I'm just standing around in my cape-and the wind's blowing.

It is Election Eve.  Who will be the next president?  Obama or Romney*?

*Now I know there are other candidates, but we all know it will come down to those two.  Just being real.

No matter who you vote for, you have to ask yourself:  What do they stand for?

Tough question, because both have spent the last 2 years dancing around the answer.  They both want you to believe that they would stand for you. We can get so caught up in the little details highlighted by the media (who, by the way, have their own agenda).  Big Bird and Bayonets? Really? 

But, when push comes to shove, I want substance, not stupid slams.

And so, that leads me to this question: What would you stand for?

What do I stand for?

I think we need to know the answer to that question before we can ask ourselves if either Romney or Obama stands for the same thing because at this point, I think they would do head stands if that is what it took. (Wouldn't that be funny?  They get up and they have grass and twigs all stuck in their hair-dids.  They would just keep nodding and waving and shaking hands.  Such dweebs -- good thing they have helpers and wives.)

It is easier to answer what the democrats or republicans stand for, or even your church.  But, I think we need to think about ourselves.

What would I literally stand up for?  Where does my passion lie?

I have been thinking about this for a while. 

Here is my starter list:

I would stand for my children. I would stand for them til the end of time and then stand some more after it’s all over.  I would also cart wheel, and head stand.  (I can do neither, but I would try. And they would be embarrassed. And ask me to stop. Jeez - I'm sooo weird.)

I would stand for my husband-plain and simple. He drives me crazy but I wouldn't sit down.

I would stand for my birth family and my family beyond. They are crazy, wet-your-pants-funny, unbalanced, precious, fierce, passionate and they represent a deep sense of who I am because they are like me & vice versa. Except the unbalanced part, I’m the balanced one – just wanted that out there for the record.  Jussayin – Family!

I would stand up for those who cannot stand for themselves. Not in a way that I think I need to save the world in my Super Cape, but in empathetic "I get it" sort of way.  However, if they needed me in my Super Cape, I would put it on and stand.  It would be blowing behind me in a very cool super friend sort of way.  Yep.

I stand for the freedom of music. It is something that speaks to my soul and it has "stood" for me in times that I needed it most.

I would stand for my friends. Because that is what friends do.  That is why they are friends.

And, so I have to shamelessly admit, I would stand for myself. I'm not perfect, or always right/wrong/funny/smart, but I am here. And not going anywhere.

It is a start – but by no means complete. 

I voted absentee a couple weeks ago – I am hoping that in the four years to come I will see that I voted wisely.

Regardless, I will still be standing for the above list.  I hope he joins me.

I'll be right here.

Standing.

With my cape on.  (just because)

And with the wind blowing it just so. (because it would be)

Go vote people, for what it’s worth.

Confessions of one who swims with the sharks

Hey, I'm back.  Again.
I'd like to say I was away on a fab vaca, but I was not.  I was waiting for the next idea, a new muse.
Did Einstein have days like this?  Where he was on a precipice - crouched, waiting for the next good -- and I mean really good-- idea to come along.
Oh Einstein, you crazy haired dude.
I haven't been doing nothing all this time though. I did create a new kind of jelly -- take that Einstein.  I will not divulge the secret ingredient as it would explode all over the internet and then where would I be?  Without royalties, that's where.  OK maybe not.  But it is good.
I took some over to my spice loving neighbor.  He likes hot spice.  He is the kind that would also like Hot Spice of the Pussycat Dolls -- but today we are talking about cooking spices.
He was painting but did stop to taste my new creation.  He did like it.  But, you know, I think I will have him try it again today.  Maybe he was high from the fumes, hard to say.  But he did keep asking if I could see the spiders and he kept swatting at the air...maybe today will be a better day.
Neighbors.  Always high when you need them.  Jeesh.
(Ok he wasn't really hallucinating, but it is fun to think about that, huh?!)

So, here is a little something I wrote in the days gone by.  I was holding it, crouched on the precipice for some time.  It could be a little wrinkled and sweaty, so I apologize.

Confession time -- sorry it doesn't include sex or money.  I'm keeping it on the level.

Confession #3Trillion 200 million 537 & 538 (Obviously, there have been other "things" I've had to get off my chest.  Later, later.):

#537: I am a big fan of water wings.  If only they were socially acceptable for adults.  I don’t know why they shouldn’t be.  Sometimes we all need a life preserver. 

#538:  I don’t swim. (Well, mostly because of #537 -- I'm not stupid.)

I mean, I can’t swim.  Well, technically, I CAN swim, but it is a little frantic. 

