American Sniping

I have two sons, aged nine and eleven, who are often angry and pugilistic with one another. And recently it's become apparent to me the communication style of my pre-teen boys is, frighteningly, mirroring the ways of current political dialogue. To sum: when the two parties disagree, the situation often quickly escalates to inane name calling and shouting, quickly followed by various beatings of each other about the head and neck, then much butthurt and finger-pointing and general whining. Is it dinner at my house or today's Fox and Friends? Both the far left and far right political voices (the media on a macro level too, but I mean the masses you and I watch spewing garden-variety vitriol on our Twitter and Facebook accounts daily), are like those of toddlers.

I guess we are a bunch of naked apes, but there's nothing like a national cultural schism to really bring out the poo-flinging, cage bar-rattling knuckle draggers of all political stripes. And the recent release of the drama now nominated for six Academy Awards American Sniper, directed by right wing poster child (and famous chair lecturer) Clint Eastwood, is just the cataclysm for a perfect internet storm of hate. I have not seen American Sniper, but I am eager to as soon as you send money for babysitting. Related: I need a Kickstarter account. However, it's both the left and right wing fringe that deserve a big, fat time out.

On the far right, I am not loving your tweets featuring your desire to shoot "you some ragheads" and general xenophobic and knee-jerk hatred of anyone wearing skin darker than a paper bag. Outer-right wing, you are not Lee Greenwood. You are not Toby Keith. You are an ammosexual. Sadly, you utilize less than critical thinking. In 2000, half this country felt the presidency was taken by fraud. This half of the country was appalled at our government's decision to invade another country illegally and occupy it without our okay a few years later. The 2000-2008 American government only broke the world. Sorry, not sorry.

War and violence, largely kept surging and ever-popular on a global scale by males, may indeed be a biological by-product of the naked ape thing. But that doesn't mean we shouldn't give Herculean effort to eradicate it. If we humans keep building that pre-frontal cortex out over the porch of our brains, maybe we can keep the slaughters to a minimum. Makes sense the left doesn't want war glorified or to fool our more intellectually-challenged citizens into thinking the Iraq war was a worthwhile endeavor that we should repeat. Wergild went out with the Beowulf era. Oh, look it up, kids.

But far lefties? Egad! Michael Moore says he was taught by his grandparents that snipers are cowards. Mike, my grandparents taught me white people were superior to black ones. Probably we can throw out a few of the greater generation's ideas with the light of several decades of perspective. I understand Michael Moore. I, too, can be a blurter. But maybe we shouldn't verbalize every thought, Mike. I'm sorry you lost your relative to an enemy sniper, but America has to be able to defend itself against people who haven't quite evolved there yet. And until someone has shot at you in enemy territory, you might want to hold your own fire.

Seth Rogan says American Sniper is government propaganda. Again, I'll get back with you when I've been able to see American Sniper with my review. I'm thinking I'm probably going to find my healthy anti-war sentiment can exist with my patriotism. I try to put myself in soldiers' boots and I just can't imagine the enormity of their experience and what inner life a solider has no choice but to navigate. A movie I have seen more than once, highly recommended, is Jar Head. Straight from a soldier's mouth, it might give Seth an idea about what a soldier's journey is and what he or she sacrifices and experiences in order to stand in between me and Seth and the bad guys. Plus, Seth's a city boy. He's got no idea what it's like to live comfortably with guns and use them to get stuff to eat.
 
It doesn't take having met the man to know Chris Kyle had to be conflicted about his job and the tremendous toll it took on him and his wife and children personally. Chris Kyle was not glib about what his job was. He knew it saved countless lives and had great meaning. Being an American solider almost, or maybe did, cost him everything. It must have been a mental ride morally, psychologically, and emotionally that most of us could not fathom...perhaps, just maybe, without the help of this movie. I cannot express my respect for Kyle and every American armed service officer. I just want to see a scene of his kicking Jesse Ventura's ass, which I hope really did happen despite what the judge said. But I digress.

