb

So back to moving.  I like my parents.  They like me.  Dare I say, it might be love?


At the end of last summer and early fall, I let a friend stay in my condo.  I spent most of that time with my parents, in both Maine and Connecticut.  I had been considering moving in with them and in the back of my mind, I was afraid we might drive each other nuts and I wanted to test the waters.  And you know what?  I dove right in and the water was fine.  I kept asking my mother, “Am I driving you nuts?”  And she kept saying, “No.  Are we driving you nuts?”  And the answer was no from my end too.  When I finally came back to my condo, my mother called me and said, “Come back.  I don’t want to do my own laundry.”

maine laundry

Another thing to know about me.  In addition to being Self-Appointed Hair Critic to the World, I am the Queen of Laundry.  Believe it.  I separate.  I do the hot, warm, cold loads.  Every single time.  I use bleach as needed.  Every single time.  Yes.  No short cuts.  I’m a good production manager.  Probably why I was able to stay in my condo for two years without a real job.  I sold my Wii, my grandmothers crocks and kitchen antiques, my china and crystal, my jewelry, my jewelry armoire, designer clothes, and many more things that I cannot recall right now.  And I will sell lots more before I am through.  Because I am moving.

old country roseswaterford j3

I am heading toward a new chapter in my life.  I will live with my parents.  It will be good for me.  It will be good for them.  I won’t have to work ever again in a full-time job about which I do not care. I will do for them the things that become more difficult as they age.  And they will make my life easier.  We will take turns cooking.  My father and I want a big garden.  I love yard work.  I will do dishes and laundry.  I will run up and down the stairs.  I can watch their dog if they want to go somewhere and they can watch Dante for me.  I will drive my escort vehicles.  I will be busy in the nice seasons and slow in the winter.


I will enter a new phase of my life.  I will peel down another layer and explore the person who is there – someone different yet the same in many ways.   As I have done many times before.  I look forward to it.  I embrace it.  My life is good.  It was good and will continue to be.

I am at a party. I am playing the game.  I am

1.  A daughter

2.  A dog mother

3.  A friend

daughters dante friend

I another few years, I may be someone else.

But for now – with my family, my friends and my dog, I’m happy.



Susan Glennis, Susan Isaacs and Glennis Maguire

So I went to a writing class with my friend April last Saturday.  I don’t think I learned anything new – it was a beginner class – but I did enjoy myself.  Loved the women leading the class.  If you want to know more about them – http://easthillwriters.com and http://www.annsheybani.com.

So anyhow – two hour class – our assignment was to write about a person, place or event from our childhood.  Just write anything about a subject for 10 minutes.  Don’t stop.  Free flow – stream of consciousness.  So I picked my maternal grandmother – Glennis Maguire.  My blog name – susanglennis.wordpress.com – my middle name – that’s where I got it.  I didn’t want to use my last name at the time I set up that blog – I would now but the susanglennis has grown on me.

We wrote for 10 minutes.  Then we went back and picked out our favorite parts – things that struck us, things that maybe we had not thought of before.

Here is some of what I wrote.

My grandmother made fabulous chocolate cake.

She was not what any of us would call a nice person.  She was mean.  When my mother was a child, my grandmother wanted her to cut her long hair.  My mother didn’t want to so under the guise of giving her a trim – my grandmother grabbed a huge hunk of her hair and hacked it off.  My mother ended up with a short haircut to even it up.  For my mother – just one in a long line of betrayals.  One of life’s cardinal rules broken – You should be able to trust your mother.

My grandmother made the same supper every night.  Fried hamburgers, boiled potatoes, canned peas – shriveled and gray and mushy.  Once in a great while on Sunday, she made oyster stew.  This “stew” consisted basically of milk, melted butter, canned oysters and pepper.

During one of my grandparents’ Christmas visits in Connecticut, someone they knew came to see them and said they would be stopping at my grandparents’ house in Maine for an overnight on their way north the following summer.  My grandmother went upstairs and got in bed and stayed there all the next day.  When I finally got her to tell me what was wrong, she said she didn’t want company to stop because she didn’t know what to cook.

My grandmother took naps.  These naps were a religious experience, like a priest and communion.  No one could make noise, no one could wake her up.  Dire consequences.  As a child, my mother was not allowed to go outside when a nap was going on.  She had to stay in and be very quiet.  I come from a long line of readers.  My mother went and got her book.  My grandmother made her stop reading while she was napping because the sound of the pages turning woke her up.  My mother sat there – a small child – not moving – not making a sound.

