Obey Me, For I am Your (Ticket) Master

Oh, how I wish Pearl Jam had won their case against the evil mega-corporation Ticketmaster all those years ago...

It's funny how there's all sorts of "laws" and "rules" to prevent monopolies from dominating our economy, and yet somehow, Ticketmaster has managed to sidle past them all to become our sole ticket-bearing god.  And what a spiteful and vengeful god it is.

This morning, I eagerly waited for my computer clock to slip from 9:59 to 10:00, credit card in hand, ready to buy tickets to the recently announced Billy Joel/Elton John concert next March.

I consider myself an old pro at this.  In my youth, I was famous for knowing which Ticketmaster locations were the least populated, resulting in the shortest lines and therefore best seats.  With the onset of the internet age, I quickly learned how to prepare for an onsale date like an athlete training for a big race...I get up early so that I'm clear and focused.  I sign into my Ticketmaster account ahead of time to avoid wasted time during the purchasing process.  I have all of my information laid out in front of me, knowing exactly how much I'm willing to spend and where I want my seats to be.

It's all a little excessive.  But it's proven successful many times, resulting in great seats at some awesome concerts - I've never been front row, but I've been lucky enough to avoid the nosebleed/back-of-the-stage/I-can't-see-over-the-6'5"-dude-in-front-of-me seats.

Until today.

I followed my usual routine.  I refreshed the event page precisely at 9:59:59 a.m.  The ticket page appeared, I clicked on my choice of ticket price (the middle selection of only 3 options for this show), and I waited for several minutes while the site told me my wait would be "3 minutes...6 minutes...9 minutes...13 minutes...8 minutes...4 minutes...6 minutes..."  You get the point.

After about 3 1/2 minutes total, the ticket screen came up, offering me.....nothing.  There are no tickets available at this price.  

Huh??  But it's only 10:03!  I was literally one of the first people in line - and you're telling me that an entire third of the seats have already sold out??

So I swallowed my pride and started over, this time choosing the - eek - lowest price option.  I was still hoping for a decent seat - sure, I'd likely be way high up in the rafters, but maybe I could snag front row of the uppers, or at the least an aisle seat.

This wait time was much shorter.  WIthin a matter of seconds, I was taken to the ticket screen, seeing that the search resulted in.....no seats.

Ok.  Now you have to be joking with me.  Two thirds of the seats sold out in less than 4 minutes??  I've never, ever had this happen to me before, not for the most popular shows, and I've seen a few spectacular ones.

And that's when I saw it.  To the right of the somewhat apologetic but somehow snide "no tickets available" box, there was an ad.  An ad to try to purchase my tickets for this show elsewhere, namely, on a ticket broker website.  A broker owned by.....

Ticketmaster.

Seriously.  My jaw dropped open.  I mean, I already knew that there were scores of ticket brokers out there who grab up thousands of tickets in order to re-sell them to us, the innocent public, at ridiculously inflated prices.  But how innately wrong is it for Ticketmaster to own one of them?!?!?

They even had ticket prices listed...at FIVE TIMES the original sale price.  Specific seat numbers.  All within a few short moments of the tickets going "on sale" to the general public. Clearly, Ticketmaster allowed this - ahem - broker to buy up a goodly amount of the tickets before anyone else could even bring up the purchasing page.

I call bullshit.  Big time bullshit.

So here's what happens (it seems to me):  Ticketmaster advertises tickets going on sale for the price agreed upon with the artist and venue, etc etc.  They then leave a minimal amount of those tickets for sale to the public, while scooping up the majority of them to re-sell on their "broker" website at a much higher price.  They make the face value on the original tickets PLUS whatever extra they can tag onto the bloated broker price.  They're effectively cheating both the public AND the artists!!  But because they can skate around arguments by showing that they do indeed sell SOME tickets at face value on the actual Ticketmaster site (mostly the higher end tickets, natch), there's not much anyone can say or do.

It's a scam.  It fucking sucks.  And I'm not going to this concert now because of it.

Isn't there anything we can do about this???  I wish I could band us all together, we could all rise up, march against the evil overlords, and encourage venues to sell tickets themselves, abolishing the massive greedy monopoly that is the Ticketmaster.

But if Pearl Jam couldn't do it, then I doubt that one measly unknown blogger chick can.

So I'll skip the Joel/John concert, albeit in a rather peeved state of being.  And I'll continue to hope that the government or perhaps another popular artist with a conscience will eventually step forward to challenge the Master.

Until then, I'm renting "U2 in 3D."

