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I will admit up-front that there’s no friggin’ way Senator McCain is getting my vote. He baffles and infuriates me on topics as equally and frequently as Senator Obama does, but his choosing of that backwoods, macaroni and cheese-eating, moose-murdering, bible-thumping, crazy-ass bitch Sarah Palin sealed where my vote is going.

That being said, I’m still interested in his proposals. I’m a Libertarian. That means that I’m a Republican when it comes to my dollars, and I’m a Democrat when it comes to everything else. If McCain hadn’t moved the above-mentioned whorebag of hypocrisy to his campaign (or began employing the scare tactics and smears that she’s brought out in the past week (but that’s blog entry about what a piece of shit she is)), I might very well be an undecided voter.

He said something last night that made me smack my head, though. What McCain suggested makes just as little sense as Obama’s proposal to cure everything while somehow cutting taxes. I’d love to be told that this was another one of his so-called ‘senior moments’ (his joke, not mine), but I need some things clarified for me. Last night he suggested that the government renegotiate the principal balance of mortgages on behalf of the people in danger of losing their homes.

Thinking this situation through, I see three possible solutions in the housing matter.

I wrote but never posted a rant about the previous proposal to freeze interest rates for those with ARMs that were about to go up and couldn’t afford those increased payments. (I resisted posting it because I can’t seem to write a rant without using the word ‘fuck’. But then again, I’ve already called Sarah Palin a ‘crazy-ass bitch’ and a ‘whorebag’. *sigh* I’d never make it as a political journalist.) Essentially my profanity-littered entry talked about the inequities of being a responsible mortgage-paying individual with a 5.75% fixed-rate mortgage while someone who abused the privilege of being allowed to borrow hundreds of thousands of dollars is keeping their 4.5% ARM rate. Simply put: This is not an equitable solution.

What McCain’s suggesting is also not an equitable solution. Dropping the principal to the home’s current value causes even more harm to responsible citizens. Let’s say that everyone not facing foreclosure has a mortgage for $185k on what’s now a $150k home. Those with $150k mortgages will face less hardship when trying to sell their homes and those with the $35k ‘good-behavior tax’. What are we teaching people here? McCain goes on and on and on about Obama’s muddling of the free economy and his socialist tendencies, yet what he’s offering is no better. This, like the freeze on rates, essentially punishes those who do what they’re supposed to do.

The final solution I see would be to extend mortgage durations from 30 years to 50 years and fix the rate. Every $100k at 6% at the 50-year term is about $525 per month instead of $600 at 30 years. For reference, an ARM at 4.5% is about $510 per month. Mortgages would increase for these people by $15 per $100k. If you can’t forego one pizza night to keep your home, you need a good shaking. Mortgage companies are making their money, people are staying in their homes, and those who fulfill their financial obligations without government assistance aren’t getting shafted.

My above words aside, I do understand that sometimes shit happens and that those defaulting on their loans aren’t all irresponsible yahoos. I also understand that all of the defaults are causing an issue for banks. Banks are not in the real estate business; they are in the money business. Banks do not want depreciating assets (foreclosed homes) on their books. Having all of that lessens their abilities to loan money to businesses, which reduces economic growth, which increases joblessness, which contributes to why people are defaulting on their loans. It’s a bad cycle.

Now that I’m a stakeholder (as all of you are) in the Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac $700b+ bail-out, I’m all for strict oversight over what’s going on with my money. (How very Democrat of me!) But when average everyday people are stuck with a bill to take care of a mess that greed (on both the parts of the banks lending the money and the individuals who knew they had no business buying a home on their salaries), someone’s gotta step in to police the process. Sad but true.

What baffles me the most about this entire housing situation is on the side of the people facing issues with paying their mortgages. So many of these people bury the issue until there’s no other option besides foreclosure. If you’re anticipating a problem, CALL YOUR MORTGAGE COMPANY. They would so much rather work with you than to sell your home an investor at 60% of its fair market value to just get it off their books.

