Moose Hunting--Washington's Favorite Pastime

This "Times" political cartoon caused me to chortle effervescently on the metro--for which I received strange, concerned glances.

Bailout Blues

"Play it again Sam." And again. And again. And again. And again. The piano player gets a little tired, okay, really tired, of playing the same song over and over again. Such is the life of a staff assistant on Capitol Hill on the eve of financial meltdown. Theme song: "Eve of Destruction." The panic button was pushed followed closely by a sounding trumpet and a resounding, "Release the Hounds!" Trying to answer four phone calls from angry constituents at the same time is similar to fending off a pack of staffer-eating wolves. Think "Call of the Wild" meets "9 to 5." After they've nawed on you for a while, their hunger seems somewhat appeased and they abandon your bloody caurcus for the next caller to snack on. Granted, their response is warranted and their attacks are never personal. However, a consistent eight hours of pissy voters leaves this Capitol Cowgirl with a nasty case of the bailout blues.

Farewell to Summer--An Ode to Sunbathing

Upon deciding that I was as pasty as a frosty cone, I took up the sport of sunbathing—for a whopping two days. It was a traumatic two days. My father had just laid a concrete slab at the back of the house in preparation for a new porch that wouldn’t be built for another six years. Here I laid myself. I was as frosty as Snow White herself, but not as thin or delicate. My short, chubby frame was sprawled onto a Loony Toons beach towel. The sun was beating down upon my pudgy belly and Porky Pig-like legs. As Sylvester and Tweety Bird as my witnesses, I was dreadfully uncomfortable. My conscience smote from within, for I was clad in nothing but an evil two-piece, blue and white bathing suit. It was by no means a bikini, however, I still felt the fiery judgment of God beating down upon me. Had I but confessed ownership of such unholy contraband, my friend Patty would have beat her breasts and rolled around in sackcloth and ashes, lamenting the very destruction of my soul. I was in just this frame of thought when I heard the devil himself crackling with delight. Actually, it wasn’t the devil at all, but my cousin Aimee. At that moment, she might as well have been the devil himself, for in her hands lay the very instrument of wickedness itself—a camera. “Click.” Now God would have proof. I was doomed for eternity.

As you might imagine, I felt the need to hunt down a more proper sunbathing locale. Someplace close to the sun, but far from the eyes of neighbors and cousins alike. My eyes sparkled with victory. Of course, why hadn’t I thought of this before? The flat-roofed garage was resplendent with brand new black shingles. Hope had been restored, as had my imagination. I saw myself as I would be at the end of the summer, bronzed and beautiful, beating off the boys seeking the favor of the legendary sun-goddess.

The next afternoon I propped a ladder against the garage and scaled up its side. Once on top I laid out my Sylvester and Tweety Bird beach towel and plopped myself upon it. Stretching out, I felt rather smug. Rejoicing in my own awesome cleverness, I settled in for some sun. What were the odds, then, that the telephone company would roll into the alley at just that moment. I sucked my white and blue body into those black shingles, willing myself invisible. I lay very still and watched in horror as two gentlemen climbed into their company man-lift and began to ascend toward the power lines. Our eyes locked. I don’t think I could have descended off that garage roof any faster than I did, even given wings and not a ladder. Some memories are just too hard to heal. I never did attempt sunbathing ever again. Alas, I am doomed to awkward tan lines forever.

Farewell Mr. Sun! I'll see you again next summer...