As a middle-aged woman with a lifelong conservative Republican background, I find myself watching the ramp-up to this year's nomination with a remarkable lack of enthusiasm. Really? That's all we've got? Meh.
Once again, the Republican party's numerous factions have offered up their version of an electable candidate, yet none of these people adequately or effectively align with my own fiscally conservative, socially moderate beliefs.
And although I have watched several speeches, debates and interviews, none of them strike me as particularly sincere. For heaven's sake, people, just be yourself instead of what your handlers tell you to be! And stop trashing each other. I don't care what people say, there is no value in negative campaigning other than humor and seeing how low you can go. Which appears to be pretty darn low.
In 2008, many of the votes cast for our now-incumbent president were more driven by voting AGAINST the Republican candidate versus voting FOR Mr. Obama himself. Is history about to repeat itself? Yes, we lined up behind McCain and Palin in '08, but more out of party affiliation as opposed to shared principles and passions.
I want a candidate to excite me, dang it! Somebody I can be proud of and display their yard sign and bumper stickers this summer and fall. Herman Cain was my candidate for a while, until he got all squirmy about honestly owning his past. Now I find myself faced with four (and more likely two) candidates that leave me lukewarm and apathetic. I need a hero, a leader, a true commander-in-chief that makes me want to belt out "I'm Proud to be an American" every time I see or hear them.
Don't get me wrong - I will vote in both the primary and the general election, as I haven't missed an election since my 18th birthday. It has always been my belief that, if you don't bother to vote, then you don't have the right to complain about whoever is elected. And since I dearly love to complain, I want to protect that right. :-)
But I'm sure I'm not alone in my unenthusiasm, and sadly I believe there are probably lots of folks who will just stay home out of disenchantment. Our democratic process has deteriorated to the point that ballots cast these days are more in the "voting against" category as opposed to "voting for". Pretty sure that's not what Jefferson and his contemporaries had in mind.
Who will I end up supporting? I probably won't decide until the night before Super Tuesday - and I will likely cast my 2012 general election vote as a vote AGAINST instead of a vote FOR somebody sincere that I can believe in and who truly represents my political ideology. But, as Yoda would say, vote I will.
29 February 2012
27 February 2012
Health Nut
My maternal grandmother, Mildred, was an extreme health nut. Not in the contemporary sense of obsessive exercise or diet, but more in a "what's going to kill me first" sense.
Some grandmas give their wee ones cookies, others perhaps a trinket or socks - Mildred was keen on dispensing vitamins. Not your average Flintstone gummies or "One-a-Day chewables", but a precise and costly collection of individual tablets for each organic compound. In those days, there was no GNC at the mall or expansive vitamin section at the grocery store, so Mildred had to get her supplies the old fashioned way - from her dealer.
Ms. Gladys was her connection; like Tupperware or Avon, Ms. Gladys was the Candy Man when it came to hawking vitamins. I don't remember the particulars of Ms. Gladys' enterprise, but I envision it to be some kind of direct sales venture where the representatives were incentivized not only by upselling for profit but also for free purges and colonics.
My little sister was notoriously picky about her diet, and Mildred was in a constant state of dither when it came to her nutritional intake. Mildred would concoct a prescriptive array of supplements to offset her dietary deficiencies - which my sister would loudly and definitively refuse to take. My grandmother was heartily offended by this rejection and would respond with the following tidbit of encouragement: "If you don't take these vitamins, you will die before you are sixteen."
To underscore her predictions of impending doom, Mildred would scour the pages of Prevention magazine and Readers Digest, underlining in thick red ink all the horrific consequences suffered by those who did not adhere to a precise vitamin regimen. Honestly, it got to the point that we didn't want to take those damn vitamins just out of spite.
Her obsession with nutritional health extended to digestive function as well; the woman loved a good BM better than most, and what she didn't spend on vitamins she spent on an array of purgatives. I remain scarred by the memory of the glass of water from her fridge that turned out to be a cold serving of sauerkraut juice.
In retrospect, oh how I wish I had just taken the vitamins and let her love me in her own twisted way. The woman was frightened to death of sickness and death, and all she ever wanted was to protect us from it. Instead we found her annoying and laughable. Today I have an eye-rolling sadness about the whole thing.
Mildred lived to the ripe old age of 87, remaining physically healthy enough to continue working well past 80. (More about her auspicious career in a future entry.) I limit this estimation to physical health primarily because she got progressively nuttier in her later years. Most of her nuttiness was sort of endearing and charming; she still saw herself as the hot redhead of her former glory, and by God she was - Camaro and all. But she also struggled with paralytic fear of blood clots and cancer and a slew of nonspecific ailments certain to slam shut on her life.
And she did spend her last two years confined by illness and incapacity. All the vitamins in the world can't stave off the inevitable. But she surely defied the reaper with the vigor that only a dedicated health nut can muster. And oh, how I love her for it.