Ego Bruising and a Serious Lack of Mayonnaise

Mayonnaise.  It's one of those words that, if you say or write it too much, begins to look like imaginary alien language. Please tell me you know what I mean.

Moving on.

Yesterday I was blessed with a temp job at a top cable network.  Before you get too excited, let me assure you that I wasn't doing anything of significance, and also that I use the word "blessed" purely in a financial sense, as in I'm flat broke and desperately needed a gig.

Now that I've made sure you're on the edge of your seat, I'll break the tension and tell you that I was called in yesterday morning to fill in for an executive assistant who threw out his back.  Settle down, folks, I'm not signing autographs...yet.

My favorite part about doing temp work is that it's temporary.  Before you can truly, deeply loathe a job, you stop working there and move on to an entirely new peon position.  Or that's the way I felt when I first began temping.  Now I've found within myself the capability to fully despise a job, any job, about five minutes after I walk in the door.

I partially blame this problem on my age.  I'm 31, for Christ's sake.  I shouldn't be doing this stupid shit anymore - I'm smart, damn it!!! I should've been a doctor, or a lawyer, or a...manager at a Tastee Freeze, I don't know, but something where I'm not drowning in a sea of eager beavers ten years younger than me who just adore being asked to make photocopies for snide execs who have no idea where the copy room is - hell, they probably don't even know the term 'copy room.'  They've never been there.

In these moments, I find myself desperately wishing I hadn't chosen the path of chasing my artistic dreams.  I mean, I could've BEEN one of those assholes!!  I had been on my way, but I set it all aside for the sake of chasing the unfulfilled career goal of sitting in a trailer for days on end.

So.....I was talking about the good part of temping.  Heh.  Now for the bad part.

Some places are really cool.  Sometimes you get to work with awesome people, doing interesting things - once I helped put together packets for volunteers who wanted to help impoverished children learn to read.  It didn't pay well, but it was easy and I felt good about myself and my tiny contribution to the world of literacy.

Most places are nothing like this.  Most places, like yesterday's job, walking in the door is the equivalent of falling off a fun-filled cruise ship into shark-infested waters, nobody saw you go over, and oh yeah, you never took those swimming lessons at the local Y.

Yes, folks.  I was drowning.  And being eaten alive at the same time - just the way I always wanted to go.

So here it is, the worst part of temping - the people you work with somehow expect you to enter their building full of knowledge about what it is you're supposed to be doing.  They think you already know their 20-line phone system.  They assume you can figure out necessary passwords.  They know that you know all that technical jargon that only applies to their particular line of work - so when they yell, "Hey, bring me that 4-ply poly-rhythmic sheetscrob," you not only know what the fuck that is, but where they keep it.

Basically, they expect you to be the person you've replaced.  They think you're possessed with the spirit of the departed, which you can easily exorcise at the end of the workday so that he/she can show up in corporeal form tomorrow.

But while you're there in their place, you're treated to a plethora of eye rolls, exasperated sighs, and sniffs of disapproval, all while trying desperately to figure out why you can only find the 3-ply poly-rhythmic sheetscrob, damn it all to hell.

You're probably thinking about now, "yes, but what about the mayonnaise?  I was promised mayonnaise on this story."  To which my answer is, "See?  I can't please ANYBODY!!!!!"

To add insult to injury, when I ran to get my lunch - a ham & cheese sandwich from the cafe downstairs - I was in such a hurry to get back, I only grabbed one small packet of mayonnaise from the condiment tray before rushing off - and I only grabbed that because I like an unhealthy amount of mayo on my 'wich.  But I had made the gross assumption that no cafe would make a sandwich that didn't already come with a sauce of some sort, only to be rudely awakened when I opened my styrofoam box to find a dry sandwich.  On top of which, it was made with extremely thick, crumbly bread which appeared to be composed of a sawdust-like material.  (Oh, and my side caesar was topped with bean sprouts, which I found interesting, disturbing, and nauseating all at the same time.)

So I squeezed my tiny packet of mayo onto the most moist portion of the sandwich I could find, proceeded to eat those four or five bites, then tossed the remainder in the trash.  And I hate wasting food.

What made my lunch truly satisfying, though, was knowing that twenty minutes later I would be given the opportunity to continue my fruitless search for 4-ply sheetscrob.

The moral of this story?  Be a Boy Scout.  Always be prepared.  Learn every single goddamn computer program and filing system out there, memorize it, keep a notebook or twelve filled with detailed instructions on life, the universe, and everything.  Then you'll never, ever find yourself in need.

In this life, I guess you've gotta be your own condiment stand.

For the Love of Saltwater Taffy - a Novel

So I haven't done much blogging lately.