F. Scott Fitzgerald's famous quote: The test of a first-rate intelligence intelligence to be able to hold two opposing ideas in mind. Why don't we all take a moment to consider: it is entirely possible for American Sniper to be a right wing rah rah piece from a rich old establishment white dude, sure. But also and at the same time, it could be possible this movie can give the viewer the ability to experience vicariously, if only for two hours, the agony and the ecstasy of the American solider: honor. Respect. Great personal meaning. Belonging. But also isolation, despair, terror, hopelessness, and sometimes even perhaps madness. And that empathy can only be healing to our great but sadly and currently badly bifurcated America.

Hey, Look! She Blogged!

Hey, look at that! It's been November since I blogged. Surprisingly, more of you commented on my break than I thought. I saw people at parties, in offices, and on the street who gushed over my writing (yes, gushed, I know that sounds like I'm making it up), asked about when I'd be posting again. Hell, even some of the trolls on the uncaring interwebs posted they missed, inexplicably, hearing me largely complain about my so-called middle-aged life. Gobsmacked.

Yeah, some of you are impressed with my thoughts on such pithy matters as the many faces of car pool or my crazy, long-haired hippie freak points of view. Who knew? First, thanks, those of you who said something to me. You're nice! You bowl me over, actually. I never really thought anyone really paid attention to my lil' ol' blog, much less looked forward to it or laughed aloud to it or identified with me. Really. Most of blogging seems like talking into the wind. *taps mic* This thing on?

But you called me talented. I liked that. Because I stopped blogging for awhile for a couple of reasons: a) the aforementioned futility thing and a general feeling that blogging has been overdone to death, b) I got super busy with my first job, my family, and my second job wearing the Professional Hat, and finally, c) I wasn't sure what the point was. What was I hoping to accomplish?

But thanks to y'all, I think I know. It's called the joy of self expression, bitches. I have these thoughts that crowd my head AND NOTHING IS OKAY UNTIL THEY ARE SEEN BY YOU. I know. I don't understand it myself. It's more than a little dicey. It's possibly pathological. I shout. I have terribly, terribly unpopular opinions. Sometimes I'm in a great mood and you'll get what passes for my funny. Other times IT'S ON ACCOUNT OF THE OUTRAGE and words literally will ooze from my ears if I don't bleed them out.

Okay, sorry about that. But the shouting comes with the territory for now. I'm working on it. I meditate and seek therapy. So tune away if you aren't ready. It's a Me Party, thank you, Muppets, and I gotta be me. You do you. So if you're reading this, be forewarned! Momma always did say if you're gonna sing badly, sing loudly. Here's to the sometimes-messy joy of self expression. Because the bird doesn't have breaking news. But she sure has a beautiful song.

Carpe November!

Goodbye, Halloween. We barely knew ye. But it's time to move over for arguably the hippest month on the calendar for Texas: November, baby! It's November 2, and I'm just emerging from my carb-induced candy coma in order to kick off the new month. I sure do like the cut of November's jib here in Texas. There's no beating it. There's no other place in which I'd rather be to spend this incredible month. Here's the reasons November, particularly in Texas, can be so sublime:

It's officially opens eating season! Left over from Halloween and currently in my house is roughly a metric ton of candy. It's enough candy to satisfy a small African nation, I am almost sure. Embarrassing riches of candy. I love being an American when one of my "problems" is too much candy. The first two weeks of November, every candy dish in every cubicle along the telecom corridor and beyond will runneth over with the fruits of Hershey's labor, luring you in with its siren song. Mmmm. Sugar.

And then we get to Thanksgiving. Professional grade eating. Eating until you hurt and pass out eating. Stuffing food with more food before eating it. Cooking with pounds of butter. One word, people: casseroles. It is the season of mixing all our food in a bowl, not un-trough-like, and twice baking it. Pies...so many pies. Deep fry that turkey this year, dear? Yes ma'am! The warm hug for your belly that is mashed potatoes. And in Texas? It means tamales, homemade and delicious...Oh, November and Thanksgiving. You complete me. 

