I Bring You a Recession

I am responsible for so very much. Yes, I am. I control the U.S. economy—I'm that powerful. You can look at every layoff I've ever been through as a bellweather for an economic downturn.

You doubt me? Let me get my resume and I'll show you, nonbelievers!

In any case, I'm really relieved to know that the Medicare Part D program benefits only the truly deserving souls who needed it: The Shrub's friends running insurance companies.

What a relief that the elderly and disabled beneficiaries of Medicare have their expensive medications covered only most of the time, while Humana and CIGNA's senior leadership (not to mention some former senior execs involved with the local healthcare landscape) will be making out like bandits come bonus time. It comforts me, the jobless one.

And now that we've had a nice satisfying rant about healthcare, let's move on to Super Tuesday. Please to direct your attention to the cover of todays' issue of The New York Times online. See John McCain's Official Trophy Wife Number Two? Look closely, and in your mind's eye, superimpose the creature from Alien onto Cindy Lou's head.

If you weren't frightened by the Senator's proposed "permanent state of war" comment earlier this month, that image should do it for you.

Run away, America!!! This couple is just Shrub-lite, and in some ways, scarier.

Now, Hil, Barack, you two just figure it out right now, or I'm sending you both to your room. Run on a joint ticket. Barack, you take role number two, and Hil, give him something REAL to do. He's a smart man, and you don't want to turn him into Al Gore 2.0, do you?

Because as we all know, Clinton-Obama will whoop some serious election-day butt if pitched against any Republican.

I am remiss!

Well, thank you Wendy McClure, your book was indeed fun, and it provided me with a holiday gift idea. Yippee! One more off the list.

Yet, I am remiss: I never linked to the man who started it all, James Lileks! His Institute of Official Cheer houses The Gallery of Regrettable Food, over which D and I had many a teary-laughter-filled morning at GCI.

I urge you to pay Ms. McClure and Mr. Lileks a visit, whip up some fluffy mackerel pudding, and wash it down with dainty cup of sherry-based chicken bullion. And don't forget the pat of butter!

Various and Sundry From the Past Month

Ooooh, once again, I'm a lazy, bad blogger. I keep my three fans waiting for an entire month for something interesting to read. So, to orders of business first:

1. New link for The South End Is Over (kudos to RBD for alerting me to this site.)
2. Welcome to Planet Earth, Miss E and Miss Z. Your mommies are happy to have their bodies back.
3. Busted leg is recovering nicely.
4. No job yet. Sweat pants are still clean, but recent purchases of two new hoodies are concerning the Husband.
5. Finally started reading Wendy McClure's I'm Not the New Me

Okay, that's out of the way! Should I start the psuedo-philisophical navel gazing now? Rats..I said I was going to stop doing that and leave it to the pros. Well, that leaves the continuing story of my current unemployment journey.

Now, six years ago, during the horrendous, post-9/11 economic slump, the unemployment thing was welcome. I was footloose, fancy free, really grooving on the total lack of jobness. Fast-forward: I'm married, need health insurance, and this time, moving in with my sister is not an option.

Plus, I'm really bored. (I realize that the boredom is likely the primary result of the busted leg, as the whole "no walking unless you're being chased by a reality TV star" puts a damper on the shopping/lunching/gym-going layoff I'd envisioned.)

But it's really easy to be bored when you must do nothing.

Wanting to do nothing is a different story.

LBD...or No One Dresses for Dinner Anymore

Thanks to J and M for an amazing evening's dinner at Harvest. When food is so good that it makes you cry, now that's a meal.

But to my point: My Mum is right. No one dresses for dinner anymore. I mean, I'm sorry, but if the menu features "hand dug Macomber turnips" then damnit, you ought to be dressing up. There is always a place to wear your Little Black Dress.

Care for the staff's work as much as they are caring for you: Put on something nice. Make it an event.

Now granted, I could extrapolate this to include MC's wonton soup, which while not hand-dug, is so incredibly good that it might be made from the pure and virginal blood of innocent little babies and I'd beg for more.

But what do I usually wear on Sunday night to MCs? Frumpy clothes.