My grandfather was a kind man who teased his wife often, trying to cajole her into a good mood.  She didn’t like it.  She stood and screamed “I’m gonna get a knife and stab you right in the heart!”.  She said it like hot – she was from Maine.

The grandmother stories are endless.  At the writing class, one person wanted to know everything about her.  April didn’t want to hear anymore.  And I do have lots but I can truly say they don’t bother me anymore.  And also, although my grandmother was mean to most everyone, she was not mean to me.  I don’t know why.  Sun rising and setting in her first-born grandchild?  The old story about grandchildren and grandparents getting along so well because they share a common enemy?  The family dynamic.  But I was a pretty bright kid.  I was aware of the crap she was pulling, especially as it concerned my mother and grandfather.

My mother had no idea how to deal with her.  She spent a lot of time trying to please her mother, so she wouldn’t be unhappy or mean.  But this was not ever, ever going to happen.  And my mother was so confused by the whole thing, she never really figured out she couldn’t make her happy.  Some clarity has come to her over the last 20 years or so since her mother passed.  But she is scarred and in turn her children are scarred.  And are my grandmother’s great-grandchildren carrying some of the marks too?  I’m sure they are.

And I will take this opportunity to say I love my mother.  And my father.  I’m glad they are still here with me.  I believe they did the best job they could.  I’m way beyond blaming my parents for any of my shortcomings.  But people didn’t dissect their screwed-up childhoods back in the day.  They didn’t go to shrinks or take Prozac.  My grandparents were born in 1916 and 1917.  My parents were born in the 30’s and started reproducing at a very young age.  That is part of the reason they are still in my life, being 19 and 22 when I was born.

So on to Susan Isaacs.  I love her books.  She wrote one of my very favorites – Compromising Postions – link below.


There is a line in this novel – I can’t remember it perfectly and although I searched for it, I apparently cannot find it right now without rereading the whole thing.  But it is one of the reasons why I love this book, and Ms. Isaac‘s writing.  It is a mystery about a murdered Lothario who took pictures of his conquests in flagrante delicto, and the main characters – Judith and Nancy – see pictures of a woman with cylindrical produce protruding from her most special of orefices.  And one says to the other something like this – If we ever do meet her, you must remind me not to try her coleslaw.  Compromising Positions was Susan Isaac’s debut novel published in 1978.  I’ve read them all.  I have well-loved copy of this book.  All banged up.  Bent and held together with clear wide packing tape.

Another reason for my love of CP, Nancy refers to a mutual acquaintance as a “subanthropoidal horse’s ass“.  I had forgotten about that – used to use it often and will now start saying it again.

So Susan Isaac’s latest which I took out of the library last Thursday is titled Goldberg Variations.


This is the first of her books that is not very funny.  Not to me, anyway.  It is about a miserable grandmother and how she treats her family.  But I amused that these events came together – the writing topic and the book.  I’m sure I subconsciously chose to write about my grandmother in that class because I knew this book was in my library pile.

So toward the end of Goldberg Variations (page 246), Gloria’s grandson Matt thinks this and I quote –

“Gloria was definitely curious to hear what they were saying.  But there was something more with her, too. I didn’t know how I intuited this, and I could have been wrong.  Sometimes you got an insight into someone and you thought, Hey, I am so fucking perceptive.  And maybe it was true, you were.  Except wasn’t it equally possible that your observation was totally made up either to fulfill some need or because you really weren’t perceptive?  In fact, you were an ass and, like any ass, were too dumb to comprehend what you were.”

Perhaps a subanthropoidal horse’s ass.

Loved this quote. Something else for me to worry about.

Those of you who know me and/or have read very many of my blogs, are aware that I often immerse myself in introspection followed by self-flagellation.  So as a woman who spent six years in therapy, I am always searching for my weak spots.  What of Glennis Maguire has made it into her namesake, Susan Glennis?  Worry.  Worry.  Worry.  Laughing at self here.  Sort of.

When my grandmother died, as is customary, the minister sat and talked with us – my mother, my uncle Michael, my sister Katie and me.  We couldn’t think of anything really nice to say about my grandmother. The silence was, as they say, deafening.  We squirmed.  My uncle finally took him aside and told him the truth – our truth – what we all felt.  During her service, the minister said she was a woman who made her feelings known – something like that?  Then he said she made good chocolate cake.  That was it.  Nothing else.

My electric frying pan. And weddings, marriage, love, vows and faith.

I put my electric frying pan away this morning and sat down and started writing.

Back in 1980, I made a bad decision and married a man who was not nice.  I knew it when I did it.  It was an immature decision that lead to humiliation, punching and divorce.  But this story is not really about that chapter in my life.