November in Texas means time for patio weather! That's right, rest of the nation, envy Texas now...because it's finally cooled off enough for us to actually emerge into the sunlight without disappearing in a puff of ash and smoke. You see, the seasons in Texas are as follows: Summer. Just Had Summer. About to Have Summer. And Face of the Sun. And Just Had Summer puts us in a good and generous mood.

Go ahead and shovel your sidewalks, enjoy the frost on your pumpkins you people with "autumn" in the North. We Texans are gonna enjoy the frost on our margarita glass as we sit outside the Mexican restaurant. In sleeves, no less! O sleeves. How I have missed you. But it's dipped below 80, so we officially can pull out the boots and sweaters now. You might not get a chillier chance in Texas, after all. Yes, it's al fresco season at last in the Lone Star state. Porch-sittin' weather. Related: Yee haw!

November also gives the sweet gift of Daylight Savings Time, or Fall Back. Thank you, sweet November, for the extra hour of sleep. For keeping me from getting up what inevitably feels like the middle of the night. More importantly, for not having to raise children who sleep like corpses in the dark up out of bed for school. I love sleep. I am so, so good at it. Sleep is the new sex. Sleep and me go way back. Thank you, November.

Yes, football season is in full and glorious swing in November, the colleges are finding out who's a contender this season, tail-gating and all its associated heart-damaging snacks and beverages are plentiful. There's new episodes of your favorite shows on television. The school year is just far enough along that the kids have discovered their routines but haven't managed to lose, as they always do, their school enthusiasm just yet. And in Texas, the skies are blue, the air is dry. Ahhh.

So, go forth, my fellow Texans, and carpe November!  Grab November's greatness by the throat and throttle all the joy out of it you can. Enjoy your family as they gather to stuff themselves senseless. Root, root root for the home team. Eat pumpkin spice flavored something. Eat it outside. In a jacket, maybe. Wonder where all those Northerners manage to store all that extra clothing they have to wear this time of year. Enjoy. Now, if you'll forgive me, I believe it's time for leftover Halloween chocolate. It's eating season, after all.

I Fail Halloween

Yep. That's right. I am not winning at Halloween. Just when I think I'm doing a decent bit of parenting, all the mothers around me once again remind me I was born without that chromosome that makes me domestically inclined. I'm outlasted, outplayed,  and outwitted. I'm like a father trapped in a mother's body when it comes to this stuff. No offense, dads. But it's primarily other mothers I see who work so hard to win Halloween.

What do I mean? I can't keep up with you, ladies. I don't know how you do it. You do Halloween with the ruthless efficiency of Vladmir Putin. You, for starters and unfathomably, enjoy pumpkin patches. Someone has got to explain the draw. I will never understand the allure of standing in a field, staring at hundreds of round, orange, inanimate vegetables. Yep. There's a pumpkin. Sure enough. And look over there. There's another, different sized pumpkin. I can sit on this pumpkin. I can pick up this pumpkin. Fun over. Egads.

By dawn on October the first, your homes are fully, creatively, and meticulously decorated internally and externally like a squad of spooky Martha Stewarts descended upon them during the night. Every fake cobweb strategically placed, every mum fluffed, every little decorative country scarecrow in its place. Sparkly witch feet and legs sprout from cauldrons. Dry ice oozes around foam tombstones. Gourds of all stripes dot your porch. The smell of pumpkin spice everything permeates your kitchen.

