Celebrity Smackdown

It’s the day before Lent, and I’m struggling with what to give up or take on this year.

Dark chocolate is a distinct possibility, as I’ve developed an almost carnal attraction to it, and the thought of having to get through forty long, sleepy afternoons without a few bites seems, while not quite alone-in-the-desert wretched, pretty darn bleak. I could give up wine, but I’m due to leave tomorrow for a few days in California with the fabulous Group B (more details in coming posts), and since drinking wine is one of the points of these gatherings, it would almost seem rude to arrive and ask for club soda.

I could also take on something, as I did last year when I volunteered to “teach” the four- and five-year-olds on Wednesday nights at church. This did in fact turn out to be educational -- I learned that I don’t like other people’s four- and five-year-olds nearly as much as I liked my own children at that age. This should not have surprised me; no one is at their best at 6:30 on a midweek night, especially when they’ve missed their nap. (I’m not talking about the kids, I’m talking about me.) While I don’t think I harmed any child’s future, I’m guessing Jesus would suggest I try another discipline this year. I will note that I offered both comfort and edification to one rather nervous little girl who, midway through my reading of a bizarre storybook about a little boy who witnessed some terrible things happening to Jesus on the way to the crucifixion, raised her hand and asked, “Is this story going to have a happy ending?”

But, as is the case every year, I also feel I must give serious consideration to the cessation of saying mean things. I am pretty sure this is what Jesus would pick for me, and therefore I am giving it serious consideration, although I suspect doing so would have quite the dampening effect on my particular blogging career and would also be a lot harder than giving up dark chocolate or wine. Still, being nice is undergoing an eleventh-hour surge in popularity among the alternatives my conscience is considering, and therefore I must act quickly to get the following thought off my chest:

Why on Earth should I care who Robert DeNiro and America Ferreira are voting for on Super Tuesday?

Monday's decision of these two “stars” to endorse Obama and Clinton, respectively, had zero impact on my own decision, as I’ve been leaning toward Obama for a year and made my mind up for sure after Bill Clinton acted despicably in South Carolina. (Talk about someone who needs a nap!) But if I hadn’t already decided, the announcement that Robert DeNiro thinks Obama is the best choice would have meant absolutely nothing. Likewise Ugly Betty’s campaigning for Hillary.

I suspect that most people are like me, and frankly don’t give a rip who any movie star is backing. (Now Oprah is different. Any woman who can get people to read books is one to watch.) If that’s the case, and these endorsements were announced in the mistaken belief that we care, it suggests that Robert DeNiro and America Ferreira both have egos the size of the SpongeBob balloon at the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade. Some of you may say “duh,” but I for one had more faith in people who make classic movies like “Meet the Fockers.” (See, I told you I was thinking mean thoughts.)

But let’s consider a scarier alternative. What if Bobby and America are right, and there are in fact people out there who will decide that since Ugly Betty has braces and they have braces, Hillary will make a damn fine president? Or men who go around saying “You talking to me?” in voices that sound not the least bit like Travis Bickle’s who decide that Obama’s their man because “Bobby” says so?

I would dismiss this possibility out of hand, but Arnold Schwarzenegger IS the governor of a very big state, and Fred Thompson got pretty far down the road to being taken seriously as a statesman because he showed those Yankees a thing or two on Law & Order. And standing behind Mike Huckabee at every speech I’ve seen him give has been Chuck Norris, for gosh sakes, and a blonde woman who I’m pretty sure used to be the model Kim Alexis before she became a Huckabee prop.

Still, I think big egos are more likely the reason for celebrity endorsements. I suspect the candidates are secretly horrified (“Oh, that’s so nice of you, but really, you don’t have to. Really.”) Except for Huckabee, who probably has some sort of special action-star envy a man develops when he’s spent most of his life shopping at the Big & Tall store. Someone needs to tell Mike Huckabee that Chuck Norris just doesn't lend a lot of gravitas to a campaign. Oprah could whoop Chuck's ass any day.

My Laundry, My Life

It’s been a busy day for Betsy Bird. Good intentions notwithstanding, I’ve somehow managed not to do any laundry for a week, save for a load I washed on Monday and then left to sour. The kids are wearing highly questionable ensembles and I’m pulling clothes from the charitable donations box, so I’ve had no other choice but to stay home and wash.

I have friends who claim they can’t sleep at night until every last dirty sock has been washed, dried, and put away to be thrown on the floor another day. These are the same people who scrub floors and clean closets when they’re mad. If you ask me, these gals just need a lesson in the power of chocolate-covered pretzels. The absolute last thing I want to do when I’m stressed is clean anything except my plate. And I can sleep like a baby with a week’s worth of jeans lined up outside the laundry room.

I may be the nagging mother who urges the boys to start big school projects early, but when it comes to laundry, I’m the party girl who waits till the night before the really big test to start studying. Part of this is that I like to live dangerously. It’s taken me awhile to realize it, but my body prefers the adrenaline rush of completing a seemingly insurmountable task to the steady drip-drip-drip of doing a little every day. I know your typical thrill seeker climbs mountains or races cars, but I’m really afraid of heights and I wouldn’t dream of going over the speed limit on a twisty mountain road. Cutting it really close on clean underwear is risk enough for me; I mean, you’re talking to a girl who asked for a new front door for Christmas. (Try that next time you want your children to feel really sorry for you.) If I need mountains, all I have to do is look next to the hampers.

The other reason I’m a laundry procrastinator is geographical. Our washer and dryer are at the top of the stairs; our dirty clothes are mostly at the bottom. Wanna know how to determine whether you really want something? Put a flight of stairs between you and it. There are some things I’m more than willing to hike uphill for, but pre-treating and folding aren’t among them. And I fear this will only get worse. Show me a person over 60 who doesn’t complain about her knees and I’ll show you an Aleve addict. If Bob and I don’t move to a one-story place by the time we retire, we’ll have to cash in our retirement accounts to buy 25 years’ worth of socks and underwear and a closet full of Dry Clean Onlys.

It’s time to start dinner, and I’ve got loads to go before I sleep. In another few hours I’ll swear that no adrenaline rush is worth this sort of exhaustion. I’ll tell myself it’s time to grow up. I’ll promise myself that I’ll run a load tomorrow and get it folded and put away before bed.

And then, along about Sunday, I’ll find that same load soured at the bottom of the washer.