Fun With Play-Dough

While speaking out about Reverend Wright today, Obama looked beaten down. I feel a little beaten down myself, just watching this unfold. Obama is finding out first hand that running for office is no picnic, and that he’s hit quicksand. Once you are in quicksand, you rarely get out; the harder you try to escape, the deeper you sink. The reason he is where he is: he tried to solve this with a soft approach. He tried to be nice, and in the electoral process, there is no room for nice. There is only room for hiding in the bushes and waiting to pounce.

Is this going to cost him the nomination? Possibly.

Time for Obama to fight back. How is up to him, but here are some suggestions.

• Keep smiling. I know, this sounds inane, but when you get that worried look on your face, people subconsciously interpret it as doubt and crankiness. Facials are important; smiling gets a certain sense of confidence across. If you have your own teeth, smile big; if not, keep your mouth kind of closed while you smile. (That means you, Romney).
• Keep talking. Unlike what the media wants everyone to believe, many of us continue to care about your message. If you continue to talk about what really matters (hint: NOT rev. Wright) we will keep listening.
• Go on Colbert a few more times.
• Secure Edwards’ endorsement, you know he’s been keeping quiet, and you need to close the deal before Hillary does. Bribe and blackmail if you must.
• Fight fire with fire. For god’s sake, somebody needs to dig up some dirt on whatever church McCain belongs to. What are you paying those interns for, anyway?
• Don’t you have Oprah in your corner? Remember that white-women swing vote you’ve heard so much about? Listen, babe, they all watch Oprah, and what’s worse: they actually listen to her. Send Michelle, she’s pretty.

The media seems to think we’ve missed something, as they keep yapping about how expensive the gas is. Do they think we haven’t noticed? Talking about it doesn’t make it any cheaper anyway. Just remember that it can always be worse. My father, who lives in the Netherlands, pays (we did the math) $8.79 per gallon. I don’t know about you, but all I have to do is think of that number, and I’ll whistle while I pump.

156,463 homes have so far been foreclosed in 2008, so I’d say that the price of gas is probably not the biggest problem right now. Where do all these people go? How many of them actually end up homeless? What happens to the ones that don’t? Numbers don’t mean much without the human faces behind the story.

Nonetheless, there is much talk about the Gas tax holiday. I wasn’t sure exactly what the details were; yet I’d love to have an opinion. Here’s what I found, so you can make up your own mind:

Gas tax holidays are typically bad tax policy. First, the revenue must be made up somehow unless the state cuts spending. (In the case of a surplus, that still means that some spending is foregone or some other tax cut is foregone.) Therefore, another tax is going to have to go up or spending will have to be cut. Second, cutting the gas tax may not have much effect in the short-run due to relatively inelastic short-run supply, meaning much of the benefit of holidays will flow to the producers (i.e. stockholders of oil and gas companies). The longer the tax cut, however, the greater the benefits to consumers. (Source: The Tax Foundation blog)

“In the case of a surplus…” Now, that’s funny.

Then there was Josef Fritzl, who went to court today. Why, I’m not sure. I know every country needs an honest and fair legal system, but sometimes you have to wonder whether an exception should be made. Maybe they can accidentally set him loose and leave it up to his neighbors to deal with him. Not that it matters to the victims; after 24 years underground, suffering that level of abuse, no one can expect any semblance of normalcy. And the children that have never seen daylight; forget about it.

His wife claims she never knew, and I have enormous difficulty believing that. Not much is known about her life with him, at this point; the only thing we’ve been told is that he was an overbearing man who had an iron grip on his family, and had strictly forbidden anyone to go downstairs. Maybe she did, maybe she didn’t; but wouldn’t she have wondered why it was so damn important she stay out of the basement? For 24 years? What terribly monstrosity did he tell her was in there? Oh wait; that was him. 

We continue to struggle with the dirty words. “Poop” is the favorite right now; I’ve told my daughter that it’s okay to say it once a month or so, but every five minutes, I can’t handle. I promised that if she doesn’t stop, I’m washing her mouth out with soap. Does anybody know if that is still legal? And is there a kind of soap that’s filthier than all the others? Or are we talking child abuse here?

I think what bothers me the most is not necessarily the language itself (although fart and poop can soon lead to worse) but the fact that I honestly don’t remember being six, and therefore cannot understand why this is so much fun. And trust me on this: she’s enjoying herself immensely. Of course, there’s also the three-year-old brother who eggs her on by laughing loudly at every transgression. He now substitutes Poopy-doo for verbs and nouns at will.

“Did you make a nice drawing for mommy? Oh, you even drew the sun!”