It is about weddings, marriage, love, vows, faith and my electric frying pan.

A friend of a certain age, my age, just decided to get married.  What a leap of faith.  I admire that.  My friend is a good-hearted, solid, caring, thinking person of above-average intelligence.  She and her intended have children and grandkids.  Like most of us, they are working their way through life trying to be happy and do the right things.

So they decided to get married and all at once, in about 5 minutes, things started to go awry.  It was no big deal and nothing bad happened but things got a little off.  What I liked was her reaction.  She told me she was considering buying three sweatshirts – one that says bride, one that says groom, one that says minister and go stand by a tree and get married.  I loved this.

Because I really don’t like big, ornate weddings.  For me.  I understand many people love them.  I understand many little girls, and big girls too, dream of this day when they will perform this ritual in the long white dress.

But here is how it has always looked in my mind.

She dons the long, virginal, white dress with the veil over her head – like a cow going to slaughter – and is led down a long, white aisle by one man and is handed over to another man.  I remember when I was a little girl and my friends used to put towels over their heads like veils and play bride.  I would like to add here that I never did that.  Even as a small child I knew this was not for me.  I was just trying to figure out if I could have a baby without getting married.  This was the 60’s after all.  And I wanted to be a mother.  A real mother, not a mother to a life-size, rubber, baby doll with a hole in its painted pink lips into which one forced water and then squeezed it out the hole in the hiney.

She stood in the back of the church clutching her father’s arm.  She said Dad I don’t think I can do this.  Move your ass he said.  And they walked.

The bride, the groom, their families pay an inordinate amount of money for a party that lasts for part of one day.  This money could be used to make a down payment on a house or a condo.  To buy a car.  To pay off student loans.  Or to spend months in France and Italy.  It could be given to charity – there are so many needy people in this world.

And a lot of the time, this party does not make a lot of people happy.  The in-laws want to control the “bride’s day”.  The girlfriends don’t like the dress because they feel it makes them look like Little Bo Peep.  Not a lot of Little Bo Peep these days, but lots of unattractive because many are squeezed into tight, strapless gowns with fat back and tattoos showing.  And oftentimes, boobs way too big for strapless.  The girls need a home.  And the pressure to spend enough on a gift or give enough cash to pay for your attendance at this “wedding” is just not a good thing.  When did going to a wedding become paying for yourself to go to a party?  A long time ago now I’m afraid.

(And to my friends – please do not not invite me to your kids weddings now.  I love your children and I can go with the flow.  I am a card-carrying, dues-paying member of this civilized society and I want to be there.)

And since the majority of marriages end in divorce, this huge ceremony seems to me not a realistic way to spend one’s time, emotional energy, money.

And this ritual is so impersonal.  For what is more personal than standing up with someone you love and looking them in the eye and promising to try.  I do not like the word vows.  Merriam-Webster defines vows as “a solemn promise or assertion; specifically : one by which a person is bound to an act, service, or condition”.  This circus that a marriage ceremony has become is everything but personal.

Marriage today is not the same as marriage 50 or 100 or 200 or 500 years ago.  Not all of us need a man, or a mate for that matter, to have a life.  Marriage was invented back in the day when two people were needed to keep a family/household going.  People had to grow their food.  They had to plant and weed and harvest.  They had milk to the cows and feed the chickens and slop the hogs.  Food prep took all day.  Someone had to watch the kids while someone worked the crops.  There was canning to be done.  Meat had to be slaughtered and dried.  And plucked and skinned.  Now we have Stop & Shop.

For should not marriage or whatever word we use to describe it be a grown and mature union?  Where you stand up and look your partner/beloved in the eye and say something like this.

I love you.  Against all odds, I will try to do that forever.  Even on the days when I want to bop you.  During our bad days, I will try to remember our good times.  I hope you will help me with this.  I will try to have a sense of humor every single day because what other thing helps us get by more than that.  I hope you will help me remember that.  I promise that I will try to count to 10 before I open my mouth when you annoy me.  I promise I will try to look straight into your eyes every morning and remember why I stood here and said these words.  I hope when I draw my last breath or you draw yours, the thing we both know is that every day we tried to love each other best.

This exchange of verbal hope is personal.  Private.  Real.  This does not require an audience.  It does not need big expensive gifts.  It does not need a piece of paper.  It does not need a minister.  It does not need a $5000 dress.  It does not need arguments with your mother and your new in-laws.  It does not need sunny weather.  It does not need an expensive vacation.  It does not need a new house.  It does not need a long white dress.  It does not need a $45,000 budget.  It does not need a $20,000 budget.  It does not need a $1000 budget.

