Stormy days and politics

The weather around here recently has been very unpredictable and tumultuous.  One minute it will be bright shining sun outside my window, and the next the skies are black and it is hailing like a mo-fo.  In sum, the weather in Portland in April reminds me a lot of life in general.  If you don't like it, just wait 15 minutes, it will change.

Speaking of wild atmospheric changes, I have been sad to observe over the past couple of years how our political conversation has disintegrated.  I am not naive, I do not believe that politics used to be an innocent and honorable profession in which everyone worked together cooperatively and uttered nary a negative word towards the other side.  But there has been a radical shift in America's ability to discuss politics and government without becoming apoplectic.

Like countless numbers of others in this country, I am a George W. Bush Democrat.  Prior to George's failed administration, I was a member of the Republican Party.  My voting was never in lock-step with the GOP, but rather based on individual candidates, ballot measures, and how they compared to the traditional republican ideals, which I understood to be smaller and less intrusive government, fiscal responsibility, transparency, and a deep and abiding respect for civil rights.

After a few years of the Bush regime's trampling of these Republican fundamentals, I could no longer stomach being a member of the GOP and I joined ranks with the Dems.  Again, even after switching parties, I still voted my ideals, not whether there was a "D" or an "R" next to a candidate's name.  I did have one hard and fast rule, however, and that was to vote against any candidacy of or measure supported by Bill Sizemore.  That goes without saying.

Fast forward to 2010: we have Obama in the White House and the emergence of a political discourse that has become ugly and threatening.  It isn't enough to argue your position anymore, now the debate is all about fear-mongering, finger pointing and name-calling.  The debate over health care reform was overshadowed by screaming fanatics convinced that the President is a Socialist Nazi because he wants our citizens to have access to health care.  By the way, these people need to make up their minds as to whether Obama is a Socialist or a Nazi, because these two political groups are completely opposite from one another.  Unfortunately, that level of intellectual analysis is not likely forthcoming from the right today.

We seem to have become a country filled with people who cannot talk to each other in order to solve problems - all we do is scream.  It's like the Jerry Springer show has gone to Washington.  The obvious and enormous problem that results is that less will be accomplished by our government if the opposing sides cannot talk to each other and find middle ground.  I keep hearing people opposed to Obama saying it is time to "take our country back."  Take it back?  From whom?  From the elected officials who the majority of our population put into office?  It just is so nonsensical.  And what is with the "protesters" bringing guns to demonstrations?  Is this type of aggressive behavior supposed to facilitate a positive exchange of ideas?

I love this guy's poster.  Your rights come from God?  Oh really?  Tell that to the people unfortunate enough to have been born in Burma...or does God not like them?

Those of you that know me are aware I briefly lost my mind a few years ago and decided to practice family law.  My desire to go into this area was based on my own myriad experiences with divorce, beginning with those that occurred in my family and finally with my own dissolution.  My goal was to contrast family law experiences earlier in my life with how my husband and I handled our divorce.  I had a child-like belief that as a lawyer, I would be able to guide my clients in what is a very painful process with as little negativity as possible.  In turn, I thought families could be spared the agony of a bad breakup.

Oh boy was I wrong.  My idea of becoming a highly collaborative divorce attorney was shattered by a few issues.  First, many clients did not want to make the divorce as amicable as possible.  Second, the unfortunate fact is that many attorneys in this town (most exemplified, of course, by the Fanged Consensus Killer from Hell pictured above) will not engage in a collaborative process.  Instead, they increase their billing and their reputations as a tough lawyer by being immovable.

Why the trip down memory lane, you ask?  Because I do not want our government to become the federal version of divorce court, with screaming, tears, retribution and high costs.  The Sarah Palins and Glenn Becks of the right have whipped their side into such a frothy fervor that it seems unlikely the right and the left will be able to work together to accomplish anything.