The month of November was a bit of a doozy for me.  First there was obviously the presidential election, which I was following closely, and then there was the apartment move that took place over the span of about two and a half long weeks.

Oh, and of course there was that little thing called Thanksgiving, along with all the requisite cooking, gorging, and shopping.

To top it all off, I decided to attempt the Nanowrimo program - the National Novel Writing Month - for the first time.  Needless to say, I didn't quite reach the goal of 50,000 words in the month of November.  Heh heh....ah, no.  But it did succeed in taking up any spare time I had, which effectively kept me away from my dearly beloved blog.

So I thought to myself today, you know what?  I should get back at it.  Write a blog.  Let the world know I'm still here, whether or not it cares!

And then I hit a wall.  Wait...what do I write about???  There's no more election coverage to delve into, no more Sarah Palin to gape at - there's not even a horrible landlord to gripe about!!!!  The candidate I ardently supported won the race, I moved into a wonderful new apartment that is everything I hoped for and more - what the hell am I supposed to write about??????

Panic sets in.  Concentration is becoming difficult, and I'm enveloped in a cold sweat.  Cold because the new apartment does tend to get drafty from time to time - hey, nothing can be perfect, ya know.

Then I thought, wait - maybe I shouldn't try to jump right back into blogging, perhaps I should attempt to re-start the ol' novel instead!  Yeah, that'll be SO much easier!!

Or maybe not.

A novel is such a daunting task.  Yeah, I already knew that, but once you really start trying to sit down and write the damn thing, you start to understand just how painstaking it really is.  I thought the words would flow out of me like a river of imagination, that I would just need to focus on keeping my fingers moving as quickly as my mind.  Instead, the process has been somewhat akin to eating taffy (which I hate) - you sort of dig your teeth in, then you pull and you pull, the taffy ever so slowly stretches, then suddenly it snaps, and you have a few short moments of sweet reward before it's gone and you've gotta go back to digging your teeth in once more.

I mean, it is tough, people.  And with all that I had going on during November, I was only able to make it to about 10,000 words - a measly fifth of the way to the nanowrimo goal.

But I'm trying to focus on the positive - hell, I got to 10,000 words!!!  That's 10,000 more than I had before I started.  It may not be a novel, but it's a chapter or two at the very least.  I've got a base.  I've got a platform to dive off of.

So yeah, it's fucking daunting as all get out, but I'm gonna get back at it and try to keep digging my teeth in until the taffy runs out.  I gave myself a little reprieve first - did a few chores around the new place and told myself I could write one little, teeny blog to get the gears turning - oil up the ol' candy factory, so to speak, before I start trying to crank up the big assembly line.

Wish me luck, friends.  And if all turns out well, maybe I'll even let you read the finished novel one day.  Like in 2014.

Why I Believe Prop 8 is WRONG

Sorry to take such a serious tone today, folks...but I feel this is an issue that I must speak out about, and it's hard to find much humor in the situation.

For anyone who is unaware, the state of California passed a proposition yesterday - Prop 8 - which amends our state constitution, effectively banning gay marriage and possibly nullifying any gay marriages which have already taken place (though this is still up for argument).

This proposition reverses a California Supreme Court ruling earlier this year which made gay marriage legal under California law, and under which thousands of people have finally been allowed to make that most personal, important, and beautiful of commitments.

A host of reasons have been given for supporting Prop 8. Some are religious - that old argument that homosexuality is wrong in the eyes of God, you know the one.  Now let me say right here and now, I have no problem with people who have strong religion in their lives.  I have many, many friends - close friends - who are extremely religious or have even found their vocation in the church.  

What I have a problem with are people who are so close-minded that they search for excuses in the pages of the Bible.  People who choose to take the Bible in an overly literal sense - but only when it suits their purposes.  If they truly believed in the Bible, to the letter, they would own slaves and sleep with their wife's maidservant if their wife was unable to become pregnant.

Here's what I take from the Bible, and from most every religion - love each other without prejudice.  We are all equal, all made from the same stuff.

We don't leave much behind when we depart this mortal coil, but the one thing we DO leave is the effect we've had on the lives of others.  I've said this a zillion times, but think about it - it's a trickle down effect.  A boss yells at his employee.  The employee goes out to dinner that night and treats the waiter like a piece of trash.  The waiter goes home and hits his wife.  Their child observes and grows up hating himself for not being able to help.  And on and on.

This is a broad example, of course, but that doesn't mean it's not true.  Positive energy works the same way, but what we take in the deepest, what we hold closest to our chests, is the anger, the fear, the negative.  Which is probably why racism, bigotry, and prejudice continue to this day.

