Miss 2 Independent

I have a reputation for being independent.

Sometimes, my bullheadedness is a gift.

Generally, single mothers don't move out to villages just outside the suburbs.

But I had to, yanno.

There are times, however, when I really feel the lack of a husband.

Perhaps I should say, that I ache to have someone around who would help me shoulder the burdens of being independent (grin). Yes, I know this doesn't make a lot of sense.

And usually, it's when I've gotten myself into some darnfool situation, and am not sure how to escape clothed and in my right mind.

Last night was one of those times. I knew it was going to start snowing. Our entire region had been told, over and over again, to go home, cook French toast, and STAY OFF THE ROADS.

Only my ex husband and the Boy Scouts in Paoli hadn't gotten the message.

As the early evening crept towards night, I became more and more worried about picking up my son at the Scout cabin. But after calling my ex a few times and telling him how concerned I was about driving, I decided to eat dinner, and then head out.

An inch or so of snow already blanketed Fairview Road. And it was coming down faster and faster. Of course, no snowplows had been out yet -- the storm had only picked up pace in the last hour. Blind grit got me out of my driveway -- then the fear set it.

Gripping the steering wheel like my hands had been fused with it, I crept down Little Conestoga Road.

Most of the traffic, and there wasn't a lot, was heading back towards me. These were probably commuters who had gotten out of work later than the French toast crowd.

The wind blew the flakes against the cold windshield, making it harder to see the road ahead.

Even the main roads were already covered with snow.

By the time I got to my ex's house, I was aware that I couldn't travel to Paoli to pick up Mr. C. But by this time the Scouts had gotten the memo, and were on their way back to his dad's home.

So do you think I drove home with my son that night? R u kidding?

Do you think I'm stupid?

Wakin up in Vegas

Well, President Obama is once again in trouble with the taxpayers of Las Vegas.

Mired in recession, the burghers of the city were not happy to hear the President tell New Hamphsire residents:



"When times are tough, you tighten your belts. You don't go buying a boat when you can barely pay your mortgage. You don't blow a bunch of cash on Vegas when you're trying to save for college. You prioritize. You make tough choices. It's time your government did the same."

This isn't the first time that our President has commented on what goes on in America's premier city of all things gaming. Last summer he said that those who got taxpayer bailout money shouldn't be using it on "junkets" to Las Vegas.

What all the President's talk of bipartisanship couldn't achieve, the likely off-handed comments did. Republicans and Democrats from the state have united in criticizing Obama for bashing the state industry.

OK, let's take a deep breath here and ask ourselves -- would we want Uncle Freddie Mac or Aunt Fannie Mae going off to spend our money in casinos? Do we want the errant ex-husband who owes alimony or our twenty-five year old daughter gambling money that they don't have so that the residents of Las Vegas will have jobs?

Tough, isn't it? I'm guessing that, however bad we feel for the people of Las Vegas, we know there is a lot of truth in what Obama said.

I'm more interested in why he said it. Dunno about you, but I flashed back to the time when Obama apologized to Nancy Reagan for saying that she had seances in the White House.

Obama doesn't crack a lot of jokes, at least in public. When he gives speeches, whether he's speaking to the American people or to Congress (I guess they qualify as people) he often sounds like a professor of chemistry explaining the periodic table to a class of kindergartners -- and wondering why they don't get it.

But every now and again, this little imp inside erupts -- and it's kind of sad, in a way, that we can't even allow him to look like, well, most of the rest of us without slicing and dicing him for the few times he has misspoken.

Eliminate the mistakes, and his reserve would be almost unbearable.

So let's cut the guy a break, huh?

And maybe even hope for a few more times when he deviates from the script.

Otherwise, it's going to be a very long three years.

Sex robots. Coming to a Walmart near you?

Forgive the blog break.

I've been (actually, I am still) on deadline with a commentary, pondering graduate school, working out the contract for a new job, and wondering whether my daughter will remember her homework books.

Wow. I get to be surprised!

Beside, I'm honestly not sure that I want to write about the sex robot.

To be honest with you, the whole idea makes me a little sick.

I suppose we should have expected a cleverly designed machine to service your every need, guys. Sorry.

She doesn't clean -- or cook.

A lot of the current epidemic of depersonalized sex can be attributed to economics.

In our culture sexuality became unhooked from emotional intimacy when you could go and buy pornographic magazines along with an ice cream cone at your local news store. Then came phone sex.

Now we have multiple avenues for satiety online. Or fantasies in which we can snoop on someone else's life.

Capitalism -- ain't it beautiful!

So why bother with a real person? You have to talk to them. Figure out how to get them out of your bed and house in the morning.

Cope with their hurt feelings if you don't want to pursue seeing them again.

Robots.

Much simpler.

No one gets hurt.

Except for those who are hurt...already.