Coal Miner’s Daughter

Wait, was I talking about mortgage? Quick! Here’s a picture of a dog in an ill-fitting camouflage dress that’s too tight across the chest! And she hates it! And me!

Mother, it doesn’t even FIT.

(This is not the way to win the Truman-Sunny Dress Your Pug In Corduroy & Denim (and pig costumes!) smackdown. I’m all too aware.)

I really do appreciate all of your comments and e-mails from yesterday. I thought it was a good discussion, and although there were moments that I fear I was misunderstood, I was glad for all of it, even the strange e-mails where it seemed that people thought I was somehow attacking them personally.

Today, I’d like to talk about stem cell research and elective abortion. Personally, I … oh my God, I can’t even keep that charade up for more than four seconds. Also, this is why I generally keep my public opinions limited to things like Welch’s grape juice and the fall TV lineup (for the record, and I don’t know why this is, I look forward to Dirty Sexy Money the most every week), because I hate conflict and every time I feel like I’ve hurt someone’s feelings I want to ABORT! ABORT! WOOP WOOP WOOP! and yet this feeling never translates to ACTION and I press forward anyway.

This weekend, we’re off to the wilds of Scranton to visit my family’s cabin in the nearby mountains. As I joked on Twitter, I grew up not far from there, and am considering making it a part of my upcoming surprise presidential campaign. Because it seems, Scranton is at the epicenter of working class America, but part of me wonders if anyone’s actually ever BEEN there? Do the facts that my grandfather, a coal miner, died of black lung disease, and that I grew up near now-defunct Bethlehem Steel, subject of the working-class anthem “Allentown,” mean that I am uniquely qualified to speak on working class issues? What does this qualify me for, if anything?

I guess what I’m asking is, can I please be president? What if I go into extreme detail about the hardships my grandfather faced, taking his lunches deep into the bowels of Centralia, which burns like the fires of hell to this day? No?

All kidding aside, between The Office and swing-state politicking, one would be led to believe that Scranton is a hellhole packed with pistol-packing factory workers and/or dimwitted paper salesmen. While I’m not going to pretend it’s a gleaming metropolis of Atlantis-like proportions, it’s really not that bad, and parts of it are quite pretty and I’d … I’d live there, okay? I actually like Pennsylvania and hold a deep affection for most of the state, Scranton included. Provided you can get past the constant billboards screaming, “LIVE IT! The Lackawanna Coal Mine Tour!” that is. Because really, I can think of a lot more exciting things to do with your time than visit an old MINE SHAFT. (Although they do have picnic facilities! Dine on barbecue chicken after you learn about hard coal times in the Shifting Shanty!)

We won’t be touring any coal mines, but instead will be stuffed silly by my father’s incessant cooking (I hear chili’s on the menu!) and will let Sunny frolic unleashed in open pastures. I hope you have a great weekend.

Happy weekend!

*Loretta Lynn, and no, I don’t own it, I … well, that’s a first. Sorry.

20 comments October 9th, 2008