Tales of a Woman Gone Rogue

During Thanksgiving, my father happily brought to my home his new book from Amazon.com. He got his new copy of Going Rogue, by Sarah Palin. His first mark in my home was throwing the book right onto my coffee table, on top of Stephen Colbert's book. I would remove the Sarah Palin-book, and it would find its way back onto my coffee table.

So, one morning, before my dad woke up, I decided to flip through it. Of course, the first 300 pages are incredibly insipid, with very boring details of her life, the history of Alaska, tales of Eiditarods gone bad, and so on. I skipped straight to the juicy Katie Couric-trashing. I was hoping for more claws, but, her ghostwriter kept it disappointingly tame. Though it was mildly entertaining, I quickly felt more contempt and anger. It is difficult for me to associate with her as a fellow-woman, because she fails to meet the standards that we uphold for ourselves. First of all, she cannot call herself a "career woman". She started as a sports anchor, and flirted her way to the governor's mansion in Alaska. She did not have a political background, and cannot utilize her mayorship of Wasilla as a stepping stone. Also, as a mother of five, with one child who has special needs, Sarah Palin could have shared her experiences to inspire other women with children.

It is a mystery why Americans revere her and even tout her as a possible GOP Presidential candidate. She deserted her post as Governor of Alaska after barely completing less than half a term. She exploited her own pregnant teenage daughter, to relate to the "real" Americans in the small towns and rural communities. She, now, is stretching her fifteen minutes of fame well past the time limit. My advice to her, is: now, stay home, be a mother, and provide your children the love and protection they deserve.

The Trials & Tribulations of the Rich, the Blond, and the Skinny

As we spent the Thanksgiving holiday gorging on the never-ending media buffet of Tiger Woods's motor vehicle accident, Black Friday, shopping, and White House party crashers, we must ask ourselves, "WTF?" I remember the headline of "Party Crashers at the State Dinner", trailing in a banner on every cable news channel. Multiple pundits, senior correspondents, anchors, and the like, offered insights and perspectives. Michaele and Tareq Salahi are now household names, spending time at the table on the lips of families during the holiday meal, garnishing their turkey or Tandoori chicken. Frankly, the endless montage of video clips featuring a rather skeletal, blonde lady adorned in a tradition Indian lenga being twirled around by a plump, older gentleman were becoming rather nauseating. Even Michaele Salahi's hairstylist milked her fifteen minutes of fame, discussing the entire process involved in the preparation for making an entrance at such a grand event. She detailed how long the hair took to be flat-ironed, as well as how she dressed in her Indian outfit at the salon. Although a detailed investigation of why the Secret Service failed to provide the appropriate barrier, where was the White House Social secretary, how did they get to shake President Obama's hand, etc., there is a basic breakdown. Obviously, the secret service agent's penis played an important role in who was able to enter the State Dinner without an invitation, and who wasn't. When a skinny, blonde chick flirts, manipulates, and persuades, the penis responds. However, if an Indian woman, like myself, dressed in my best sari, attempted such a feat, I would be in Guantanamo Bay, under investigation by the F.B.I, C.I.A., and Interpol (unfortunately, not the band). It never ceases to amaze me how quickly penises respond to blonde chicks, regardless of how high-pitched the voice may be, how demanding or needy, or even entitled. I would have thought that an overwhelming support for a President who is of different background from the moral majority would change these things. Yet, it's not ever really going to change. . .the skinny, blonde chick will always have power over the penis.