If you’re afraid of your mortgage company, work with an investor. He or she can negotiate on your behalf to find an equitable solution. Expect to lose any equity you’ve built up on your home. (Investors don’t do this work just for a warm, fuzzy feeling.) Also be prepared to either not be worked with if you don’t have equity, to rent your home back from the investor for about the same price you were paying for your mortgage (just without the back payment baggage and ridiculous fees), or to move before a new renter moves in.

Well, it’s about time for me to get outta here. I didn’t set out to write anything in particular, but these are just some things I’ve been thinking about and their offshoots since McCain’s pronouncement last night.

Having not had so much as a whisper of a boyfriend since ol’ what’s-his-face unceremoniously dumped me three years ago, I’ve gotten a bit introspective lately.

I’m not going to flower this up at all: I Google-stalk one of my ex-boyfriends.

It’s no boyfriend that’s ever been mentioned here. With any feelings being long and dead gone, it’s what makes this safe.

One night I was curious to know how things turned out for him. Lo and behold, it’s an absolute soap opera I can’t stay away from.

Government listings tell me he’s become quite the entrepreneur since we last talked five years. A van service that drives people to their doctors’ appointments. A bait and tackle shop. Several residential and commercial properties. A city recreational field. A bar.

It’s here in this bar where things get interesting.

He was out with a friend one night, celebrating the friend’s return from Iraq as a Marine. They stopped at Ex’s bar to partake in celebratory booze, and there were words exchanged with the local long-time jackass. Jackass broke a glass during an altercation, and Ex kicked him out. In retaliation, Jackass stole Ex’s truck and hid it. Ex and Marine went to Jackass’s house to inquire about the missing truck, and Jackass shot Marine.

*gasp*

Then the newspaper article continues, talking about how Ex and his wife went outside to call the police. And oh oh oh who is this wife?! He remarried his so-called she-beast of an ex-wife!

*gasp*

For the record, Jackass is finally in jail with no hopes of getting out. Marine is a-okay and avoided having to go back to Iraq for a bit. As for the wife, I’m not about to call up the small town record division to inquire about their remarriage (…or if they were even really divorced when we were together!), but it gives me a good chuckle because I know she’s giving him hell for anything he gets into.

Thank you, Google. You showed me exactly what I’m missing out on by not nabbing that great catch when I had the chance.

Dad: Doesn’t your brother’s girlfriend look like that Sarah lady?

Me: Um, I don’t see it.

Dad: Really? She looks just like her.

Me: It must be the blinding rage I get when Palin comes on the screen that distracts me.

Dad: [laughing, because he knows he’s about to unleash my fury] Did you know she can skin a moose?

I don’t care what you say. I love these two Paris Hilton songs:

Well, last night I finally broke down and got myself another gym membership. Even with my limited time left in Chicago, I knew pony-ing up the cash was worth it.

My previous gym closed in July, and I was sad to see Crunch at Marina City close its doors. The gym really fit my needs, and — no matter how silly it seems — it also fit my personality.

Hip-hop was usually playing. The colors were fun. The people were young and generally hop. The trainers weren’t meat heads. The shampoo dispenser in the shower had a “Shampoo your doo” label.

But when they closed their convenient almost-Loop doors and said I could start working out an extra half-mile walk away, I cancelled my membership and vowed to start lifting in my condo’s gym. With a full set of dumbbells and an elliptical machine, I could amend my routine to something workable.

Lo and behold, when you remove the things you like about something that’s generally seen as tiresome, it’s a lot harder to get there. My friend says that a gym’s location is key, but I’ll tell you flat-out that the gym a whopping five floors down isn’t getting used if I don’t have a barbell bench press, a squat rack, a proper leg press machine, and an assisted chin-up bar.

I’m not quite a fitness snob, but these are my essentials. Maybe you want a pool or a sauna or yoga classes. I don’t. I want my four things.

When I signed up with Crunch, I actually did a good amount of research on gyms in Chicago’s Loop. Heck, I’ve been a member of three of the area’s gyms, each fulfilling my desired requirements at the time. I know who offers what, about how much they’re going to want me to shell out, and the actuality that I’ll show up based on location and how I feel in there.

There was only one other gym that wowed me two Novembers ago. The location could only be beaten by the inadequate gym in my condo building. The cleanliness rivaled that of any OCD germ freak’s house. The facilities were superb with classes galore, free weights of all types, and tons of cardio machines. And the free towels — oh the fluffy towels!

