Recently in Politics Category

It wasn't until some time late Monday that I realized that Mark and I staying home alone with the kids on election night was a poor decision. So I called out to my Friday Mama Posse like a deer raises her tail to signal her kinfolk.

Sure we have young kids. Yes, it's a school night. But heralding this new desperately needed change, something that's been dangled in front of us tantalizingly for so very long--if, or when, we finally get it and seal the deal--we really need to be in the company of friends.

So I heated up some homemade squash soup, tossed champagne left-over from our wedding into the fridge, and called an order in to Extreme Pizza.

By 7:30 Megan had already cried tears of joy, most adults were wearing old party hats from Kate's second birthday, and I was drunkenly photographing my "I Voted" sticker in different settings--on a doll, on Baby Wes, on Mary's forehead. Oh, and let's not forget me making Drew pretend to shoot up with the Fisher Price doctor's kit syringe.

Good times.

One could make the argument that the kids--bleary-eyed one-year-olds and amped up three-year-olds who were ravaging the house with a toxic combination of toys, organic Teddy Puffs, and each other's rabid encouragement--were acting more mature than the adults.

Aside from the two lucky ones who scored our limited Baby Sleeping Vessels, the kids stayed up way too late. And the adults drank way too much.

We're all paying for it today, and I can't think of any reason more worth it.

Barack on, Obama! Once these hangovers pass we can all work on getting used to what it feels like to be proud of our President. And heck, maybe even our country.

Can I hear an Amen?!

I'm exhausted just thinking about how much cramming Sarah Palin is doing to get ready for the debate tomorrow.  

I wonder what approach they're taking with her. Flash cards? Crib sheets? Miking her updo? For her sake I hope they're coming at it from all angles.

Oh Sarah. It's sure to be a long night for you. But all the coffee along with the stress--I mean 'energy'--coming off the pack of Republican handlers frantically working with you should help get you through.

Besides, remember all those long nights you've had conferring with the Russians on complex foreign policy issues? You're used to burning the midnight oil!

And really, we've all had our share of all-nighters in college, right? So it's in that spirit that we in the McClusky household will be watching the debate tomorrow night. We'll do a shot every time Palin says something utterly asinine.

Now that I'm thinking of it, maybe Mark should plan to take Friday off of work.

Halloween is like black licorice--you either love it or hate it. I personally loathe black licorice but I ADORE Halloween.

What can I say? It's a legitimate day upon which my inner showman can shine. If you've known me for more than say, three minutes, this I'm sure surprises you not in the least.

Hey, materialists get Christmas, romantics get Valentine's Day, and folks like me get Halloween.

I don't consider myself terribly competitive, but on Halloween no last-minute Walgreens caliber witch costume will suffice. In fact, if it ever got to me going that sad route, I'd rather just not participate. And unlike some folks who specialize in the gory, scary, or sexy, I don't like to limit myself. I've dappled some in the scary realm, and intentionally steered clear of the costume-as-excuse-to-show-leg. I mean, anyone with a nice pair of stems and a little imagination can find a way to expose their assets. But the sexy pirate, the tavern wench, the 80's slut, or the naughty devil get-ups not only offend me with their lack imagination--they're just plain tacky.

Though bad taste comes in many forms. And some would argue that in my career of crafting costumes I've teetered on the brink of it myself. But as my old friend Andy Robinson says, "I'm not for everyone."

If there's any one theme, I'd say my costumes are most often reflective of the times. Like in 2004, I couldn't resist a snarky 'tribute' to The Gipper. Wearing a sensible dark wool dress, a scalloped gold necklace and brooch, and a fluffy brunette wig in an effort to make my head appear as large as humanly possible, I was a mourning Nancy. I walked through the streets of the Castro--San Francisco's dearly-departed Halloween epicenter--clutching a tri-folded American flag, sobbing into a hankie and crying out occasionally for "My Ronny." Those gay boys who hated Reagan loved it.

My engineering masterpiece wasn't a terribly original costume, Janet Leigh showering in Psycho. Its merits revolved around its construction. I rigged a piece of PVC pipe in a halo high above my head, from which I hung a plastic shower curtain and a large dummy arm clutching a bloody knife that swung at me. Mark--a non-lover of Halloween who graciously endures my antics--made a soundtrack loop of the famous "WAAH WAAH WAAH" sound effect and secured a micro cassette and little speakers somewhere along my back. Try listening to that for more than  five minutes without wanting to stab yourself. But, hey, that's the kind of commitment I'm willing to make for a costume.

Which is to say I've also suffered my fair share of physical pain. Sure as kids we all had that annoying condensation build-up inside our plastic masks, or costumes that made sitting and certainly peeing an impossibility. But try lugging a hand-crafted sandwich board-sized Wheaties box with a oval cut out for your face to an evening of hi-jinx and debauchery (while trying to look cute and meet men). This I endured for my Olympic gymnast Kerri Strug costume, complete with the bandaged injured ankle she still vaulted her way to gold medal glory with. (Am I dating myself here? She made all the news back in '96, trust me. Michael Phelps may we remember you 12 years from now...)

Anyway, all I can say is that costume delivered a facial ring of fire the likes of which I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. I also did a decent job of whacking people with the side of the box whenever I'd turn even slightly. Though my friend Kevin, dressed in a hastily-made but hilarious Bela Karolyi costume--which he perfected by sadistically barking heavily-accented gymnastic directives at me--did his best to guide me through crowds to avoid injuring innocent bystanders.

Some time in that same late 90's era, horrified Noe Valley mothers pulled their children close to them on the sidewalk when they realized my blonde wig, pink satin dress, lace ankle socks, and Little Miss Denver sash was an overgrown imitation of recently-deceased pageant-rific JonBenet Ramsey. Young girls walked up to me cooing about princesses and their mother's smiled, then blanched, and steered their innocents clear of me. And I don't even think they noticed my excellent strangulation-bruising make-up job.

Ah JonBenet. That one was a classic. Those patent leather Mary Janes are still around in a box somewhere.

But really, the costumes over the years are like one's children. How could you ever say you love one more than another?

Last year, more than 7 months preggy with Paigey, the timing was perfect for me to become one with Buddha. (Ask me if I'm still bitter that it didn't garner a prize at the company party, then say, "Don't tell me!" and guess. I bet you'll get it right.) Needless to say, my rotund midsection fit the Buddha bill to perfection, but despite my best efforts at Ace-bandage bondage, I think I was a bit more buxom than would have been ideal.

So often it's the timing that makes the difference between a good costume and a really offensive great one. Which is why while watching Kate and Paige playing from across the room yesterday I nearly squealed with excitement at the thought of two costumes that were spot-on for them.

All it'll take is a brown dress, a little black hair dye on Kate, and maybe a bit of a trim--otherwise she's ready to roll as a perfect Piper Palin. Of course, she'll be cradling Miss Paige, playing Trig, and I'll coach her to do that little spit on the fingers and hair-smoothing maneuver we saw at the RNC.

It's perfect, right? I mean, how many people have kids the right age for this? Not to mention a mother with the utterly unflinching poor taste to pull such a thing off.

Of course, I wouldn't ever really do this. For the costume to be truly authentic I'd need to surround the girls with a convention center's worth of 9,000 or so utterly deranged mis-informed and asinine Republicans. And thankfully I couldn't find that may conservatives in Northern California, even if for the sake of a damn good costume I wanted to.