Instead of telling people that we've chosen for them, that we believe they are somehow lesser than ourselves, can't we decide to spread a little positive energy for a change?  I don't understand how two people who want to love each other is such a threat to anyone.  Are you really - really - afraid that if a gay couple marries, that means they're suddenly going to show up at your children's school and convince them all that they're homosexuals?  Do you really - really - still believe that homosexuality is a CHOICE and not something you're born into?  That you can pray for a person until they "change" their sexual preference???

Listen.  I'm not gonna sit here and lie and tell you all that I've never had a prejudiced thought enter my mind.  I'm not sure you could find anyone that could honestly say that.  But here's the truth.  Yes, living in Los Angeles, I am lucky to have a ton of gay and lesbian friends.  But I also grew up in the midwest with a lesbian couple in my immediate family.  When I was young, I thought they were just best friends - and isn't that what every couple should ultimately be??  I didn't know anything about sex, it's not like I thought much differently about my heterosexual relatives. 

It wasn't until I was a bit older that I realized that yes, they were in a loving relationship, that they were gay.  And do you know what happened?  NOTHING.  Zilch.  Nada.  I loved them as much as I ever had, and it didn't "turn me gay" to be exposed to a lesbian couple. 

I am so thankful for that experience.  Without it, I'm not sure I'd be as open-minded (and hearted) as I am today.  From a young age, I knew that being homosexual didn't make you any different from anyone else - you could still be in a loving, long-term relationship - indeed, that couple is still together to this day, quite literally longer than any other couple in my family.

The other major argument for Prop 8 is that it preserves the family - that a child is better off in a home with both a mother and a father.  Because if you haven't realized already, preventing gay couples from legally marrying is effectively preventing them from adopting children.

This is the one that really hits home for me, that makes my stomach curdle and my fingers clench.  First off, I don't think anyone would argue with the idea that the more loving people surround a child, the better - but I happen to think that it doesn't matter what sex they are.  If a loving, stable couple wants to extend their hearts and their home to a child who needs a family, then why the HELL shouldn't we let them?!?  The case has been proven time and time again that living with a homosexual couple does NOT result in a child "becoming" gay.

And as for being better off with both a mother AND a father?  Well, let me tell you something very personal about myself.  I was raised for many years by a single, widowed mother, and I think I turned out pretty damn well, thank you very fucking much.  And for the years she didn't raise me by herself, she was trapped in a relationship with my stepfather, a man who treated me like garbage, beat me, and made me believe I was a loser. Issues I still deal with to this day.  The only positive thing that came of that relationship was my siblings - I am blessed to have a fantastic, selfless sister and a wonderful, loving brother, and I wouldn't trade that for anything.  Anything.

But I don't credit my stepfather for any of us turning out the way we did - I credit our mother.  The only credit I can give my stepfather is that having to endure his tyranny is what gave me the strength I have today.

So do you think I was better off in a home with both a mother AND a father - really??

I admit, my case isn't necessarily the norm.  And hey, not every gay couple that raise a child are going to do so in the best way.

But goddamn it, they should have the right to try.

Name, Baby, Name!!!

I think we as a nation can agree what issue means the most to us this election season...what in sam hill are Bristol Palin and Levi Johnston going to name their little bundle of joy come this December?!?

Seeing as how soon-to-be Hockey Grandma Sarah Palin preferred rather unusual choices for her own offspring, I'm guessing that young Bristol may follow in her footsteps, foregoing the typical "Michael" or "Amanda" in lieu of something a bit more...feisty.

(And before anyone gets all snippy at me for 'mocking' the Palin family, let me assure you, this is all in good fun...and I certainly don't consider myself 'better' than them - for God's sake, I'm named after a SEASON!!!)

As I know how busy the Palin family is at present moment, I thought I'd take some time out of my own hectic schedule to give them a helping hand, and have created my own list of suggestions for monikers of a unique persuasion.*

*I do not believe that the family will actually use any of these names.  However, if they do, I expect to be monetarily compensated. 

--'Sara Lee.'  Nobody doesn't like Sara Lee.  You can honor Grandma Sarah AND the best double negative ad slogan ever created, all at the same time!

--'501.'  Won't it be cute to call him "Levi's 501?"

--'Doritos.'  This is a sneaky way to make sure you can always bring your baby along with you to a party.  After all, no one's going to tell you that you can't bring Doritos!!

--'Bibliophile.'  Baby reads everything - just like Grandma!

--'Benihana.'  Works for either sex!  You can shorten it to "Ben" for a boy, or "Hana" for a girl - AND you showcase your appreciation for other cultures and ethnicities!