However, the price tag being double, I was sufficiently swayed to hike nearly half a mile to Crunch.

With Crunch gone and my at-home gym collecting dust, I evaluated my options. A walk in the opposite direction. The all-women’s gym with a bunch of crappy machines. The gym with a Smith machine but no other barbells. Bally’s.

No, no, no, and oh hell no.

Yesterday I got an email saying the initiation fee for the fancy-pants gym was temporarily about the price of two burritos. That was enough for me to go in to see what they could do for me.

The shiny sales guy was about to start his spiel on how some magazine named them the greatest gym in the universe, how they require a gazillion hours of training from their trainers, and whatever else it is that people want to hear. I stopped him and explained that my upcoming jaunt back to Tejas required that I have a way to get out of my contract by a certain go-home date. Once that was established, I pointed upstairs and asked that he show me the four things on my list.

Barbell bench press — check!

A squat rack — check!

A leg press machine — check!

An assisted chin-up bar — check!

Done and done. I gave the man some burrito money, signed up through work’s payroll deduction for six — count ‘em — SIX free training sessions, listed a chorus friend as the referrer so he can get his free thank-you back rub, and left with a free t-shirt and a bottle of that fancy Figi water.

Post-work I hit the gym today, and I am so glad at my decision to spend all that coin on a gym membership. Being a whole lot fancier than my tastes, this place is going to take some getting used to. But I feel so much more normal after pounding out 6247 pounds of weight.

That, and they have fluffy towels.

It isn’t very often that I think about the chuckleheads I’ve dated in the past few years. Most have been so obviously wrong for so many reasons, making it so I couldn’t even go on a second date with the schmuck.

There have been a few who caught my attention for longer than the usual nanosecond I give the men I meet in passing. Two have them have been true contenders for my affections, the most recent being quite frustrating.

I’ve since kept his blog’s RSS feed on my list. He’s a good writer, his political rants are usually dead-on, and I really enjoy the way he expresses his thoughts. It was one of the things I really liked about him: he wasn’t just pretty.

I don’t go around seeking closure. I’m the one who hasn’t spoken a peep to a former for-real love in nearly three years because his “I don’t know if I can do this” was enough closure for me. I have a string of guys who find themselves on the silent end of a cell connection after they didn’t show the proper respect someone should give a potential mate. I’m a no-nonsense kinda woman in every aspect of my life and see no reason why this should be any different.

Well, when things went down with this guy, it was pretty disappointing. We really seemed like a good match. We got fired up on the same topics. We had a lot of the same core values. I adored his friends, and they seemed to equally enjoy spending time with me. Like I said above, there’s no lingering pining. But it’s pretty natural to have someone dance through your neurons months later, give you a smirk on what could have been, and then let that be.

It’s not that I’m at home whining about some boy I haven’t talked with him over half a year. It’s not that I want to be with him. It’s not even that it went down with such an ambiguous sigh that the door is open for anything else.

But if it was, that would have been settled once and for all today.

Simply put: There is nothing attractive about absolute financial fucktardery.

Over the summer I ran exactly once. I somehow pulled ten miles out of who-knows-where on an absolutely beautiful day. I ran in just a sports bra and a pair of shorts, and everyone I’ve not seen in at least a year seemed to see me and my naked belly that day. It was a little embarrassing, but if I was going to do only one outdoor run all summer long, that was a good one.

Lifting weights hasn’t been nearly as fun since my gym closed, so I figured throwing running back in would keep me from getting a bigger butt. I went out the other day for a pitiful 1.37 miles (accuracy brought to you by this very cool online pedometer), only to find myself thankful for stoplights. Nearly twenty minutes later, with my chest on fire, I collapsed into my condo, vowing not to let my cardiovascular strength be so pathetic.

I went online to a race finder, vowing to run something substantial that’s still several months away.

I could have just registered for a simple half-marathon and called it a day, but there’s no challenge in that. I ran Nashville’s half without issue after drinking 12 beers and staying out all night long. I ran the Flying Pig half the following weekend with an awful allergy attack and vertigo on all bridges crossed or altitudes changed. Now, if I can do it while drunk or while clinging to a guardrail, there’s nothing left to prove. Halves are nothing.