Obviously, there is a story -- there always is.  Grab a beer (I am a Coug after all -- all stories require a beer).
I never learned to swim until I reached college.  I enrolled in a swimming class on Tuesdays and Thursdays.  Just thinking about enrolling made me breathless, but I knew it must be done. I'm breathless right now.  

To back up a little -- all my life, I couldn’t learn.  There were a couple opportunities, some missed and some I took full advantage of, no matter how idiotic and poorly thought out they were.

Like in grade school. I went to a poor grade school where I think it might have been like a public service to teach the poor kids how to swim. 

It was not good.  I was freaked out and poor.  Nothing worse than a freaked out and poor girl who can’t swim.  Think:  skinny white girl thrashing in a poorly fitting swimsuit – technically it was my older sister’s suit, and her older sister’s suit before her.  Lucky for me I got swimmers ear (ironic cuz I don’t swim), and got out of the class.  Even my ears knew better than to get in the water when I couldn’t swim.  Even poor girls can figure that out. 

Duh.

The next “Opportunity” came when I was in high school.  I was at my friend’s house lying in the “sun” (I live in the NW – sun is always in quotes) by her pool.  I think it was the only outdoor pool in the NW at that time.  (They had moved up from Georgia and didn’t know any better yet.) 

So, I was lying there thinking in my teenage underdeveloped impulsive brain that I should really learn to swim.  I was missing out on all kinds of stuff by not knowing that one particular skill.  I was not one to miss out on anything.  I decided in that moment that it was time to learn. I would teach myself, damn that water and my made-up swimmers ear.

What to do….what to do…..

I watched my friend as she would casually come and go from the pool to the towel and back again so effortlessly and thought, “meh, what can happen?  If I sink to the bottom I will just walk along the bottom of the pool til I get to the other side”. 

WTH?  This is why I cannot let my daughter out of my sight.  What kind of logic is that?

The long and short of it is that I got up – thinking my 70lb, 4 foot 8 inch BFF could save my life if things went awry, and jumped off the diving board.  I distinctly remember thrashing about in my tiny polka dotted bikini, and I think I touched the bottom with a toe one time to give myself a push.  No walking on the bottom occurred as I had anticipated.  Mostly thrashing in a propelling way til I made it to the side.  My friend was watching me (not saving me as I had thought could happen in the case that plan A – the walking under water part —wasn’t as effective as originally believed) and laughing because she had no idea of my swimming impaired status.  I calmly pulled myself out of the pool and said, “what?” and laid back down.

Disappointedly I thought, “Damn.  I didn’t learn how to swim. And I have water in my nose.  I hate water. Maybe I should have told Jann I couldn’t swim – nah.  Man, it’s hot out here, I better put on some more baby oil.” 

Never mind that I ALMOST DROWN.  

Damn, I was stupid. And teenaged. Same thing,huh?

Time passed, and somehow I stayed alive in spite of my stupidity.

I grew older (wiser? Maybe not.) and enrolled in a swimming class my freshman year in college.  I think I might have PTSD because as I sit here I can still feel the fear and trepidation I felt every Tuesday and Thursday morning at 10am.  The class was at 10:30 and I would go to bfast before and sit with my friends in the dining hall and try not to freak out.  I did freak out.  Quietly every Tuesday and Thursday. 

It was a hard class for the instructor.  She was not a big fan of walking underwater.  I think she wanted to hold me under the water sometimes. But, too many witnesses, and once again, I persevered and stayed alive.

I am a survivor. Nbd.

After 3 months of terror, I mean teaching, I did learn to swim from Point A to Point B.

Treading water was right out.  I think it looked like there was a shark attack going on in the water when I was attempting this hard and daring feat.  I drank A LOT of pool water.  Pool water that other college students had been in. Ewwe.

So, that is my confession.  The weird thing is that I want a pool.  I have not given up my dream of learning how to swim better & tread water.  I still envision myself lying in the sun, going from pool to towel effortlessly and NOT walking on the bottom of the pool.

UPDATE:  The newest and greatest thing in pool building – 4 foot deep pools.  Hooray!  This summer I did my first complete summer sault in the pool. 

And I did walk on the bottom. On both my hands and feet-but not at the same time. With my head under water -- well, just when I was on my hands.  It really wasn't as complicated and daring as it sounds. I'm just your run of the mill Circus performer.  That's how I roll now.

Watch me, Mom.  Watch me. Watch....watch.

Ha Zaah, swim teacher.  Take that!

Breakin stuff. Opening cans. What ev.

“But now I’m hot and baby you’re gonna get it.” Breakin Dishes by Rhianna

Too bad she didn’t open that can of whoop a$$ on B. Brown.

But that’s the thing about women, you just never know.  Why didn’t she open that can on him?