The motivation behind this unusual political posting on my blog (shoes and body fat percentage are so much more interesting) is that I know someone running for the U.S Senate - Professor Jim Huffman.  My esteem for this gentleman could not be higher - he was a professor and dean at my law school and he is wicked smart.  He is also thoughtful, calm, and a revered expert on Constitutional Law.  Finally, he is a genuinely nice guy (though I read in a recent blog post he is a "mensch" I don't agree with that assessment) and as if all that weren't enough, he's good looking and tall.  Being handsome and tall almost automatically makes you a senator - did you know that?

OK, so what's my problem?  Obviously, given my high regard for Professor Huffman, I must be voting for him, right?  Did I mention he is a Republican?  Unfortunately, I have become so entirely disenchanted with the Republican Party that I am not sure I will be able to pull the lever and add to their ranks.  Well, we don't really pull the lever here in Oregon, what with mandatory vote by mail and all, but you get my drift.  By the way, is vote-by-mail a socialist agenda too?  Food for thought...

Tom tells me not to abandon my history of voting along my principles, rather than party lines.  I told Tom that I need to see a real commitment from any Republican asking for my vote to distance themselves from the fringe.  Not only do we need the moderate Republicans to not engage in the race/class/geopolitical baiting, but we need them to call attention to the radicals and distinguish themselves from those groups.

I'd really like to send Mr. Huffman to Washington, but can he be a force for collaboration, and not become a part of the screaming match?  Watching him in a television news interview the other night, I was impressed by his ability to actually answer those questions that he was asked, which is something almost every politician is unequivocally unable to do.  But I need to know more than what Jim Huffman is about, as important as that is.  I want to know what he isn't about as well.

**update**

Oh Dear Lord.  I am speechless.  Absolutely speechless.  But fear not, I can still type.  Rush Limbaugh has weighed in on the oil spill disaster in Louisiana:

"I want to get back to the timing of the blowing up, the explosion out there in the Gulf of Mexico of this oil rig. Since they're sending SWAT teams down there now this changes the whole perspective of this. Now, lest we forget, ladies and gentlemen, the carbon tax bill, cap and trade that was scheduled to be announced on Earth Day. I remember that. And then it was postponed for a couple of days later after Earth Day, and then of course immigration has now moved in front of it.


But this bill, the cap-and-trade bill, was strongly criticized by hardcore environmentalist wackos because it supposedly allowed more offshore drilling and nuclear plants, nuclear plant investment. So, since they're sending SWAT teams down there, folks, since they're sending SWAT teams to inspect the other rigs, what better way to head off more oil drilling, nuclear plants, than by blowing up a rig? I'm just noting the timing here."

He didn't stop there.  Instead, he offered his expert opinion on how to clean up the mess and what the eventual environmental impact is likely to be:

"You do survive these things. I'm not advocating don't care about it hitting the shore or coast and whatever you can do to keep it out of there is fine and dandy, but the ocean will take care of this on its own if it was left alone and was left out there.  It's natural. It's as natural as the ocean water is."

Oil and water just go together so naturally, don't they?  That's the point of that expression, right?  Mr. Huffman, do you see what I am talking about?  Rush is the titular head and mouthpiece of the Republican party.  Why can't the non-insane Republicans speak out against him?

Final comment on politics: did anyone see the KATU debate last night featuring the Republican candidates?  All 9 of them?  If not, I beg you to take the time to view the debate on http://www.katu.com/.  Tom and I haven't laughed this hard EVER.  This is the state of the Republican Party in Oregon.

Do they have a 12 step program for this?

I have heard it said that the first step to eliminating an addiction is admitting that you have a problem. In addition, I believe it is true that a person has to want to change in order to conquer an addiction, which probably explains why interventions and resulting rehabs don’t seem to work that well (Lindsay Lohan, anyone?). You may be able to browbeat an addict into submitting to treatment by getting 10 of her friends and family members in a conference room to tell her what a drunk asshole she is, but unless she wants to stop being a drunk asshole (and instead become a sober assshole), the treatment probably won’t be effective.


