In the Cone of Silence

My recent elevation to Mama Camp Director has put me out of the loop, apparently, on several things.

First, John McCain apparently was not in the Cone of Silence during Obama's questions at Saddleback Church; he was riding in his limo with his staff, arriving a full half hour late to the church. So why didn't Rick Warren just say, "Senator McCain is on his way," rather than saying he was backstage and unable to hear? Whether anything untoward happened or not, the appearance of it is really not cool.

Second, Barack Obama is about to name his VP selection?! WTF?! I didn't get my special text message straight from Barack himself alerting me. (If you text 62262 on your cell you'll get his VP pick sent to your phone before anyone else). That's right. I, little old SS Haggis, will get a text with exclusive information before you chumps even know what's what! Oh. You mean everyone got that email? I shake my fist at you, David Plouffe!


Third, Paul Newman is sick and possibly dying?! Where have I been? Well, I'll tell you where I've been. I've been in bed dreaming about Mr. Paul Newman for the past three consecutive nights. So weird has it been that I confessed all to the BBDD this morning, who said, "Funny you should mention him; I just read that he is not expected to live much longer." Whaaaa? Wow. Then I am a total jerk. Because over the past 72 hours I have had sex with Paul Newman, gone to Costco with Paul Newman, and prepared chicken piccata in Paula Deen's kitchen with Paul Newman. And not Pool Hand Luke Paul Newman, either. No indeed. I'm talking all 80-whatever years of Paul Newman. And, as delightful and beautiful as Paul Newman is as a human being, husband and thespian (even at 80-something), I can say with 100% confidence that I have consciously thought of Mr. Paul Newman precisely zero times in all of my recent memory. So how I'm all of a sudden doing the dirty with him, then taking him to a wholesale club and then making a dish I don't even like with a cook I can barely watch without wanting to open a vein, is, well...I leave it to bigger minds than mine to figure out.

Fourth, I had cancer. Whaaa? Bambina and I had our first local pseudo-celebrity moment post-telethon at the grocery store. We were selecting some delicious-looking bananas (yellow with just a hint of green to allow for at-home ripening) when a lady came up to us and said really loudly and excitedly, "I know you! You had cancer!" I must have looked shocked and confused because she said, "On the TV! You were both on the TV! You're her! With the cancer!" For some reason I know not, the first thing I said was, "I didn't have cancer, but yes that's us." Like, why I felt compelled to ensure she knew I didn't have cancer is beyond me. It wasn't for Bambina's sake because "cancer" is about as familiar a word to her as "gemeinschaft." Who knows. But she turned out to be a really lovely lady who said she was praying for me and who seemed tickled to have met a person from the TV. Which makes me sad, since I am as close to the definition of a "person on the TV" as that guy who invented the word "gemeinschaft." But no matter. It was a nice exchange with a nice lady, and I was tickled, in the end, to have been approached for the first time in my life with those words that tell you you've hit the big time: "You! With the cancer!"