So back when I got married in 1980, there were I think five people in attendance besides the bride, groom and the minister – none of whom were dressed in sweatshirts.  The bride wore a knee-length yellow dress with white trim and some nice shoes.  The groom wore a pair of dress pants and a nice shirt.

The marriage didn’t last.  It was over in the blink of an eye.

At this time, I know 4 people, two couples – all people between the ages of 50 and 70 who are planning on getting married.  And the mathematical joy of it all – one for the first time, one for the second, one for the third, and one for the fourth.  Do I think they’re all nuts?  Yup.  Do I envy them their faith?  Yup.  Their hope?  Yup.  Their optimism in the face of all evidence to the contrary?  Yup.  Do I hope they are truly happy together and that when they draw their last breath, the thing they both know is that every day they tried to love each other best?  Yup.

One of those five in attendance at that small wedding in Florida 32 years ago was a woman whom I loved very much.  We are still in touch through the magic of Facebook.  I think it would be safe to say we probably do not agree on much political or religious.  I’ll double-check with her but I know the answer.  And I didn’t want a big wedding.  But I wanted to try.  And she wanted to be there when I said I would.  I was naïve.  I thought it might be forever.  My friend gave me an electric frying pan for a wedding present.  Back when we gave we each other things to help “set up house”.  Or usually apartment.  She gave me a gift I wanted and a gift she could afford.

I have that same electric frying pan still.  I use it all the time.  It’s banged and bent and beat up.  And still working.  Like me.  It’s outlasted all the men.

P.S.  If you’re looking for an electric frying pan that will last forever, go with West Bend.

It’s fucking snowing. Again. And again. And again.

I can’t let this one go by.  This is what Hilary Rosen said.

“What you have is Mitt Romney running around the country saying, well, you know, my wife tells me that what women really care about are economic issues.  And when I listen to my wife, that’s what I’m hearing.  Guess what.  His wife has actually never worked a day in her life.  She’s never really dealt with the kinds of economic issues that a majority of the women in this country are facing in terms of how do we feed our kids, how do we send them to school and how do we – why do we worry about their future?”

Clarifying her point, Rosen apologized Thursday and said she meant Ann Romney was not the best example for her husband to use on the campaign trail as a woman who understands the struggles of working class moms.

And then our President says this.  “First of all there is no tougher job than being a mom.”

Well Mr. President.  How about your job?  I’ll bet that one is just a teeny weeny little more difficult than “being a mom”.

Here’s reality.  Get up every day since you graduated from high school and GO TO WORK.

There are six inches of snow on the ground.  It’s 15 degrees outside.  Six more inches are predicted by the end of the day.  Get up 2 hours early.  Put on your snow boots and your sweats and your winter coat and gloves.  Shovel your driveway, dig out your car, clean it off and warm it up.  Take a shower, do your hair and make-up, put your boots and winter coat and gloves and hat back on, clean off the car again, drive to work.  You will be late no matter what you do and someone will criticize you for it.  And you will have hat head all day.  If you’re lucky, your employer might let you out a half hour early.  Then you can go outside and clean off your fucking car again and drive 20 or 30 miles to get home and that will take you an hour and a half.  Oh.  And your dog hasn’t been out now for 12 hours.  Or your kids are ready for dinner and cranky when you walk in the door.  Or the power is out because the snow dropped a tree on the wires to your house.

Or maybe, you are embroiled in some god-awful political situation at work.  All you want to do is go to work, do your job well, get paid, leave.  That’s it.  So you stop on the way home to do the grocery shopping.  And fill the car with gas.  You have 60 cents a gallon credit at Stop & Shop so it only costs you $68 today.  Make dinner, stop the kids from fighting without losing your temper and screaming like a shrew, help with homework, give baths, read stories, have a conversation with your husband.  Shit.  Shit.  Shit.  You forgot to buy diapers.  Moron!   Back to the store.  Throw in a load of laundry.  Load the dishwasher – if you have one.  Get your own clothes ready for the next day.  It’s midnight.  The alarm goes off at 5.  Your husband wants to have sex.  So do you.  But my god you’re tired.  You get up the next morning and drag yourself to work.  To be greeted by that same fucking political situation perpetuated by the person who had enough power to “work from home” yesterday.  And you have a cold.