That being said, I have come to the realization that I have a problem. I have a serious, big, bad addiction and it is starting to affect my life in negative ways. My suspicion is that friends and family members are concerned, and may be planning some sort of Group Talk to ease me into therapy so I can cure myself of this disease. And have no doubt, it is a disease, not just a character flaw or lack of self-control.

Hello. My name is Robin, and I am a Shoe Addict.

What, you thought I was going to say something else?

It all started innocently enough back in college. A lot of my friends were deep into shoes by then already, and I often caught them sheepishly looking left and right at the Meier and Frank shoe department register as they spent their rent money on Reebok high tops or jelly sandals in a dazzling array of colors. I didn’t really get what the big deal was, and I knew my money was better spent on beer, Qubenzas and Grateful Dead tickets (apologies to my parents, all 27 of them).

Still, I would be lying if I didn’t admit that I experimented from time to time. My dabbling in what would later become a serious addiction started innocently enough: I borrowed shoes from my more stylish friends. This wasn’t easy to do, because most women who have the same size foot as me are 7 feet tall, and I didn’t know a lot of female basketball players at the University of Oregon. Regardless, once in a while I scored a hit of a pump, an espadrille, even a peep-toe slingback.  I justified my actions by reminding myself that I wasn't actually buying the shoes, which would indicate a problem.  I was just bumming them from time to time, which is totally different.

But I never really got into the hardcore scene, and managed to spend most of my college years and a few thereafter hoofing around in the footwear most favored by my Eugene brethren: the God-forsaken Birkenstock.

I don’t know exactly when I started to have a problem, but I suspect it dates back to law school. After going to several interviews, I began to notice that both the male and female lawyers seemed to be glancing uncomfortably towards my ankles and just beyond. As I said before, I have unusually large feet, and this can cause people dismay. But still. I began to suspect that wearing leather Jesus sandals to job interviews at big time firms was not going to cut it. Oh sure, I would look just right if I was looking to land a job at OSPIRG, but those jobs didn’t pay for shit. I love the environment and all, but I didn’t spend $65,000 and three years in law school so I could have my income dictated to my by a spotted owl.

Slowly, tentatively, I waded into the shoe community. I got a smoking deal on my first pair of “designer” shoes on eBay roughly 8 years ago, and that’s when the real problems started. Once you go designer, you can’t just go back to Payless Shoe Source.  Well, you could, but why would you?  The fact is, an extremely well-priced designer shoe (for example, marked down 50%  from its original price) is the gateway drug to the hard stuff.   The corporate suits at the various auction sites know this, but they have shredded all the data that prove my point. 

After a few millions dollars spent and a closet that look like this:

you tell yourself, “It’s OK, I’ll stop after this pair, just one more, just one little stiletto sandal for that benefit, I can stop anytime I want, really I don’t have a problem but you can’t NOT buy those boots can you?”

My goal is not to excuse my addiction, but I will say I have had my enablers - my "co-dependents," if you will.  My first husband (we call him "The Original," and for some reason Tom also calls him "The Canary in a Coal Mine") bought me a pair of jeweled starfish-shaped thong sandals that I have worn so many times that they aren’t actually visible anymore – basically they are dust. But I’ll tell you; those shoes are so cute, so god-damned sassy that I cannot wear them for more than five minutes without someone stopping me to inquire about them while simultaneously shrieking over their extreme level of fabulousness.

Tom has also nurtured and I daresay taken advantage of my addiction. There have been times he has arrived home at the end of the day with the gleaming silver Nordstrom Bag that he knows so moves my heart. He sees the look in my eyes, he notes the quickening of my pulse and the increase in saliva dripping from my lower, quivering lip. It’s more saliva than usual, let’s just put it that way. I am seriously a Pavlovian Puppy when it comes to good looking shoes.  A few months ago he came home with these, for no reason at all. 