Move in close, boys, I’m going to tell you something you should never forget.

Never underestimate a woman.  

We are most likely not what you think.  

We are that and more.   

That’s the good news.

The bad news, is “never underestimate a woman”.  Especially one that is familiar with can openers.

Now, we should not be feared.  We are a loving race. We love kittens, babies, and fresh laundry.  We love men and women, sunsets, cosmos, coffee in bed.

But, we can be mean.  Very mean. To each other and to other men and innocent women.  (Never to kittens, babies or fresh laundry).  Always to vandals.

Sometimes we are mean during that one week a month, sometimes during the other three weeks.  

It is, apparently, our prerogative.

Take me for instance.  I have a mouth like a trucker.  Some might blush if they were ever privy to what was in my head.  For the most part, I keep it inside.  Most days.

Ladies: choose your weapons

Sometimes that is hard though.  I have a devil with a flamethrower on one shoulder and two angels with fire extinguishers that are always running low, on the other.  Sometimes, the angels can’t keep up and there is a fire.  Jussayin’

On the outside, I am usually quiet.  I was shy in middle school, and sometimes I am shy now. But, sometimes it will slip, the White Center will shine, and I unleash the Krakken.  I think it is shocking to some when it happens, but I was raised by a father who could put together a string of profanity only a sailor could be proud of.

This has only happened a handful of times and mostly when someone has crossed my family or me.  One time it was when our house was being repeatedly vandalized.  I stayed up one night and caught the little “buggers”. And I will tell you, they looked frightened when I flew out of the house in my bathrobe, hair all this way and that, slinging my badass string of profanity like a cowboy in a shootout at the OK corral.  The Good, the Bad, and, particularly, the Ugly.  They must have sensed it was that one week during the month, because they ran like hell.  I can only guess they have a mother at home because they were a bit frightened. 

So frightened, one little “bugger” (“bugger” is short for another name I like to call him) left his backpack on our lawn.  As they were running down the street, all elbows and bony knees every which way, I paused in my profanity spree and looked down to see the blessed backpack.  He used it to pack his vandal supplies in.  He yelled to his vandal friends, "Hey, did you get my backpack?"  I picked it up and shook it in the air shouting, "Yeah, I got your ____  ___  ____packback, you stupid ___ _______  _____ __ __".  It turns out that he also used it during the week to leave his homework in.  Stupid bugger.  And he WAS sort of stupid, bad grade on the paper but, lucky for me, he put his name at the top.

I plotted his demise for some time (funny, for just about a week. Huh…), but in the end, I gave up the fight.  After speaking to his mother and to him, I could only feel pity.  I had to deal with him for only one night, she has a lifetime.  So, everybody gets what they deserve, I guess.  She gets him, he gets a life of confusion and stupidity, and I got to open a can of whoop-a** on that one week of the month. 

You can't always get what you want, you get what you need. Yes, Mick, I did get what I needed.

But in doing so, I realized I couldn’t change the world, even as a profanity slinger. (cut to the lonely sound of my spurs ka-chiiinnging off into the dusty outback)

UH HUH, that's what I'm talkin about.

So see, I am that and so much more.  And I always always have my can opener on the ready.

I’m killin time, you know, bleachin your clothes – Rhianna

(Come on, we’ve all been there…) 

Vegas: Not your Momma's field trip

Should it really stay in Vegas?

I’ve done the unspeakable in Mom terms.  I took my daughter to Vegas.  I didn’t take her there to party Vegas-style– but I took her nonetheless.  I’m not taking one for the team on this one, my husband went too.  Although he will say it was my idea.  I wanted her to see the crazy cool buildings, go shopping, see the street performers, go to a show, eat good food, go to a football game, and meet my friend and her daughter.

Vegas looks really different without the beer colored glasses.

It was like realizing Santa is not real.  (Obviously, I am still traumatized by that giant lie, but that is neither here nor there AND didn’t involve giant plastic oddly shaped glass like vessels full of drank and slushy matter.)  I have only been to Vegas two times before and had a great time – with other adult friends.  I’m sure I was exposed to all the things below, but because I was more concerned with my friends, eating good food, gambling, etcetera, I didn’t notice the other stuff. 

Don’t get me wrong – we had a great time, my daughter and husband and I. We did go to a show, shopped, soaked up all the sun a Northwestern person could take without going Lobster and everything else I mentioned. Vegas is great for all those things.  But it’s different when you are with one of your two most precious people in the world.  Lady Hedonism goes right out the window and out emerges Amish Momma.  I just didn’t realize how brash Vegas really is.  Denial is something, isn’t it?  Amish Momma was busy, busy, busy the whole weekend.