I, on the other hand, have a dark secret: I don't get Pinterest. I joined. But I just don't get the allure of looking at pictures of impossible projects destined to damage my self-esteem. But not you, Halloween mom-winner. You make framed photos of papier mache spiders and wreaths out of three kinds of orange and black garland and pipe cleaners. You, oddly, have a tiered line of Day of the Dead themed Halloween nutcrackers marching across your mantelpiece. You make cake tombstones and ghost shaped cookies. And I do not understand at all.

You who are Halloween ninjas also have spent at least three weeks hand crafting your child's My Little Pony costume and documenting the process on social media. You have gone frame by frame by a cartoon in order to achieve historical accuracy in the reproduction of Twilight Sparkle's cutie mark. You've used wire hangers, felt, a sewing machine, glitter paint, and a glue gun so far, and that's just for the head. I? Took the kids to the Halloween Spirit store and made my debit card smoke.

And since when did costumes get so elaborate, anyway? The fairy princess gown, wings, shoes, wig, wand, makeup, crown...did anyone else grow up in the seventies when we didn't have anything? When a Halloween costume accounted to pretty much an uber-flammable plastic smock? How you had to actively avoid brushing against Jack O'Lanterns lest they set you aflame? There were news reports about that, I swear.

And we only had those plastic masks with the elastic band. The eye holes were never even, so you had to pick camera one or camera two to look out of, and there was a ridiculous little slit in the mouth you were supposed to breathe through but you couldn't, so you wore the thing on your head until it was time to take a gulp of air, pull it down and yell "Trick or treat!" and then hold your breath until you were back at the end of the driveway. Halloween today, my friends, is on steroids.



And it isn't just costumes to buy. You, Win Mom, send Halloween cards from your children to their grandparents. You give your children Halloween gifts. When did Halloween gifts get to be a thing? Stuffed bears with witches' hats and candy corn. Lighting necklaces. Pumpkin earrings. Glowsticks and wands. Gone are the grocery bags of yesteryear in which to collect candy. Step up and buy the "pumpkin" of your character choice! My kid insists you chuck your candy into his Spongebob head.

You, you mothers of made of win, have gift bags for each of your children's school mates, and you never forget they only allow pencils and poorly made Chinese plastic crap, erm, toys to be distributed at school these days and have your candy thrown out. You have adorable and appropriate Halloween themed shirts for each of your children to wear throughout the week of the holiday. You, yourself, have a Halloween shirt that says something clever in sequins. I have a ten year old witch costume which now only elicits eye-rolls from my preteen.

Oh, well. Perhaps I'm not as crafty or resourceful as you other moms. Perhaps it's just not, as Austin Powers would say, my bag, baby, yeah. Or I'm a total slacker. But let's not be harsh. Maybe, just maybe, Halloween will come even with my ancient, semi-functioning, and decidedly non-scary decorations from before we had children and could afford plastic, light-up ghosts. Perhaps my children will one day forgive me for refusing to host twenty children in my house for anything. Let's pray therapy will help them deal with the emotional scarring of having worn second-rate costumes, a lack of theme-park quality decorations, and the denial of Halloween gifts.

No, I get it: I fail Halloween, but I'm okay with that. I can leave all this Halloween over-achieving to you. Because I got a bigger a fish to fry, the Big Game to worry about..it's gonna be here so soon, and it's called Christmas. I'll save my anxiety attacks for then. And on that note: happy Halloween, everyone! I hope you're winning.

Running for Help

Momma always did say I was hard headed. And it's true; pretty much and historically, the quickest way to get me to do something is to either a) tell me I can't do it or b) forbid me to do it. I'm not saying it's necessarily always a character value, or that it's always served me well. But in some cases, my doggedness and tenacity has taken me to some exciting destinations.

Without some steely determination, I would not have been able to create a successful small business, have three babies in four years and not get carted to Terrell State Hospital, get a second master's degree and professional license, and lose half my body weight. And that was just in my thirties, folks. Hey, it ain't bragging if you can do it.