Actually, he claimed he bought them as a thank you for my nursing him back to health during his terrible bout with the Swine Flu, but don’t think I don’t know what he’s up to.

Recently I have come to the conclusion that I need to get help. My shoe problem is starting to affect my relationships (I’m sorry I can’t go to your baby shower as I promised but there is a Manolo auction on Rue La La today) as well as my work (5 inch heels make it hard to run around and put out legal fires). It’s time to make a change, and last Friday I decided that there was no time like the present. I’m ready to quit.

Then I realized, well, you can’t really “quit” shoes, because you still need to wear them everyday. It’s not like quitting cigarettes or vodka, which items humans do not actually need as they need shoes.  I am not speaking from personal experience about the ability to survive without cigarettes and/or vodka, obviously.

So I need to “cut back.” I can get this thing under control – I can buy shoes like a regular person and not let them take over my life. One pair per quarter should be enough, right?  Well, excluding running shoes, of course, because those are essential in my weight loss and not really a part of the bigger problem. Speaking of that, update: bought a size 6 skirt today because all of mine are too big and I had to get new jeans this weekend in a smaller size.  Yay me.

My resolution then is no more fancy shoes for a while, and then, after a few months, I can buy one pair every three months. No problem. I had this whole system worked out, and then a funny thing happened. You remember a few blogs ago when I questioned the existence of God? I found these yesterday, and all doubt has been erased. Only a superior creator could make something as beautiful as these shoes.  Apparently God's full name is "Kate Spade."  Did you know that?  I told you God would turn out to be female.

I shall call these my Euphorbia Kick Up Your Heels, because look how similar the color is to one of my favorite plants (also presumably created by The God I Now Believe In).

Clearly the real solution to my “problem,” which really isn’t a problem at all, is that instead of quitting shoes, I need to start a religion celebrating and worshipping them. The best part is, if the IRS can give the Scientologists tax-free status as a religion, you know I can get it. Worshipping a well-designed stack heel is much more reasonable than worshipping L. Ron Hubbard.

**UPDATE**

Problem solved! 

The Problem with Happiness

Fortunately or unfortunately, depending upon your perspective, I have been very content lately. Fortunately because of course content is a preferable state to discontent. Unfortunately because some of my best writing comes from a deep spot of annoyance inside me, which I think is located approximately where my appendix used to be.

Today’s blog will be a simplistic exercise in nothingness, unless I become irritated in the next few minutes. First, I’d like to describe my recent trip to Scottsdale with Tom to celebrate my birthday.  In a word: it was perfect.

That’s three words. Oh well.

Not only did we get some very valuable time alone together, we also had the pleasure of golfing with his youngest son and having dinner with him that evening. The next day he brought his lovely young girlfriend to the pool and we all had a great time, even if they had to sit with us which I am sure was embarrassing.

Speaking of the pool, I took a fun photograph during an invasion of locals onto the resort grounds. It seems that the two women in the photograph below felt that they should be allowed to use the resort facilities, along with their 6 children, simply because they knew someone having a facial at the spa.

Ordinarily, I have to assume that if you are going to crash a resort and steal services in the form of using their pool, you would have the presence of mind to hunker down, mind your own business, and be quiet, as well as obeying the usual social norms of non-obnoxiousness that we all try to follow from time to time (with the exception of the Divorce Lawyer Who shall not be Named, of course).

Instead, this crew came in with their garbage bags filled with clothes, yelling at each other and the staff, and in a remarkable show of class changed the baby’s diaper and threw the dirty one on the ground. Lest you think I am making this up, please look at the photo closely. See?