Enough of the guilt, there has to be a lesson here.  And with eyes wide open, we learned a lot!

So, what should stay in Vegas, and what should we bring home?  Jeez, so many answers. 

The hoochie momma dresses/skirts – that are really shirts – should stay there.  It was shocking.  We saw more hoochie than Momma should ever see.  What happened to good girlfriends saying to one another, “No, don’t wear that, your hoochie will show”? It took everything I had not to rush at them, throw off my Amish cap, and try to pinch an inch of the tight sausage wrapping fabric and wrestle it down over their humps.  This would have humiliated my daughter (or maybe she would have laughed – hard to know, sometimes she doesn’t like me or my Amish ways) and may have resulted in time in the Hooscow in Vegas.  So, I just happened along behind the walking “sexy”/trashy tightly wrapped chickies and tried not to stare at the “dresses” that seemed to have goals of their own – to make it up to the bra area in 5 steps or less.  (I would have said bra, but many were not wearing them.) I was transfixed and stared at it like you would at a slow motion train wreck.  And then, at the last minute, she would reach down and give the tight fabric a yank and wiggle inchworm style back into the “dress”. To say it was disturbing really underestimates what we were going through.  It is an image that is forever in my brain. 
Lesson:  Look AWAY, for dog’s sake!

The prostitutes.  Good lord almighty.  I think they should stay in Vegas. I am a bad prostitute hunter – needless to say, I don’t have a use for them – but even I saw one or two. (And one even winked at my husband.  He didn’t tell me about it til later and he said she was pretty hot.  OMG!)  But, I can only be sure I saw two.  They were coming out of the elevator cursing and talking ghetto about how they were going to “come up all on that b***** if she didn’t stop staring” at them.  I had to look away quickly because I didn’t want THAT all up on me.  But, because I have only seen prostitutes on TV, they looked much cleaner than I was used to.  That threw me.  And they were fit.  Or seemed to be.  How would I know? There was so much hooking up going on around me, that I couldn’t tell if it was a transaction or girls gone wild.
Lesson: Prostitute hunting is for the weak and desperate -- not intended for Amish Moms.  And for God's sake, don't stare or they will beat your a$$.

The roving bands of drunken men.  They were like sailors that had been on the ship too long.  Really boys? The plane ride wasn’t that long.  Looking down on the pool from the hotel it was like those videos you see on the Today show of the schools of the great white sharks off the east coast circling and swimming looking for their next kill.  It was crazy.  Up close, they were even more dangerous.  They were being served buckets of beer (chum) and I NEVER saw one get out of the water to go pee.  Just like sharks – only sharks don’t have a choice about the bathrooms.  The lovely, sweet, patient waitress would set the bucket down and back away.  Out of striking/touching distance.  I’m surprised they didn’t have sticks to push the buckets forward just to stay out of the frenzy zone.  Amish Momma says they should stay there.  And they do.  Or their drunken selves do.  You see these same dudes at the airport and they are back to normal.  Or they are too hung over to even move their eyes.  The chum is a dim hazy memory.  “Was I a shark? Did I sit in a pool of pee with my man-dude friend? Wait, what?”  Yes, dumb ass, you did.  I watched you from under my Amish bonnet.
Lesson:  Sharks are dangerous yet stupid. Stupid and dangerous are a bad combination, but when combined with alcohol --we all become chum.

There were so many lessons I taught my daughter – like a mini internship.  Which is what it is like in real life, only lessons were ripe for the picking everywhere you looked.  You can’t really teach a teenager brought up in the “English” world with your Amish cap on, so I had to pull it off and go stealth.  Pointing out all these “interesting” scenes along the way, asking what she saw, thought, felt. 

Looking back on it, I am torn as to if I should have taken her.  When I had gone there in the past, I was a pretty self-involved adult.  I had only myself to think about and so I could ignore the hoochie mommas, prostitutes and shark-men.  I don’t truly know how she processed it – it is a lesson and experience we will continue to talk about for some time to come.   (And we were in our room by 11:30 every night!) I will say that if I had truly seen Vegas when I had been there in the past, I would not have taken her. It is a lot for an adult to process, let alone a young person. So, no, I am not torn.  But, do-overs are not a real part of life, unfortunately.

So, it has to be a lesson.  

These lessons…they should come home with us.  They shouldn’t stay in Vegas.  No one is listening there anyway.  Sharks can’t hear and those girls are miss-guided, not to mention sad.  I can only hope she saw it for what it is.  She will be a step ahead of me.  That is what I want. 

One day I hope she buys an Amish cap of her own.  From our conversations, I think she is considering it.