--'Caboodle.'  This one's a joke.  I just wanted to see if anyone remembered Caboodles.

--'Sharpay.'  There's no way in HELL that THIS one is already taken!!!  

--'Whammies.'  Imagine the fun you could have, running around your home screaming, "NO WHAMMIES!"  Then again, seeing as how you're teenagers, you probably don't get the reference.

--'Carhartt.'  Perhaps the baby could snag an early promotional endorsement and score free overalls for the entire fam!

--'Whippets.'  Like the dogs, not the drugs, you godless heathen!!!

--'Maytag.'  Baby will be "built strong to last long," just like Grandma's political career! 

--'Maverick.'  That James Garner sure is swell!

--'Baby.'  I always thought this would be a good idea...after all, no one would be confused as to whom you were addressing!  Until you have another baby, that is.

--'Crapper.'  You'll be paying homage to the legendary inventor of the flush toilet, and also acknowledging what you'll secretly call the baby until it's out of diapers anyway!

And last but not least...

--'Joe the Baby.'  Make sure it's legally listed that way on his birth certificate, otherwise it doesn't count!  Unless you name him Samuel Wurzelbacher, of course.

The Building Manager in the Seventh Circle of Hell

During my eight years (!) of residing in sunny Los Angeles, I have lived in ten different apartments.  Sadly, this is not an exaggeration, and I'm not sure how I managed to live in more than one apartment a year, but hey, shit happens.

Yes, sometimes shit happens.  And sometimes, a monkey picks up that shit to throw it at you, which then hits the proverbial fan on its way to ruining your favorite pair of Skechers.

(This is a dramatization of certain events which took place yesterday in my current place of residence.  The following is a slightly more realistic version.)

So I've been getting fat.  It's no secret - I've even posted a prior blog about it (Ode to my Size 4 Jeans).  No, I'm not obese.  But I need to start working out, period.  But I hate the gym.  And I have back problems which making jogging/running near impossible.  What's a girl to do?

I'll tell you what.  Whilst randomly paging through the desert of bland daytime television programming one day, I happened to stumble upon an infomercial.  Egad!  I was watching the dreaded infomercial, nearly as nefarious an act as accidentally tuning in to the Korean soap opera channel!!  And before you could say 'catatonic,' I was sucked in.

This particular infomercial was for a home exercise program called "Barry's Bootcamp."  It's pretty much what you're picturing...a vastly energetic dude in camo pants who is hyper-supportive (We're so PROUD of you!!  You're on your WAY!!) and whom you feel is hiding some deep, dark secret behind that manic I-wanna-see-you-sweat-til-you-barf smile.

So I asked for it for my birthday.

Lo and behold, ask and ye shall receive!  After a few days of looking at the box on my living room floor as I passed by on my way to the fridge and/or couch, I finally decided to rip it open.  I pulled out the resistance bands, inflated the exercise ball, and got to work.

Now, I've gotta tell ya, I'm not usually one to buy something off the ol' TV, nor am I one to buy into the crazy ideas they try to sell you on.  But I have to admit, camo-pants Barry has something going on.  I felt the difference after my very first workout, and I have continued to feel it each day since.  And the amazing thing is, the workouts are SHORT!  The entire routine is only 21 minutes long - 14 one-minute intensive exercises separated by 30 seconds of rest - you're done almost before you realize you've started!  It's about working SMARTER not HARDER!!  ALL THIS CAN BE YOURS!!  CALL NOW!!!!!

gasp    pant    gasp

Sorry folks.  I seemed to have hopped on the infomercial crazy train for a moment there.

And I've digressed from the story I wanted to tell.  Ahem.

So I was doing my home exercise routine yesterday when a knock sounded at my door.  I immediately knew who it would be - our building manager, who happens to live directly below us.  Sure enough, I opened the door to see his dour, disapproving face staring in at me through the protective barrier of the screen door.

He asked me if I was "exercising or something."  Panting and bathed in sweat, I motioned to my sneakers and gym shorts and said indeed I was.  He told me I had to stop.  "You can't do that.  We hear you downstairs and you wake baby."

Now, let me say right here and now that if I had been jumping up and down on their ceiling at 2 in the morning, or even 7, I would understand.  But this was 10 a.m., a perfectly reasonable time for me to be making a bit of noise - and considering I was only doing 14 minutes of exercise, very little of which involved any sort of noise at all (most of the exercises are squat, lunge, and resistance band-related), I felt I was perfectly within my rights as a paying renter to use my apartment as I saw fit.