After they screamed at the waiter because the hotel did not serve banana milkshakes (and neither of these “ladies” needed a milkshake of any variety, let me tell you), I couldn’t take it anymore. I carefully ambled over to the staff member who had been verbally assaulted, and asked if they were guests at the hotel. Apparently they were not, and she had already radioed her manager for help. That’s the guy you see in the picture, squatting down in front of the squatters and giving them the bad news that knowing someone in the spa did not a hotel guest make, and therefore, they needed to skedaddle.

As a lawyer, one of my favorite things is to listen to people of questionable intelligence announce that they are going to sue someone for making them mad. The blonde (er, sort of) woman in the chaise on the left was furious, and screaming that she was going to call her lawyer that day and “sue the fuck out of this dump!” It took quite a while for these charming ladies to locate their numerous offspring and depart, but in doing so I learned a lot about some people. For example, you are wrong if you think you have a legal right to trespass upon someone else’s property and sun yourself. In addition, telling a hotel employee that they are “worthless” and a “shitheel” is not likely to inure you to good service in the future, should you actually ever pony up the money to enjoy the place.

Below is a photo of the onsite gym, which was one of the best I had ever encountered at any resort.

We made it there every single day and pushed ourselves hard, which made me feel OK about ordering the Breakfast of Champions on my birthday.

There were some really interesting features at the hotel, one of my favorite of which was the Koi pond. At feeding time, these creatures would practically jump out of the water to take the food out of your hand. It was very cool. Also, they look delicious.

In addition, for some reason this sign gave me a good laugh.

It’s just rather graphic, don’t you think? Couldn’t you just say “no diving?” What’s with the illustration of what could happen if you don’t follow the initial instructions? When we see a stop sign on the street, that seems to suffice – there is no illustration of the gruesome scene that could ensue if you fail to stop and are t-boned by a blonde gas-guzzling SUV driver, who was probably putting on makeup at the time she was running late to do absolutely nothing.


Last but not least, I was horrified at the airport coming home to see these two gentlemen carrying around a box with what I’m sure we can all agree is a very divisive and emotion-invoking symbol: the swastika.

The larger man on the right is apparently is a Buddhist Monk (did you know they fly first class? This one did, anyway). I’m not sure what the other guy’s job description is but he was flying in what would be considered more traditional non-monk-like garb. As they wheeled the box through the airport, people turned and stared and I was pretty upset.

“Hey Tom,” I whispered, “What do you think about me going up to that guy and telling him my grandmother died at Auschwitz, and that I find his brandishing of the Nazi symbol horribly offensive?”

He just blinked at me and looked confused. “Why would you do that?”

“Don’t you ever want to stand up for something, and at the same time, pretend that you are totally someone else?” I asked, upset that he couldn’t understand my desire to misrepresent my heritage and begin an altercation with a religious figurehead at an airport.

“I stand up for things, but only when I’m being paid by my clients,” he laughed, and then added, “and why would I want to pretend I am anyone else? I am your husband – duh.”

Altogether now, awwwwww!

I kept my mouth shut and later found out that the original version of the swastika (the counter-clockwise version shown here) still has very deep positive meanings in many societies, including in the Buddhist religion. You’d think the fact the Nazis co-opted the swastika and (after turning it clockwise) made it into such a powerful symbol of hatred, death and injustice, it would be abandoned by others. Apparently not.

Thank you to everyone who wished me a happy birthday.  The rest of you can all go to hell.

Pagan/Piggin

Yesterday was an interesting day. Someone, upon reading my Easter blog, was upset and labeled it “sacrilegious.” I think sacrilegious is akin to blasphemous, which means having a gross irreverence towards those things or people that are held sacred.

I wasn’t really raised in a religious house, although we did go to church on Easter (sometimes) and Christmas Eve (again, sometimes), so my attitude towards and belief of God was not drilled into me from a young age (insert obvious tasteless joke about Catholic priests and child molestation here). This has left me as an adult struggling to find where I stand on the whole “big guy in the sky with a flowing beard” issue.

"I'm telling you for the last time, Sarah Palin is not MY FAULT!"