Some grandmas give their wee ones cookies, others perhaps a trinket or socks - Mildred was keen on dispensing vitamins. Not your average Flintstone gummies or "One-a-Day chewables", but a precise and costly collection of individual tablets for each organic compound. In those days, there was no GNC at the mall or expansive vitamin section at the grocery store, so Mildred had to get her supplies the old fashioned way - from her dealer.
Ms. Gladys was her connection; like Tupperware or Avon, Ms. Gladys was the Candy Man when it came to hawking vitamins. I don't remember the particulars of Ms. Gladys' enterprise, but I envision it to be some kind of direct sales venture where the representatives were incentivized not only by upselling for profit but also for free purges and colonics.
My little sister was notoriously picky about her diet, and Mildred was in a constant state of dither when it came to her nutritional intake. Mildred would concoct a prescriptive array of supplements to offset her dietary deficiencies - which my sister would loudly and definitively refuse to take. My grandmother was heartily offended by this rejection and would respond with the following tidbit of encouragement: "If you don't take these vitamins, you will die before you are sixteen."
To underscore her predictions of impending doom, Mildred would scour the pages of Prevention magazine and Readers Digest, underlining in thick red ink all the horrific consequences suffered by those who did not adhere to a precise vitamin regimen. Honestly, it got to the point that we didn't want to take those damn vitamins just out of spite.
Her obsession with nutritional health extended to digestive function as well; the woman loved a good BM better than most, and what she didn't spend on vitamins she spent on an array of purgatives. I remain scarred by the memory of the glass of water from her fridge that turned out to be a cold serving of sauerkraut juice.
In retrospect, oh how I wish I had just taken the vitamins and let her love me in her own twisted way. The woman was frightened to death of sickness and death, and all she ever wanted was to protect us from it. Instead we found her annoying and laughable. Today I have an eye-rolling sadness about the whole thing.
Mildred lived to the ripe old age of 87, remaining physically healthy enough to continue working well past 80. (More about her auspicious career in a future entry.) I limit this estimation to physical health primarily because she got progressively nuttier in her later years. Most of her nuttiness was sort of endearing and charming; she still saw herself as the hot redhead of her former glory, and by God she was - Camaro and all. But she also struggled with paralytic fear of blood clots and cancer and a slew of nonspecific ailments certain to slam shut on her life.
And she did spend her last two years confined by illness and incapacity. All the vitamins in the world can't stave off the inevitable. But she surely defied the reaper with the vigor that only a dedicated health nut can muster. And oh, how I love her for it.
26 February 2012
Fun At Home
The boy got an Xbox headset at Christmas, and now we are routinely disrupted by indignant shouts from the downstairs family room of "what was THAT for?" and "don't taze me, broski!"
Xbox gives a whole new dimension to playing well with others.
The Mister thinks we should have similar technology developed for the denizens of cable news networks -- wouldn't it be a gas to be online with other viewers, shouting your own opinions back at Bill O'Reilly and Chris Matthews?
************
We've recently developed an affinity at our house for Cadbury ice cream treats. They are, quite simply, delight-on-a-stick, and we jealously guard our own share from each other ("you already had yours!!")
As mentioned in the previous post, I am a bit under the weather and have taken to spending more time at rest. I was enjoying my allotment of Cadbury joy a few days ago on my corner of the bed. Now I must mention that, the downside of the Cadbury delight stick is that the delicate chocolate shell is easily broken and you must be cautious not to drop the pieces, thereby missing some of the yum.
A bit later, when I came to my room to retire for the evening, I was dismayed to see a giant brown streak on the sheets where I usually sit. I will let you enjoy the visual for a moment, particularly given the current state of my health.
Hmmm...what to do. Pretend I didn't see it? Quietly change the sheets? No, I did what anybody would do... I bent down to smell it and make sure it was what I thought it was - Cadbury chocolate. I got a damp cloth to clean it up, but it left a smudge that was not worthy of an entire load of laundry. However, in the interest of avoiding any misunderstanding, I made sure to alert my husband that the smear on my side of the bed was most assuredly chocolate.
The unfortunate but hilarious outcome of this little vignette is that at our house we now refer to BMs as "making a Cadbury". ;-)
Xbox gives a whole new dimension to playing well with others.
The Mister thinks we should have similar technology developed for the denizens of cable news networks -- wouldn't it be a gas to be online with other viewers, shouting your own opinions back at Bill O'Reilly and Chris Matthews?
************
We've recently developed an affinity at our house for Cadbury ice cream treats. They are, quite simply, delight-on-a-stick, and we jealously guard our own share from each other ("you already had yours!!")