Or.  How about this.  Be in the exact same situation.  Just eliminate the husband.  So you have less income but you can fall asleep a little earlier because the kids like frozen fish sticks for dinner and no one wants you to have sex.  But you had to load the kids into the car when you went back out for diapers.  And take them into the store where they cried because everyone was tired and they wanted candy bars and you said no.  And the other people in line are giving you major stink eye because you have your kids out late, they are wearing pajamas, they are crying.  You are exhausted and can’t stand one more minute of today and give in and buy the chocolate.  Stink eye increases and the old geezer in back of you is whispering to his wife.  You are one lousy fucking loser mother.  And it’s only Monday.  But at least you won’t run out of diapers until pay day now.  And when you get home the kids have melted peanut butter cup all over their clean jammies.

I’m not done.

The political situation at work has gotten worse.  And you are dodging bullets every day.  What is wrong with that person anyway?  Why does he have such a big ugly hard-on for you.  You need your job.  You don’t want to cry.  Women ALWAYS cry at work.  Guess what?  You’re fired.  You are broke.  And relieved.  What is wrong with you!

So you go on unemployment.  You do or do not find a job right away.  It doesn’t matter.  You are screwed whether you work or not.  You need the money.  That is why you put up with the office politics for so long for all the good it did you.  You’ll get another job some day.  Hopefully you can keep up with the mortgage/rent payments until then so you don‘t lose your home.  The cable/phone/internet – you can‘t cancel these – the kids will go out of their little kid minds without TV, you already gave up your cell phone to save money.  And if you think there is any other way on earth to find a job except the internet – I‘m here to tell you this is 2012, not 1980.  Now you get to throw your resume into a black hole of unresponsiveness.  Let‘s return to the bills – gas and electric, car payment and gas for the car – don‘t forget the $68 to fill the tank, insurance, taxes, the one lousy credit card you use for emergencies that never seems to go down.  You can‘t give up your high blood pressure meds or you’ll have a stroke, especially now.  You have got to pay the Cobra – you and the kids HAVE TO HAVE health insurance.  You know that is true because 4 years ago you had an ectopic pregnancy out of nowhere that almost killed you.  Anything can happen.  And remember when little Johnny broke his leg?  That stuff costs a fortune and you never know when tragedy will strike.  And sometimes it feels like that the only love you get is from the dog and he has seizures and needs very expensive blood work twice a year and is on two meds and now shows signs of liver damage because of the side effects of the Phenobarbital – and the stuff he needs to take to save his liver cost three times as much as the anti-seizure meds so what are you going to do?  You‘ve had him longer than you‘ve had your children, you love him, he loves you – he might be the only one who is happy to see you when you get home.  Except the one in diapers.  She still loves you.  You are sure.  The battery in your car dies.

Finally.  You find another job.  It pays a little less than your last job but there are benefits after three months.  The Cobra payment for your family is $948 a month – it’s killing you.  It’s more than your mortgage.  And you don’t get any vacation this year but after next January which is 8 months away, you will have two weeks vacation every year!!!  And after you work there for 10 years, you will have three!!!  Yippee!!!

I could go on and on but even I’m getting tired of this.  I have worked forever.  And I have actually enjoyed it most of the time.  But some of this stuff HAS happened and is happening to me.  You try to take the bad with the good.

So yes.  Being a mother is very hard work.  Anyone who thinks it isn’t is an idiot.  I did not have children but I saw my friends struggle with jobs and motherhood.  I saw my mother struggle with it.  Ann Romney is lucky that she had options and was able to CHOOSE to stay home with her boys.  She seems like a very nice woman.  But if I am given a choice, I would choose someone else to speak for me and my friends when it comes to putting your nose to the grindstone, getting out and cleaning the fucking snow off the car, and driving to work with menstrual cramps after you got your mother to watch little Sally today because she‘s been barfing since 2 AM so you only slept one hour last night instead of five.  Just sayin.’

So I return to my election year rant.  The economy is in the toilet.  People need jobs and food and shelter and love and understanding, and are turned away from homeless shelters every day.  Hey it’s April.  It will only get down to the high 40’s tonight.  Of course I live in Connecticut, not northern Maine or Alaska.  It will probably be a tad chillier there.  The North Korean nuts are acting up.  George Zimmerman shot and killed that poor child and it took 46 days for him to be arrested.  Syria.  The sign I saw for gas yesterday said $4.20 per gallon.  Health care.  Health care.  Health care.  I am paying my Cobra.  Wall Street has stolen our money and not many are angry because they just don’t understand.  Well some do – Occupy Wall Street.  And we hear politicians say we don’t have rights to entitlements like Social Security.  I’ve been paying into that fund since 1972.  Damn right I’m entitled.

Come on people.  Let’s set Hilary Rosen’s poorly chosen words, for which she has eloquently apologized, aside.  Let’s talk about the issues.