But as I'm a fair person, I told him that I never intended to disturb their baby (actually their grand-baby), which is why I chose to exercise in the living room rather than one of the bedrooms.  He said, "Baby sleep in living room," so I said, "Okay, well then, would it be better if I did it in the bedroom?"  Reply:  "No.  You can't do it, you have to stop."

I started to get angry.  I told him that it was my home and that I had the right to exercise in it, particularly since I was barely making noise.  He told me I was being inconsiderate, and I almost inconsiderately punched him in his stupid face. I'll show you inconsiderate, you angry little bastard.

Instead, I once again tried to be the bigger person, and told him that the exercise was necessary for my health, therefore was there a better TIME at which I could do it, so as not to wake the baby?  Once again, I got the same reply:  "No.  You stop now.  No more."

I tried to continue the conversation, at which point he simply turned and WALKED AWAY.  In the middle of my sentence.  I trailed off, looking at his departing back in disbelief.  Then the coup de grace - he threw back over his shoulder, "We never USED to have problem before."

Meaning he didn't have this problem before I moved in with my boyfriend.  Meaning I'm a problem.  Meaning ever since I moved in (almost six months ago, mind you), I've been a big ol' headache in one way or another - he was probably referring not only to the recent noise, but also to the time I called him when our hot water stopped working.  What an awful tenant - it's hard to believe I've never had any problems at ANY of my nine other apartments.

Enough steam was coming out of my ears that I probably could've cooked a bunch of broccoli on top of my head.  I did my best not to slam the door shut.

The unfairness of it all - especially being called 'inconsiderate' when I was attempting to reach out halfway to find a solution that would work for both of us - just GRATED on me.  I was SEETHING inside.  And I needed an outlet.

So I pushed play and finished off my exercise program for the day...though I was sure to stay whisper quiet about the goddamn thing.

I was supposed to do my workout again today.  Instead, I'm sitting here at my desk, in full exercise costume, hesitating to start for fear I'll hear another knock at my door.  And that pisses me off.  

We're not having loud, raucous parties.  We don't crank the TV up to ridiculous decibels.  We pay our rent on time each and every month.  We don't complain when the manager neglects to fix our bathroom floor time and time again, so that a year later, the ancient floor tiles are completely shattered and the plywood is exposed.

No, we're meek, quiet, probably OVERLY considerate tenants.  Which makes the whole situation seem just that more unfair.

So we're gonna move.  We've been planning it for a long time anyway, for many reasons, but this was kind of the final straw and the camel is laid out, folks.

Our apartment manager can kiss my fat-but-trying-to-get-skinny-again ass.  And I'm sure that Barry would be proud of me for saying so.

'The View' of a bigot

Having been sick these past two weeks, I've found myself on the couch watching daytime television programming for the first time since my college roommate suckered me into "Days of Our Lives" the three months during which I didn't have a Tuesday 1pm class.

This time around, however, I'm not watching soap operas...or at least, not in the typical sense.  I watch morning talk shows, travel documentaries, oodles of CNN (Jack Cafferty is my favorite curmudgeon), and of course, the gab-rific 'The View.'

Being a left-minded gal, I tend to find Elisabeth Hasselbeck as grating as the time my next-door neighbor left town and forgot to turn her alarm clock off.  Being woken up at 5 in the morning by someone else's alarm is perhaps only slightly less annoying than having to hear it continuously for the next six hours until it finally reaches automatic shut-off.

What drives me bat-caca-crazy about this woman is not the fact that she's a staunch Republican.  I have many right wing friends, and lately we've been having a heck of a time getting into political scuffles via email forums, which we all find invigorating and thought provoking.  I enjoy hearing from people whose thoughts differ from my own.  I'll argue the issues all to hell, but that doesn't mean I don't want to hear the other side.

Elisabeth Hasselbeck takes it to a whole new level.  Well, the level isn't entirely new, seeing as how it was birthed by Fox News several years back...but it's a level which I find disturbing and absolutely disgusting.  It's bigotry.

Bigot: A person obstinately or intolerantly devoted to his or her own opinions and prejudices.

---Merriam-Webster Dictionary

As Mrs. Hasselbeck stumps for McCain/Palin both on 'The View' and off, she makes one thing abundantly clear - she's dead set in her beliefs and she doesn't want to hear it any other way.  Are the other women on the show vocal in their thoughts?  Absolutely.  But they rarely let those thoughts sweep them up in an emotional tidal wave like Hasselbeck does on a regular basis.  There is a difference between passion and hysterics.  Each day I watch, Lizzie either goes on the attack - and I feel like she's on the verge of throwing a punch - or else she goes on the defensive - and I feel like she's on the verge of breaking into tears.