Does that mean that I should be wearing my brand-spanking new, silk charmeuse LBD for egg rolls?

I hate when I back myself into a logical bind.

Attack of the Dirty Sweatpants!!!

It's beginning...the signs are all here!

How can I tell it's happening? Yesterday's decision to watch—on cable no less—My Stepmother Is an Alien featuring the preteen pairing of the later-to-be-paired as-teens Alyson Hannigan and Seth Green, was a sure sign.

It continued with today's almost total sloth-and-channel-surfing-filled afternoon. Highlights include:
• Sleep until 10:00AM
• Turn on TV. Surf between "E! Presents Plastic Surgery Nightmares", "Haunted America", parts of "Semi-whoremade Cooking"
• Make a quick trip here to blog
• Stop by Go Fug Yourself
• Leave GFY, skipping off to YouTube to watch a Celine Dion video
• Wikipedia loaded; look up Queen Elizabeth 1 and Tila Tequlia
• Compelled to still watch "Haunted America" with really bad "factual reinterpretations"
• Eat granola from bag. Call it "lunch"
• Begin to worry, quite seriously, about the U.S., and about me


The transformation is not complete. I did do some job-hunting related work, and I read an article in The New York Times about the slow failing of Christian Republican conservatism. (Also, my sweats are clean and I did laundry. Plus, yesterday I left the house and socialized with another human—however, she's embraced a Mom-based lifestyle, so technically, was as desperate as I am.)

If it so happens that I don't bathe for three or more consecutive days, and I begin to defend Cheez Whiz and Chardonnay as a complete breakfast, call my gay husband. It's time for an intervention.

Until then, I will ice my knee and love my severance!

Dime...life turns on one...or nickel, or whatever.

So, one day, I bicycle to work, get a flat, and get laid-off.

And then, after having a few really fun days, I blew out my knee (again) and think, the Universe is telling me: No bets, nothing safe, nothing fun, but everything is good.

I have everything and should just shut the fuck up.

(Yikes...enough with the navel-gazing!)

Random Items, Specific Conspiracy

So, yeah, been on vacation to both sides of the country (San Francisco, Mount Desert Island).

And thus and hence, have had no time to devote to my bloggage, which I suppose is a good thing, since there are far too menu navel-gazing bloggers out there....but I just don't care. It's not like I started this thing so that I could get a book/movie/YouTube/magazine/media gig out of it. This is the Save My Sanity from the Cube Farming, Soul-Deadening Job blog.

Which brings me to my Conspiracy Theory.

For quite some time now, this intrepid healthcare writer has been wondering about the so-called Obesity Epidemic and Corn. Because if we look at the evidence, I'm thinking that it all adds up. What crop do we have that is highly subsidized by our Government? Corn. What companies have bet the farm, as it were, on developing genetically modified strains of Number 2 Feed Corn that produce a mammoth excess to be sold off/shipped off/processed off? Big ChemAgra. Who do they own? Big Pharma. Are you still walking the path with me? Come one....keep walking.

What happens when you eat too many pounds of Number 2 Feed Corn? Well, if you're a cow on a feed lot, you get nice and fat. If you're a person sitting in an SUV on the way to your desk job.....you get nice and fat even though you though you aren't really aware that you're eating that many pounds of Number 2 Feed Corn because you don't really know that it's in every processed food you buy and consume. And soon, your SUV will be eating it too, in the form of ethanol. But at least your SUV won't get any fatter.

So what happens if you get nice and fat? You get sick. You get diabetes, heart disease, high lipid levels....so wouldn't it be nice if there were some effective medications to treat your illnesses? Yes, yes it would. And wouldn't it be oh-so-kooky nutty if those magical medications were manufactured by a subsidiary of the very parent company that manufacture the genetically modified Number 2 Feed Corn to begin with? Wouldn't that be the perfect capitalist feedback loop?

So folks, read your food labels. If you want to know how much Number 2 Feed Corn you're eating, here's list of derivatives.

Choose fresh produce and grass fed, grass-finished beef, pork, and chicken products and get the corn out of your life. Okay, so maybe you can have a bowl of freshly popped popcorn every once in a while. I'm not a total buzzkill.