I sincerely apologize to anyone who may have been offended by my Easter/Schmeaster posting, but I have had a bit of an issue with organized religion and its many fables for years. Frankly, whether or not there is a supreme being is beyond my pay grade: I simply have no idea. But I do know this – if there is a God, I don’t think he (or more likely, she) is reading my blog and putting me on his or her shit list, planning on keeping me out of heaven or even worse, making me clean the toilets once I get there.

Even if there is a God, how am I supposed to know which religion I am supposed to embrace? There are countless varieties of organized worship around the world, many of which hold diametrically opposing views. So, by nature, my religion’s views might think that your religion’s views suck. That’s sacrilege, right? If I have irreverence towards what is important to you (and you towards what is important to me), I have crossed the line into a dangerous area called “blasphemy” which is a harsh sounding word that connotes very bad punishment if you are found to be doing it. Blasphemizing, I mean. Again, no, that is not a word, but this is my blog and if I want to invent new words I can do so.

Assuming we have a Creator above and beyond random physics and luck, I have got to assume that the Creator knew what they were doing when they gave humans the ability to question, reason, cook, and be funny. I think the Creator, if reading my blog, would be glad to see that I am having trouble making sense of the whole “Christ came back from the dead after three days” story.

It is interesting to me that so many of us become so upset when our chosen religion is questioned, challenged, or mocked. Mocking seems to get religious people up in arms the most. The Pope made some sort of off-hand statement last year that Islam was a religion of violence, and after some initial furor the controversy died down.

However, the Danish cartoonists who dared mock Mohammad in 2005 with their clever/evil pens are still subject to a Fatwa and continuing death threats. That’s right: some people are so fanatical about their religion that they think you should die if you try to make a funny about it. Hmmm. That just doesn’t seem very nice to me. I thought deity worship was supposed to make us nicer to each other. It certainly hasn’t worked that way for Fred Phelps. Mr. Phelps is the lovely “God hates fags” guy who protests homosexuality by picketing the funerals of soldiers with signs that say “God loves dead soldiers.”

I’d love to be even more profound, but I have to pack for my birthday trip, which brings me to my last point as I sit and ponder where my bathing suit is: a friend of mine emailed me yesterday very happy that she and her husband had lost a significant amount of weight on a new diet. The diet consists of eating 500 calories a day, so I don’t find the fact that they have lost a lot of weight surprising. I do, however, find it amazing they haven’t killed each other or eaten their children, because that’s what I would do if someone only gave me 500 calories a day. 500 calories just gets me through happy hour, frankly.

Anyway, my friend suggested this diet to me and my first reaction was to have very hurt feelings. After all, you wouldn’t suggest a diet to a thin person, right? That would be akin to offering Rogaine to Rod Blagojevich.  Madeleine says I am being too sensitive, which is weird, because I never take things personally!

Easter, Schmeaster

Happy Easter to my tens of thousands of loyal readers. This morning I celebrated the holiday by strapping on my new running shoes and heading out with the pup.  After about five miles, we ended up here:

This is a very very steep set of stairs that leads up to Portland Heights.

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

So she got a ride...

View from the top.  Phew.  Now I just need to get back home.











Easter is a very important holiday to me, both because I am fascinated with the whole Jesus/crucifixion/resurrection story and also because I have an unusual fondness for hard boiled eggs.


On Good Friday (and when is a Friday not good, I ask you) I sat with my girls E and M and we all tried to hash out the Easter timeline. Before you assume I have formed some sort of bible study group, please note that this conversation took place in a nail salon before happy hour. Everyone should get a mani-pedi to celebrate Christ, don't you think?

M is the only Catholic in our group, and E follows a religion that worships Chardonnay on the cross and a pack of Marlboro Lights on the altar. I know this because I recruited her to my church, you see.  I'm a deacon. 

