the G-20 and me

You know, I really wanted to do that Lights Out America thing last night, but even if I used my CSI flashlight, I wouldn't have been able to pick out a cute outfit to wear to the G-20 Summit in the dark. I know this meeting is supposed to be all about money and global economic stimulus and what have you. But you can be sure at some point, some snivelly European country or Brazil is going to bring up the environment and then people will start throwing shoes and stuff at the Americans and I just want to be there to back up my homey, our President Obama.

He's taking alot of crap stateside right now from Rush and Glenn and Ann and Paul Krugman. He doesn't need those G-20 punks making him look bad, too. You know those crunchy, European Union hairy-legs will be marching around outside where we're having our big meeting (sorry, I can't tell you where it is....top secret government stuff) and there'll probably be some PETA freaks there, too, what with all the scrumptious fur coats people were wearing around at our President's inauguration. That's where I come in. My kid taught me how to do a smokin' roundhouse this weekend, so I'm going to put on a pair of yoga pants and run interference for our Commander-in-Chief on the street. It's the least I can do.

After that party breaks up, I'll make a quick stop at Boots to stock up on important items, then I'll head straight back from London. When I get home, I'm going to be super-busy doing all my Earth Day cooking. More on that later!

feeling lucky

I love contests. Not the kind that involve skill, the kind that involve chance. Crazy, lovable, random chance. So I enter contests to win a new kitchen, new luggage, trips to warm places, Mario Batali cookware, a year's worth of Alpine Lace cheese, batteries, 25 gallons of paint, and Greenie dog chews, to name just a few choice prizes I've pursued.

I recently entered a contest every single day for 48 days hoping to win a dream house in Sonoma (that's it above). I was so sure I was going to win that one. Every time I closed my eyes I could see myself wearing a cute outfit, sitting in a comfy chair on the porch of my shiny new $2 million Victorian-style farm house, admiring the shiny new GMC Acadia Crossover that came with it, soaking up the California sunshine and sipping the yummy wine that flowed straight out of my kitchen faucet. I'm pretty sure the wine comes out of the faucet there. Instead some lady named Cheryl in Lakeland, Florida won it and now she's going to be drinking all my yummy wine. I hate Cheryl.

I've won just two contests so far in my life. When I was in the second grade I won a plastic set of golf clubs that made me pee in my pants with happiness. And about fifteen years ago, I won a Timex Indiglo watch, though that had less to do with chance than the inspiring essay I wrote about how as an insomniac, I would die without my Indiglo. It would have brought a tear to your eye, man.

You'd think I'd lose hope, after entering all those contests and receiving so little reward. Not that those golf clubs weren't The Best Ever. But I don't give up, I never give up. Every day, I get back on that horse and enter a new contest because every day—any day—could be my lucky day. So this morning, for example, I entered a contest for an awesome product called SelectAFlush, which is a nifty doohickey that will retrofit my existing water-hog of a toilet into a dual flush wonder that will save thousands of gallons of water a year! As I understand it, the SelectAFlush allows me to choose just how big a flush I need every time I, you know, visit the library. I'm not at all clear if I have to actually touch something every time I make this choice. Ew. Still, this baby is American made and I can install it myself!

I figure winning the SelectAFlush will allow me to postpone my plan to install an anaerobic digester in the backyard so my family will get their keisters off the couch and take care of their business in the Great Outdoors. I've been saving up for the digester by charging for toilet paper. You know how those Englishers have to drop a shilling in the meter for a half hour of heat? They usually just put on another sweater. I promise, when your gang is paying a nickel a square, their days of clogging up the loo with wads of Charmin are over.

Anyway, I'm feeling lucky about this SelectAFlush. Fingers crossed for me!