As mentioned in the previous post, I am a bit under the weather and have taken to spending more time at rest. I was enjoying my allotment of Cadbury joy a few days ago on my corner of the bed. Now I must mention that, the downside of the Cadbury delight stick is that the delicate chocolate shell is easily broken and you must be cautious not to drop the pieces, thereby missing some of the yum.
A bit later, when I came to my room to retire for the evening, I was dismayed to see a giant brown streak on the sheets where I usually sit. I will let you enjoy the visual for a moment, particularly given the current state of my health.
Hmmm...what to do. Pretend I didn't see it? Quietly change the sheets? No, I did what anybody would do... I bent down to smell it and make sure it was what I thought it was - Cadbury chocolate. I got a damp cloth to clean it up, but it left a smudge that was not worthy of an entire load of laundry. However, in the interest of avoiding any misunderstanding, I made sure to alert my husband that the smear on my side of the bed was most assuredly chocolate.
The unfortunate but hilarious outcome of this little vignette is that at our house we now refer to BMs as "making a Cadbury". ;-)
24 February 2012
Girl Trouble
(Preface: Males, beware. This particular entry is not for those of you who get all squeamish about female anatomy. Read on at your own risk.)
Remember when you defined "old" as anybody who is twenty years older than you? When you're age ten, thirty seems really old; when you're twenty, it's forty; et cetera. When I was a teenage girl, the concept of menopause was as foreign and obscure to me as ancient Indonesian folk tales. In other words, I had no clue.
Fast-forward to my mid-thirties, when God pronounced me fit to marry and have a family. I remember frowning at the note on my obstetrician's chart which identified me as being of "advanced maternal age". Advanced maternal age? I was 34, for crying out loud, not ready for AARP!
Moving ahead again to age 37, when my second baby expanded my waistline to a personal best record for diameter, my belly button popped out like a Butterball turkey. This description is much more appealing than the more clinically appropriate "umbilical hernia" nomenclature. Just the word "hernia" makes me laugh. Herrrrr--neee--yah. HAHAHAHA!
And now, eleven years later, my hahah-ha-hernia has split open some more and I'm going to have surgery next week to fix it. To add insult to injury, the miracles of modern health science have revealed some impressive new cysts in my nether regions. Why is it that these are always described in proportion to fruit sizes? I am apparently sporting a peach and a tangerine...thank God there's no watermelon.
So next week two surgeons are going to yank out my ovaries and zip up my belly button. Today the doctor explained to me that I will immediately move into surgical menopause after the procedure. MENOPAUSE? I thought that only happened to older women! (Hey, wait a minute...what was that definition of "old" again?)
Seeing that I was getting all teary and cranky over this whole idea, the doctor pointed out the good news...I get to skip all the hot flashes and mood swings and cold sweats and hairy cheeks that go along with regular menopause. So there's that to be happy about.
Under additional pressure to yield all information, the doc did admit that there was a possibility of the big C in all of this but that we won't know until after the plumbing job is complete and the busted parts have been evaluated.
Whaddaya do with THAT piece of info? Nothing. I'm not worrying, I'm not kvetching, I'm actually just kind of fine. You see, my God has got this all under control - and always has. If it's "bad", then He is with me, and if it's "good", then He is with me. Right now, it's in the "who knows" phase, so what's the point in spazzing out anyway? It's a bridge not yet crossed.
And I know beyond all doubt that He will cross the bridge with me. Me and my old lady self.
Remember when you defined "old" as anybody who is twenty years older than you? When you're age ten, thirty seems really old; when you're twenty, it's forty; et cetera. When I was a teenage girl, the concept of menopause was as foreign and obscure to me as ancient Indonesian folk tales. In other words, I had no clue.
Fast-forward to my mid-thirties, when God pronounced me fit to marry and have a family. I remember frowning at the note on my obstetrician's chart which identified me as being of "advanced maternal age". Advanced maternal age? I was 34, for crying out loud, not ready for AARP!
Moving ahead again to age 37, when my second baby expanded my waistline to a personal best record for diameter, my belly button popped out like a Butterball turkey. This description is much more appealing than the more clinically appropriate "umbilical hernia" nomenclature. Just the word "hernia" makes me laugh. Herrrrr--neee--yah. HAHAHAHA!
And now, eleven years later, my hahah-ha-hernia has split open some more and I'm going to have surgery next week to fix it. To add insult to injury, the miracles of modern health science have revealed some impressive new cysts in my nether regions. Why is it that these are always described in proportion to fruit sizes? I am apparently sporting a peach and a tangerine...thank God there's no watermelon.
So next week two surgeons are going to yank out my ovaries and zip up my belly button. Today the doctor explained to me that I will immediately move into surgical menopause after the procedure. MENOPAUSE? I thought that only happened to older women! (Hey, wait a minute...what was that definition of "old" again?)