Something I can do now that my behind is a little less wide is move it a little more effectively. I found walking outside wasn't so bad when you're not carrying extra pounds. And in 2011, I started running. It was really a case of peer pressure. I met some Running Buddies in my computer, and suddenly I was being told a fun outing was a morning 5K followed very closely by mimosas and breakfast.

That I run now is really unusual. I come from a family of people who largely consider keeping the furniture from floating off the floor is as active as we get. We are a sedentary people on the whole. As a college student, I joked I would jog, but it would foam up my beer. My walking consisted largely of the path between the couch and fridge. But the Running Buddies seemed to really enjoy running, I enjoyed them, and if there was champagne at the end, I was game.

That first 5K was hard. But I got a t shirt and something else: a feeling of accomplishment.  The ability to say, "Hey, remember when we ran that 5K," all breezy-like. Soon Running Buddies were saying they were absolutely certain I could finish a 10K...and last December, I did exactly that with them at my side. Going slower than they can as I practically wore my lungs on the outside of my body.

So what was I to do when Running Buddy asked me casually last weekend, "So...you gonna run the Dallas Half Marathon?" Followed by what was, for me, a pregnant pause. In that moment, my brain yelled HE'S CALLING YOU SOFT, YOU BIG LOSER. Of course he thought nothing of the like. My superego can be a bit shouty. And cue the internal battle: could I do it? Maybe I could do it! It occurred to me that Running Buddy asked because he...gasp!...actually believes I could pull off a thirteen mile run.

Could I really run for, like, two and a half hours? Running Buddy assures me I can. And for some unfathomable reason, I pulled the trigger. For complex reasons probably surrounding approval and performance issues,  I signed up. On December 8, I will, presumptively, be running 13.1 miles of downtown Dallas. I say that I am, although there is a hefty portion of my brain that wonders more than a little if this middle-aged body can pull it off.

Now for the part where you come in, dear reader: I'm not running this half marathon just for myself. Nah, if I'm gonna hurt, it should be for a great cause. I need y'all to hold me accountable to finish this monster race. So I'm running to raise awareness of one of our great community service agencies in town: Community Lifeline Center. They provide emergency crisis service: they can pay rent, bills, for medicine, provide foot and necessities and even mental health counseling to help people when things go wrong.

Sponsor me! Together we can do some good...and you don't even have to get up from in front of your computer. I'll do all the sweating for you. Go to communitylifeline.org wherever you are and click on the big "Donate Now" button. Even twenty bucks feeds a family, guys. A fire, a job loss, a sudden illness or injury...you never know when you might be in a crisis yourself and need just a little help while it passes. Make a difference.

And for your pleasure, I will document the journey of a harried, slightly overweight mother of three with a dubious left hip as she overcomes her fear of passing out in the streets of Dallas when it's not Saint Patrick's Day or a particularly interesting night in Deep Ellum. Maybe, just maybe, I'll inspire you to set a goal for yourself. One that you think just might be out of reach. And we do-gooders can celebrate together when I reach the finish line.

Happy It's-Not-the-Holidays!

Yep, it's that time of year. The kids are insisting on getting down the Halloween decorations. They're ready for the annual hauling out of the tombstones, fake spider webs, light-up pumpkins, and fluttering, hanging ghosts. Of course, they were ready in mid-August, mind you, when most of these evil stores start stocking Halloween costumes. Me? I've got to say: I'm really enjoying it not being the holidays. Because, and as well all know, the minute the All Hallow's Eve is over...it's on like the proverbial Donkey Kong.

So allow me if you will to revel in the moment while it's here: it's not holiday time yet, and the living is easy. For just a few fleeting more weeks, I am care free. Free! Guess who doesn't give a hoot about whether or not I'll be shopping for five matching white shirts for the family to wear for the arranged photo for the Christmas card? Who's not even given a thought to how, when, or where this photography will take place? Who's not addressing cards and adorning them with Christmas stamps and stickers? THIS LADY.