I totally believe that we should all fight for what we believe in.  But in a forum like this, a daytime television round-table discussion show, shouldn't we be talking before we start yelling?  There's no discussion with Hasselbeck. There is no debate.  There is her way or the highway.  

She refuses to listen.  Even when the other ladies are trying to be rational, trying to ask her calmly about her beliefs, or questioning the rationality behind them, she immediately jumps to her emotional cannons and begins to fire.

There have been rumors of late that Elisabeth Hasselbeck is considering leaving 'The View' in search of greener pastures over at - who could've guessed it? - Fox News.  An inside source claimed that she felt she was being 'picked on' at the View, and that she wasn't being allowed equal and fair time to express her side of the issues.

She may even be right. I do think the show tends to lean to the left.  But if her 'side' (meaning the right-wing policies she embraces) doesn't get equal time, there's no one to blame but Hasselbeck herself.  I firmly believe that another more level-headed, less prone to emotional outbursts, intelligent conservative female could hold Hasselbeck's position and get those opinions out in a reasonable fashion that the other hosts could tolerate.

During a recent show, Hasselbeck even went so far as to ask why they always had to talk about Sarah Palin.  Why?  Isn't it painfully obvious why we've ALL been talking about Sarah Palin?  Because before last month, none of us had a clue who the hell this woman WAS.  And she's unique!  She is the only woman on the big ticket, and only the second woman in U.S. history to run for the office of Vice President.  Isn't this enough reason for us to be talking about her?  How the hell else are we supposed to form any sort of opinion about her, and figure out if this is a person we'd like to see as the nation's number two?

In the interest of keeping this post from becoming a novella, I'll stop there.  But let me propose this peace treaty for the ladies of 'The View': Elisabeth, Lizzie dearest, please stop the emotional outbursts and keep it to rational conversation, and perhaps the other hens will see fit to stop pecking you so much and let you have your time.

Hearing both sides of an argument is important.  But if you're going to scream at me in my right ear until I'm deaf, all I'm gonna be able to hear is what's coming in from the left.

Darn it all, I just gotta sit down and throw together a gosh darn blog, by golly!

Hopefully, you've all been following the political race this season...I'm not sure how you could avoid it, quite frankly.  It's like the newest reality television hit.  I'm willing to bet that whichever ticket loses the presidential election, you'll find the vice presidential might-have-been on 'Dancing with the Stars' next fall.

And I think we can all agree that while Joe Biden might have a great set of gams, we'd all much rather see Sarah Palin do the cha-cha, even if it's not for the same reasons.

I'll be the first to admit that Mrs. Palin did a fine job in the vice presidential debate last night.  As many pundits are saying, she certainly did exceed expectations...those expectations being that she would finish the job of imploding the Republican ticket with her rambling, incoherent anti-answers and lack of political knowledge.

So yes.  She succeeded in appearing to be well-versed in political talking points while not coming across as lost or meandering.  What she did come across as, however, is insultingly folksy and falsely charming.

Let me assure you, I come from a very 'folksy' background myself.  I grew up in a tiny town (technically deemed a village) in rural mid-Michigan, a town which has an official population of 882, as cited by the U.S. Census Bureau in 2000 - five years AFTER I graduated high school and moved away.

When I was growing up there, there wasn't much to do outside of school sports.  You had to drive 20-30 minutes to get to the nearest 4-screen movie theatre (where I had my first job) and half again as far to reach a run-down shopping mall in Flint.

I literally grew up in a barn.  A pole-barn.  OK, I didn't spend all of my formative years there, just a few whilst my stepfather built a more typical house on our property.  Property which was in the middle of a dense woods - I had to be driven almost two miles to my bus stop every morning.

I knew everyone in my high school, no matter what grade they were in.  I knew a lot of kids who went out cow-tipping and snipe-hunting.  We all wore clothes five years behind the fashion trend.

And even today, being one of the 'elitists' living in Los Angeles, trying to make a living in the entertainment industry, I'm still very close to my mother, an avid outdoorswoman who enjoys activities such as snowshoeing and hunting, but who also writes for a - gasp! - newspaper.

I'm rambling.  What does all this have to do with Sarah Palin?

I'll tell you what.  I come from just as 'common' a background as Mrs. Palin, if not arguably more so.  As does my mother, who is closer in age to the governor than I am.  And yet neither of us employ this "golly gee" and "doggone it" verbiage that the erstwhile vice presidential candidate seems to cherish.

