sarah-palin-speech.jpgIf I were running for Vice-President, what would I wear?  In light of Sarah Palin’s recent clothing expenditures ($150,000 and counting), it occurred to me to wonder if I were running for Vice-President, what would I wear? I’m a Brentwood Mom. Jeans? Sweats? No, probably not.

But Sarah Palin’s put herself out there as a one-woman beauty pageant.  I’ve never seen her wear the same thing twice.  By the way, there’s nothing wrong with wearing the same thing twice.  Same jacket, different skirt, same jacket, different top.  By the way, t-shirts look perfectly fine under a fancy jacket.  Could someone teach this girl to accessorize? 

Newsflash:  no one ever sees your feet, mostly you’re standing behind a podium. 

Fashion tip:  cranberry goes with almost everything.  One pair of cranberry heels, one pair of black heels, one pair of beige heels, a couple of pairs of boots, on a particularly long day – wear flats.

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potluck-table.jpgI do not consider myself a political person.  I listen to NPR because the voices are soothing and it keeps me company while I cook.  Try as I might, I often don't really hear what they are saying.

My husband and I have hosted potluck dinner parties for the first two debates and while I watched most of them, I was more interested in the food and our friends.  Having said that, it is impossible to ignore the fact that our country is on the verge of inevitable, significant change, and none of us know what it is going to look like, and that is frightening.  My friends and I have found the best remedy is to be together!

A new friend and renowned chef, Thor Christenson, had a small group of us over for a "financial crisis chicken dinner".  He lives in Echo Park and made more than one gentle jab at "Westsiders" (that would be me and my husband) and how precious our food talk is (everything organic, sustainable, raw, green, local...).

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planes.jpgFour days in San Francisco is a "Stewardess" dream trip. My crew of 10 departed Atlanta promptly at 9 am to pick up the Philadelphia Eagles and head to San Francisco for their game this weekend. We parked at a small, remote airfield along with a bunch of tiny private jets scattered around, at least they appear tiny compared to our Boeing 767. We got a lot of looks and everyone wanted to know what we were doing there. When a sports team charters a big plane from a major airline, we gladly park anywhere they want.

The air stairs arrived and a friendly face greeted us only to pass along the grim news that the team would not be arriving until 4 p.m., which was 5 hours later. My first thought was 'oh great; this meant lunch out of a vending machine and some free, bad coffee,' because there are no restaurants inside remote air terminals. A few minutes later a man in a white van arrived and asked if any of us would be interested in going to Ruby Tuesday's. We all jumped up in unison and couldn't get in his van fast enough, without ever bothering to question who this man was. We could not have been more excited if he was taking us to Mario Batalli's restaurant.

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regfrm.jpgI don’t have enough hobbies.

Following the mantra of “grassroots organizing,” I set up shop at 3 different sites to hunt for new voters: Homeboy Industries on Friday, the Westside Costco on Saturdays and St. Augustine’s Catholic Church on Sundays.

I don’t need volunteers, infrastructure or permission as long as I’m on the public sidewalk. With one rickety TV tray, a folding chair, two clipboards with forms I pick up at the post office, and some hand outs I made which compare Obama vs. McCain views on major issues – I’m in business. In a few hours I get anything from 5-25 people to stop by. Most are re-registering because they’ve moved. The rest are voting for the first time in their lives.

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Mama, take the tanning lights off me
I can’t take it anymore.
It’s getting dark, too dark for me to see
Russia from my front door.

Knock, knock, knockin’ on Putin’s door
Knock, knock, knockin’ on Putin’s door
Knock, knock, knockin’ on Putin’s door
Knock, knock, knockin’ on Putin’s door

Mama, put my guns on me
Take me up in a Piper, now
I’ve got my lipstick in my bra

I feel like knockin’ on Putin’s door.