Anyway, with M being the only one amongst us who knows anything about this holiday, we peppered her with questions:

E: "Why don't you have the ash thing on your forehead?"

M: "Um, because we do that on Ash Wednesday and today is Good Friday."

E: "Oh! So today was the Last Supper, and it was really yummy, so that's why they call it Good Friday?"

M: "Noooo, the last Supper was the night before the Crucifixion, which was on Friday.  That's why it's called Good Friday."

Me: "Ok, I am confused. First of all, that doesn't sound like a very Good Friday to me. I've had some bad dates and bad mushrooms on Fridays past, but nobody ever nailed me to a cross and made me stay up there until I died. What's up with calling it Good Friday? Should be Really Shitty Friday if you asked me."

M: "Oh, well, you see..."

Me: "And another thing, how long did it take for him to die up there? I assume they came for him sometime in the morning, right? I doubt the Romans got up especially early to pick up JC for his appointment with the more nasty side of government. Those Romans were a wild and crazy bunch - they probably had an orgy the night before that went late.

So say they arrive around 9 a.m., do the whole 'banging on the door, get yer ass out here Jesus schtick,' take him to Golgotha (which is NOT located in a central part of town plus during rush hour this probably took at least 45 minutes to an hour), and hoist his petard up there. I'm sure the nails in the hands and feet sped things along, but wouldn't it take him a while to die up there?"

Chow: "It took ten hours."

We all looked down.  Chow was one of our nail "technicians" and I had no idea she had been listening to our conversation. I wasn't even sure she spoke English, but she rubs a mean foot and paints a pretty toe, and as long as she doesn't try to do a French manicure on me (these are forbidden by Tom), we get along famously.

Me: "Ok, Chow, thanks. So as far as I can tell, the earliest he may have finally expired is what, between 10-11 p.m? Assuming there was very little traffic on the road that night, his buddies MIGHT have been able to slot him in the cave by midnight.  Maybe."

At this point M looks disturbed, E is laughing, and Chow is fingering her cuticle cutter a bit too deliberately.  I think I may have offended her, which concerns me, because I truly make it a habit to never offend anyone, especially with something I have said.  It's my best quality!

Me: "My point is, ladies, if he died late Friday night and he came out some time Sunday, how is that three days? It's really more like a day and a half."

Chow and M chimed in simultaneously: "He rose on the 3rd day, not after 3 days."

I was perplexed. "The third day of what? The third day of this incredibly bad weekend that started with the woefully misnomered "good Friday?" 

[By the way, those of you who are wondering if "misnomered" is a word: me too.  I wondered too.  But then I realized that this is my damn blog and I can create my own vocabularity (rare words) if I want to.  Remember "Schadenfreconomics?"  Enough said.]

Later we treked up to my house and continued the discussion with the aid of communion wine. It was a very enlightening afternoon and one which I would never forget had I not done so already.

Last thoughts for the day as I wait for my potato dauphinoise to finish and we head out to see Tom's family for easter dinner:
I have enjoyed all the press coverage lately regarding Belloti's 2.3 million dollar handshake deal to get money rained upon him when he decided to move along to the next best thing, also known as a cushy gig at ESPN.  Or maybe it wasn't working out for the University, and they wanted him gone.  Maybe, as is usually the case, it was a mutual decision and neither party was to blame, or at the least they could shoulder the burden of blame equally.

Regardless, Belotti made a lot of money while employed by University of Oregon.  He was handsomely compensated for his work and this deal stinks.  It stinks to high heaven, up there where Jesus hangs with his dad and the Ghost Dude. Why would you consider paying someone for years AFTER you were no longer connected to them? It's crazy, right? Shouldn't Belloti have to sink or swim on his own, now that the relationship has been severed? He doesn't even have to work anymore, what with this cash bath the college is giving him. He could just sit on his rear the rest of his life collecting his monthly checks. Or at least for the next six years, anyway.

Come to think of it, this sort of thing happens every day...