Now, I’ve done a few marathons. I can’t say I really like them. Having never fully trained for one, I’ve always blamed that on my sub-par performance and overall distaste. Sure, I’ve always wondered how well I could actually do, rather than the lazy meandering I’ve always done. But that involves time, effort, and discipline.

Those three qualities are lacking when it comes to much of my life. If it comes easily, pays a substantial reward, and doesn’t cut into my fun, I’m all for it. (Read: real estate.) But what am I going to get from running a marathon? My butt will be a little smaller, I suppose. My cardiovascular health will improve, sure…

Okay, that’s all I’ve got.

Don’t get all hokey on me and talk about amazing accomplishments. Unless I’m winning the damn thing (and I’m not), it’s hardly an accomplishment. So I ran 26.2 miles. Big whoop. I promise that most of you out there could walk and run one in under the amount of time given by the race coordinators.

I was staring at the online race calendar, and I bit the bullet and chose something mid-February that’s the full daunting distance.

Knowing that merely shelling out $50 wasn’t going to be enough to keep me running day after day, I got on IM and recruited a friend to run with me. It only took twenty minutes of back and forth, and we’re now signed up for a race that’s 45 miles from my brother’s house, run 100% in the sand, and contains no one under 30 who seems to give a crap, making it so we’ll both place in our age group, barring any serious malfunction.

Easy to get to. Somewhere interesting. And with a reward at the end.

Now we’re talkin’.

Here’s to five months of sucking wind with hopes that the reward will be worth it.

On top of the ticket: McCain: I want to like you. I really do. But for fuck’s sake, please say something — ANYTHING — beyond the Republican stump speech. You guys had until 2007 to pass all of the things you keep talking about through a Republican Congress, yet nothing happened. Until you give me my school vouchers, hold those common sense negotiations with healthcare providers on how to manage costs, and come up with a plan to save social security, I won’t believe your promises. All we got during that time was this stupid war. Yeah, we were all tricked into getting into it. I’m not blaming you there. But please quit claiming the there’s victory in what’s going on over there. When four people per day are still dying, that’s not a victory. That’s an unnecessary travesty.

Right below: Palin: You have good comedic timing, but your speech came across as a spirit mom talking at a pep rally. After the big game is all done, those OtherCity Eagles are gonna find themselves on the endangered species! BOOYAH! And please quit bringing out the baby as a prop. So you didn’t abort him when you found out about his disabilities. What do you want, a fucking cookie? Go murder another moose to make some burgers.

An extra: Guiliani: Shouting that the Dems didn’t once bring up 9-11 in their convention? You know how people criticize Republicans for fear mongering? You’re part of the problem. You’re obnoxious. You haven’t been relevant since December 2001. Please go away. Now.

On top of the other ticket: Obama: I want to like you. I really do. That mile-high speech on the 45th anniversary of MLK was beautiful, and you called out a lot of McCain’s bullshit. I appreciate that. Now, please tell me how you’re going to accomplish all of the stuff you want to hand out without raising my taxes. Oh, you’re gonna tax the shit out of the rich. That’s not cool. I really, really want to be rich, so I’m not keen on being punished for my accomplishments. Also, that $1k you want to give everyone by re-taxing the oil companies… RE-TAXING? You mean a do-over? *smacks head*

Right below: Biden: Zzzzz… You talk too much.

An extra: Michelle Obama: I look up to you. I want to be you. I want my niece to look up to and want to be you. You’re educated. You’re well-spoken. You love your family. You love your man. You’re empathetic, yet overwhelmingly positive. More women — nay, people — should be like you. I’m not one of those idiots who will vote for your husband just to see more of you, but I’d vote for you to be Best Role Model in a Long Damn Time.

The BBC says I’ve got it all wrong.

Apparently women fall for guys who look like their dads. All these years I’ve been silly over guys with dark hair, dark eyes, big arms, and a hairy chest. What I really should go for is more something like this:

Hit me back and include a pic as proof.