Seeing that I was getting all teary and cranky over this whole idea, the doctor pointed out the good news...I get to skip all the hot flashes and mood swings and cold sweats and hairy cheeks that go along with regular menopause. So there's that to be happy about.
Under additional pressure to yield all information, the doc did admit that there was a possibility of the big C in all of this but that we won't know until after the plumbing job is complete and the busted parts have been evaluated.
Whaddaya do with THAT piece of info? Nothing. I'm not worrying, I'm not kvetching, I'm actually just kind of fine. You see, my God has got this all under control - and always has. If it's "bad", then He is with me, and if it's "good", then He is with me. Right now, it's in the "who knows" phase, so what's the point in spazzing out anyway? It's a bridge not yet crossed.
And I know beyond all doubt that He will cross the bridge with me. Me and my old lady self.
Fast and Faster
It's Lent again, and here I am facing another 40 days without Diet Coke. It's a sacrifice, I'm telling you - a real sacrifice! Not only will I miss the frosty cold bubbly-ness, but then there's the physiologic reality that I am going through detox. Not the kind where you sweat a lot and see babies crawling on the ceiling, but the kind where your body says, "HEY, WHERE'S MY DAGGONE CAFFEINE?" and, in ugly retribution for your inconsiderate abstinence, strikes you down with a paralyzing headache and a bad attitude.
So Diet Coke is part of my Lenten fast, but this year I'm adding a new layer of self-denial that is already turning into an eye-opener, and this is only the third day of Lent. Just 37 more to go! You see, I've...I've given up...I've given up FACEBOOK. I can barely get the words out. I am the poster child for Facebook addiction, complete with 600+ friends, 40-something photo albums, a shameful number of profile pictures and a nearly daily status update carefully crafted to incite giggles, pity, argument, envy or agreement within my FB universe.
I think what I love most about Facebook is that it is primarily all about me. Oh sure, I enjoy catching up with old friends (and new ones), and staying informed about what's going on with people, and getting coupons from business that I "like", and wishing people I haven't seen in 20 years a happy birthday, and...well, I actually enjoy lots of things about Facebook.
But if I'm really honest (which I strive for on most days), the main reason I like Facebook is the same reason the 9-year-old-me badgered my dad over and over and over again as I stood poised on the diving board to LOOK. AT. ME. Aren't I clever? Isn't that a great picture of my kids? Aren't you glad that we share some great memories?
Now before I rush to harsh self-condemnation here, I have to say that these are not necessarily bad motives. I DO like sharing my life with other people, and the nice thing about FB is that, if you don't feel like being shared with, you can certainly unfriend or block whomever you like. And I don't think it's a bad thing to want to make other people smile.
The problem for me with FB these days is that I've been so busy looking at ME that I often forget to look at Him. What better time than Lent to adjust my perspective? I am planning to spend more time blogging over the next few weeks but primarily in hopes that I continue exercising the gifts He's given me.
So - every time I crave a Diet Coke or get the urge to "just check in" on Facebook, I want to pause and pray and remember that He is the author and perfecter of my faith.
It's not all about me - it's all about HIM.
So Diet Coke is part of my Lenten fast, but this year I'm adding a new layer of self-denial that is already turning into an eye-opener, and this is only the third day of Lent. Just 37 more to go! You see, I've...I've given up...I've given up FACEBOOK. I can barely get the words out. I am the poster child for Facebook addiction, complete with 600+ friends, 40-something photo albums, a shameful number of profile pictures and a nearly daily status update carefully crafted to incite giggles, pity, argument, envy or agreement within my FB universe.
I think what I love most about Facebook is that it is primarily all about me. Oh sure, I enjoy catching up with old friends (and new ones), and staying informed about what's going on with people, and getting coupons from business that I "like", and wishing people I haven't seen in 20 years a happy birthday, and...well, I actually enjoy lots of things about Facebook.
But if I'm really honest (which I strive for on most days), the main reason I like Facebook is the same reason the 9-year-old-me badgered my dad over and over and over again as I stood poised on the diving board to LOOK. AT. ME. Aren't I clever? Isn't that a great picture of my kids? Aren't you glad that we share some great memories?
Now before I rush to harsh self-condemnation here, I have to say that these are not necessarily bad motives. I DO like sharing my life with other people, and the nice thing about FB is that, if you don't feel like being shared with, you can certainly unfriend or block whomever you like. And I don't think it's a bad thing to want to make other people smile.
The problem for me with FB these days is that I've been so busy looking at ME that I often forget to look at Him. What better time than Lent to adjust my perspective? I am planning to spend more time blogging over the next few weeks but primarily in hopes that I continue exercising the gifts He's given me.
So - every time I crave a Diet Coke or get the urge to "just check in" on Facebook, I want to pause and pray and remember that He is the author and perfecter of my faith.
It's not all about me - it's all about HIM.
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