I'm a regular Jane.  I work hard to make a living.  I'm lower middle class.  But I don't need to be cajoled as if I'm a simple-minded 'hick,' what with all the cutesy 'Darn it all!'s.  I felt talked down to.  You're probably asking, 'But what about Biden?  With all of his high-falutin Washington demagoguery, didn't you feel belittled?'

My answer is, quite the opposite!  I like when someone speaks to me in an intelligent manner.  I like feeling as if I'm learning something from them.  And seeing as how these two people are running for the number two position in the nation, with the possibility of ascending to numero uno, I would certainly HOPE to GOD that they displayed a high level of intellect.  I'd LIKE for someone smarter than me to be in the White House! For a change.

And what got to me more than all of the Pollyanna colloquialisms was the incessant winking. UGH!!  I was writhing, I was so annoyed!  If a woman winks at me that often, I know that either she's being condescending to me, or else I'm in the wrong bar.

Clearly, I'm voting Democrat this November.  Was my mind changed by this debate?  Absolutely not.  I was already an Obama girl, though not one with a tacky You Tube video.  But Joe Biden did win me over.  I didn't really know much about him before last night, and hadn't seen him speak very often. I found him to be a smart dude with a direct way of speaking, a man who knows where he stands and isn't afraid to get a little emotional when talking about his family.

A candidate who reeks of being - shall I dare say it? - truly genuine.

Unlike some hockey moms I know.

Ode To My Size 4 Jeans

Okay, first off, to all you size 2 bitches out there smirking at me right now, you can just take your attitude and shove it down your throat until you vomit up that peanut butter Clif bar you ate for dinner.

Wow!  Glad I got THAT off my chest.  To get back on track...

Why is it that periods of joy in my life always seem to be accompanied by additional inches on my thighs? (Also butt, waist, and boobs, though I'm not complaining much about that last one.)

People out there know what I'm talking about - Happy Fat.  Sometimes it's hidden under an alias, such as "the Freshman 15," which is simply code for, "Jesus H., I am SO glad I am finally out on my own, away from my controlling parental units, experiencing all of the freedoms and unprotected sex that a good college education can provide, that I'm going to eat nothing but delivery pizza and microwavable ramen noodles for the next four years."

Quite simply put, when you are happy in your life, you're happy with yourself.  And you tend not to focus so much on what you look like or what you're eating...as long as you're happy.

Me? Well, I found the love of my life.  My one.  And with my one, I found my twenty. 

Pounds.  Yeah, that's right.  I packed on nearly TWENTY pounds, that's 2-0, in less than a year.  And all because I'm happier than I've ever been in my entire life.  I'm more at peace with the world, and with my self, and I've been living in a blissful ball of ignorance while gorging on romantic dinners for two.

So goodbye, tiny designer size 4 jeans that no longer go up past my now elephantine kneecaps.  Adios, hot little strapless dress that can no longer hold in my ballooning mammaries.  Fare thee well, every belt in my closet. Seriously. EVERY belt.

And hello, stretch pants and oversize t-shirts.  I am so thoroughly relieved that flowy, loose tunic tops are all the rage right now.

You know what the most depressing point was?  Every girl out there - and hell, maybe some guys - have a beloved pair or two of what we like to call 'Fat Pants.'  Jeans that are a little loose, khakis you can't wear without a belt, you get the picture.  Now, I know what you're thinking - you're thinking, ah, her Fat Pants mysteriously morphed into her Skinny Jeans!  But no, dear friends, a much more shocking phenomenon occurred.

My Fat Pants became, in a word, un-zippable.

WHAT?!?!  You mean, not only are they no longer loose and comfy, a perfect fit on those bloated days that occur approximately every three and a half weeks, but they don't even fit a TEENSY LITTLE BIT??

In.  Out.  Breathe.

So I've had to go out and yes, actually buy a new wardrobe.  But you know who went with me?  The best guy a girl could be lucky enough to snag.  So even though I've gone up a few sizes - nearly an entire cast member from the new 90210! - I still consider myself a pretty blessed chick - and I don't use that word very often.  Blessed, I mean.  I use 'chick' all the time.  It's cleaner than 'bitch.'

Don't worry your pretty little heads about me!  I'm perfectly, wonderfully...happy.

Just as long as my new Fat Pants don't start to pinch.

Welcome! Now get out.

After much goading from my friends and family, I've decided to (finally) start my own blog.  There.  Are you happy now?  Yeah, I'm talking to you.  Jerk.

I'm brimming over with thoughts about my life, L.A., the current political landscape, and shoddy indoor plumbing - so get ready for some blogs to roll out on the Summer Herrick brain assembly line.

I'm Summer Herrick, and I approve this message.  I think.