“No. It’s a Poopy-doo.” (That’s a lie; I can recognize a sun when I see one, even when drawn by a three-year-old without the slightest artistic ability)

My Rebbetzin says God does not perform unnecessary miracles; if we can fix things ourselves, there’s no need for Him to split the sea. Since I have not heard any booming voice lately telling my daughter to shape up, I’m going to have to come up with a solution myself.

I try discussing it politely, and ask her if she wants to sound like a trashcan.

“Trashcans don’t talk,” she says.

“I thought that too, but apparently there’s one dressed in pink jammies sitting on my couch right now,” I tell her. If she thinks she can get cute with me, she’s got another thing coming. Meantime, I’m having nightmares that involve being out in public while my children yell naughty words at each and every stranger. Is this a battle I’ve already lost, or is there still hope?

I ask her if she thinks she’s smart; she answers yes, she’s a bright child with a great future.

“When you say those words, you don’t sound smart.”
“Well, I am.”

“They don’t take potty-mouths at Yale, Princeton, or Harvard.”

She is intimidated, I can tell, because her eyes get wide. While the iron is hot, I tell myself, and administer the final blow: “They won’t even take you at NYU.”

Bingo. My daughter has absolutely no idea what I just said; which is why this works so well. Nothing intimidates her more than people talking about things she can’t put into context. It distracts her immediately; it causes her to wonder whether there’s a smallish chance she is not the smartest person in the room. She suspects, from time to time, that I have a bit more education than she does; often she needs to be reminded that finishing Kindergarten isn’t all that impressive. So; Mommy is smart, mommy says don’t say “poop”, problem solved, thank you very much.

See? This parenting thing isn’t all that hard.

Many people are wondering why Rev. Wright doesn’t keep his mouth shut. He has decided to finally speak out, and he doesn’t know when to stop. Why is that? Oh, that’s right; Free Speech.

Of course, Reverend W. has forgotten the cardinal rule today: we only like Free Speech in theory. Whoever has the audacity to actually make use of that right, will be punished faster than you can say sorry Massa, did I forget my place?

Reverend W. makes people uncomfortable; the truth tends to do that. Especially if that truth comes from a black preacher and Civil Rights activist.

I think the question of why he chooses to speak now is insulting in and of itself. The real question is, why not? Let me rephrase that. Why the hell not? Because he hits the sore spot? Because he might be right? Because, if we are honest with ourselves, and try to really listen to what he has to say, we have to become part of the discussion? And maybe because listening to him makes it necessary for us to think?

Disagree with him if you feel like it; I know I do. Some of his statements have pissed me off, I can’t deny it. But disagreement is essential in a democracy.  Telling somebody to shut up is not.

Of course, there’s fall out for Obama. But if this is going to cost him the nomination, we are worse off than we thought. The point was brought up by one commentator that many voters will have lingering doubts as to whether Obama secretly agrees with Reverend Wright. That means Obama needs to cater to those voters that can’t think for themselves.

As a nation, we have some growing and maturing to do. I sincerely hope we can get to that one of these days. Meantime, I don’t think reverend Jeremiah Wright should talk less; I think he should talk more. And while he’s at it, he should call all his friends to do the same. 

My Husband and six-year-old daughter Isabella are out running errands, and I call the cell to make sure he doesn’t forget to pick up certain things.

“What did she want?” Isa asks, and he tells her I need some stuff from the store.

She asks: “Like what?” and she has that tone; the one that says: don’t lie to me. I smell something mysterious.

“It’s a very long story,” he tells her.

“I have time. Tell me.”

“Maxi Pads,” he replies without thinking things through.

“What are Maxi Pads?” Oh, crap.

So he gives her some vague story about how it’s not really blood; it’s actually baby food, and if you don’t have a baby, it comes out, and so on and so forth. Baby food, huh, so that’s what that is. Glad we got that out of the way.  Next, she’ll be asking why I don’t bottle it up and donate it to the food bank. “I didn’t want her to be freaked out,” he says. Of course, I have no right to be critical of him, he was in a pinch, and you have to say something. It’s not as if my explanation about “really big band-aids” was all that satisfying.

In spite of my husbands stellar explanation, she doesn’t drop it; this is much too interesting a topic. Like a terrier she hangs on, and continues to ask questions when she gets home: “Is it like those white thingies with the little strings that I like to pull apart?” she asks. “That’s right,” my husband says, and disappears into his office to buy time.

Why is it that children always ask these types of questions before we’ve had time to come up with a satisfying answer? I suddenly have a lot of sympathy for those parents that invented the stork and the cabbage patch; I’m even considering using those myself. That way, if she spreads any stories around at school, I don’t have to worry they think we’re traumatizing her by disclosing too much too early. They’ll just think we’re too old fashioned; I think I can live with that.