Governor Paterson's New BFF

To quote my favorite three-year-old neighbor, "What the ?" I just learned today that New York Governor David Paterson plans to appoint Caroline Kennedy to the NY Senate seat currently occupied by Secretary of State-designate Hillary Clinton. Caroline Kennedy! That's right, a woman whose credentials and qualifications can be summed up in one word: Kennedy. Caroline is about as qualified for this position as I am. She is a professional fundraiser and she is darn good at it. Her work on non-profit organizations has drawn millions in revenue. She helped raise over $65 million dollars for the New York City public schools alone. Her name is power and she knows how to wield it. However admirable her volunteer work is, it's ridiculous to say this qualifies her for appointment to the Senate. And so here we sit, twenty minutes after Sarah Palin was savagely beaten down and exposed as unqualified to run for national office, only to witness another absurdly unqualified woman, not be put up for vote, but instead, appointed to one of the most powerful positions in the land. Our citizenship met Sarah Palin, judged her weak, and voted accordingly. At least she could boast of being a successful governor! Caroline has nothing but her rich heritage and yet, she'll be 1 of 100 senators deciding the fate of our nation during this crucial moment in time. Ludicrous!

So, why would Patterson make such a preposterous appointment when there are countless elected public servants in the state of New York who actually have merit and ideas to contribute to the Senate? (By the way, everyone is sentient to the patronizing stance that it must be a woman who replaces Sen. Clinton. Offensive to the nth degree!) Well, see above paragraph. Patterson is purchasing Caroline Kennedy's fundraising potential and will no doubt cash in his premium two years from now when he runs for re-election. Caroline will dutifully make the phone calls and cheerfully host the dinners to garner millions of dollars for Patterson (and other Democratic incumbents). Because the exchange of goods will not actually occur until 2010, Patterson will get away with this outrageous mockery of serving the public good.

And to think that Illinois Governor Rod Blagojevich will be sitting alone at the defense table. Patterson should be right next to him. The arrogance of these men, to think they can put their personal interest above that of the state's is, as Dan Carlin so aptly argued, treasonous. How do these people get elected? Wait, come to think of it, Paterson was not elected governor, but instead took office in the wake of the Governor Spitzer scandal. The people of New York are actually three steps away from selecting Hillary Clinton's replacement. In light of that, wouldn't it be all the more prudent for Paterson to appoint a New York state senator whom the people have elected at some level, showing some civic trust and endorsement? Democracy is wasted on those who are too indolent to elect respectable leaders. Shame!

Buster & Lucille

Since his entrance into this world, Eli has been acutely aware of his raiment. He cried all the way home from the hospital and I have since decided that it was because he did not care for the particular color of his receiving blanket. As soon as he was physically able, he began to dress himself and his primary language skills were honed as he artfully described what he would and would not wear. For example, last spring I pulled out a pair of brightly colored short pants. Eli took one look at them and said, "No thanks. Those look like a clown." I looked at the shorts again, and realized, he was absolutely correct. (Yet, to my recollection, he has never actually seen a clown.)

Well, Eli's fastidious attitude took a hilarious turn this last summer. One morning he decided, from that day forth, he would dress like me. And so he would wait until I dressed for the day and then he would go through his drawers to find a matching outfit. If I wore jeans, he wore jeans; when I wore cargo pants, he wore cargo pants. White shirt-white shirt, running shoes-running shoes, belt-belt. Color, pockets, buttons and length had to be the same. (I should mention how shocked I was to discover the similarities in our wardrobe. My entire collection consists of various shades of blue, white, gray, tan, and brown. It was frighteningly easy for Eli to "match" me 99% of the time.) Eventually Eli was calling out to me from his bedroom, "Are we wearing blue shorts?" and "Are we wearing our sandals today?" On the rare occasion I had to dress like a woman (rare, indeed!), Eli would sob and beg me to change into something he could match. The hardest day of the week, apparel-wise, was Sunday. For three or four weeks in a row, Eli pleaded with me not to wear a skirt but instead to wear brown pants like him. Those Sundays we left for church with poor Eli sulking in the back seat. He acted as though I had broken some filial pact and betrayed our beautiful dress-code. And so, you can only imagine his delight when last Sunday I pulled out a sweater that is merely a blacker, larger version of one of his church sweaters. He sang songs all the way to church and proudly sat on my lap the entire meeting. 'Tis indeed a magical time of year when even on Sunday we get to "match."

Did Paul Revere Really Make the Midnight Ride?

The girls and I were enjoying a rather smart and patriotic discussion about the first Thanksgiving and I was pleased to see they are getting old enough to grasp the significance of this national holiday. As we talked I could see they were beginning to better comprehend the sacrifice and strength of those brave passengers on the Mayflower. We talked about that first harsh winter in Plymouth, how one-half of the company died, dropping the numbers from 102 to 53 and yet, come spring, not one of the remaining pilgrims chose to return to England. What a valiant and hearty group. Michal asked what sickness had killed so many and I admitted I wasn't sure but it was likely some type of pneumonia or tuberculosis. And then Sam piped up, "No, it wasn't pneumonia. It was small pox. And we gave it to them on purpose!"

Needless to say, the beauty of the moment was shattered and I had the strained pleasure of clarifying Sam's comment. (I am still concerned by her use of the word "we.") Anyway, a few short hours later, my precious, not-so-innocent, daughters and I sat down to enjoy a lovely turkey dinner having just discussed (ever so lightly) the ugliest and darkest chapter of this nation's history. Ah, parenthood.

This begs the question, how does my six-year-old know about small pox? (And it's application as an agent of biological warfare in the New World.) Next thing she'll be telling us George Washington never chopped down his father's cherry tree and Lincoln did not walk ten miles to return three pennies. History is getting frightfully honest at the elementary school level. One thing is sure, whoever told Sam about small pox better not step on the wonderment that is Santa Claus.