baby, we'll ride in style

I have been neither a dependable blogger or cook lately. Some vague form of uninspiration must be the cause, but I can't pinpoint the why of it. I have often expressed that cooking in the evening when I get off work is therapy for me, but as of late I have been more prone to convenience foods. Maybe that means that I'm so well-adjusted that I don't need the therapy anymore?? Who knows. I'll be back in the saddle, eventually, I'm sure. I'll just blame it on hormones, that's so easy and since I have a complete lack of knowledge regarding hormones, it's a mystery diagnosis that can't be questioned.

I'm getting all juiced about Obama. I was only vaguely interested in the election during the primary process because at the root of it, I'm one of those pessimists who feels that the country has gone so far down the shitter that no mainstream candidate would or could engineer the sort of change we really need. However, my little Democrat heart has started to rat-a-tat-tat with the hope that evil motherfucking Republicans will be ousted after these eight long years of hell, and I like it. I was reading a blog by my ex, who has been seized by a great shining hope in the light of the convention, and he mentioned our 2004 post-election slump. Our anniversary was Nov. 3 or 4, we could never settle on which, and that year we'd both taken off work/school to celebrate together. W was recrowned the night before, however, and I remember us moping listlessly around the Blockbuster video together, unable to muster any energy to pick out a movie, or care about anything. More than anything I wish my dad could have outlived the Bush regime; he was a self-professed "Yellow Dog Democrat," and after his retirement discovered the left wing blogosphere and became obsessed with anti-Bush rhetoric and conspiracies. He drove my mom fucking crazy.

Anyway. Every time I talk about my dad I feel weird about it, like it's too heavy or I'm trying to garner some sort of sympathy. This "Daddy's Girl" tattoo I have is the perfect example; random people in public will ask me about it, and then I have to say, "Oh, he's dead," and then they get all awkward. It's kind of weirdfunny, but to be honest, sometimes I just act like he's not dead. For example, when a fireman in the Whitehaven Kroger was asking me about in order to hit on me.

I'm doing a case in which a 70-year old couple are raising their daughter's six children, ages 13-5. Can you imagine? For God's sakes. My mother would fucking kill me.

I want to leave y'all with a fantastic tune, the "first rock'n'roll song" EVER, "Rocket 88" performed by Jackie Brenston & His Delta Cats. This is some mystery video that I found on Youtube, but you get the picture. There is some bonus Bette Page, meeeyeow!


All right, I hope everyone has a positively lovely holiday weekend!