Yes, happiness is not yet having to concern myself with which child I will sell into serfdom in order to finance the Christmas gathering. The food for ten? The stocking stuffers alone will call for a small business loan. Where will everyone sleep? Where will I hide the liquor? What will I feed my vegan sister-in-law? These are questions I do not have to address today, and for that, I am eternally grateful. I can focus on eating my weight in Doritos while watching the Texas/OU game while ignoring everything Yuletide, thank you very much.

No grocery lists! No weight creep! No panic attacks over the kids accidentally stumbling upon Santa's stash. For that matter, no prolonged philosophical discussions with my pre-teen over the purported existence of said Fat Man and of Christmas Magic in general.

No boxes or ribbons or bags to buy or store or to totally take over the dining room table, otherwise known as The Wrapping Area. The lights are still in a massive tangle in the storage shed to be completely ignored. No hours yet spent on procuring a tree, taking down the decorations, putting up the decorations, and dusting the decorations.

Don't get me wrong! There's a time and place for all that ho-ho-happiness, but you've got to admit...it's a lot of work and money and effort. Not to mention the cost of therapy and possible psychotropic medication after spending all that time with your family.

You've got to admit, we're in a nice space: just getting settled into school, into a routine...and now it's time for Halloween already. Then it's only a hop, skip, and a jump away to Thanksgiving followed so closely by Christmas. It all requires a degree in event planning, an Excel spreadsheet, and three months hard labor.

So don't judge me. I do love the holidays...but I also dearly love they aren't requiring my attention just yet. Allow me to revel in the moment: it's mid October, I haven't given a thought to making any sort of list, and turkey is the furthest thing from my mind. Nope. Not figuring out teacher gifts, not up late baking, not wondering if I leave the letter carrier a Christmas fruitcake if he'll fear anthrax poisoning.

Join me. Let us luxuriate in this wonderful moment in time. Let's take a breath and relax. Let's watch football, enjoy the State Fair, feel the glorious Texas temperatures dipping into the 80s with a sense of  peace. I am mindfully aware of my immediate blessings. For just a little while longer, the pressure is off. Soon enough it will be time to do battle in the stores and on the roads once more. Today? Is not that day. I shall rejoice and be glad in it.

American Anger Management: The Shutdown

Stop it, America. STAHP. I love you, I do. I could not be more proud to be an American than if I were Lee Greenwood himself. I mean this most sincerely. I'm a Yankee Doodle Dandy. But this week? This week has been a struggle emotionally for me as I watch my national government tantrum like a child. I'm lost. The fed has partially shut down, and I'm wondering if this means I'm now responsible for spying on myself.

The politics that have been played since Monday's shutdown are angrying up my blood. Lots of Americans are angry: left, right, and center. I am not alone in my impatience and indignance, I know. The majority of us are relatively reasonable people. But there is a section of society that is trying my patience, and it's required a focused effort this week not to, say, toss a masonry brick through my television during the evening news.

So what's a citizen to do when all she or he wants to do is to smack a Congressman (or Congresswoman, for that matter; these people are definitely equal-opportunity when it comes to obnoxiousness)? How indeed does a civic-minded individual who thinks and feels cope with the lunacy that keeps coming out of Washington? America's like the world's drunk uncle that falls in his plate at Thanksgiving. It would be nice to go a week without being embarrassed by my country.

It's time like these that I have to turn off the television and start applying some sanity-supporting cognitive trickery in order to cope with those stressors which I cannot change. Like Nancy Pelosi's face. Or John Boehner's skin tone. Or the stupid, stupid things that come out of the mouths of people whose salaries I pay who claim they are moderately educated. Thus: The Handy Guide to Surviving the Shutdown With Minimal Emotional Scarring.

Three words: Shutdown Drinking Game! Take a shot every time you hear a politician say "Obamacare," "It's them that won't compromise," "We're willing to compromise," or the phrase "job killer." Drink every time a reporter interrupts a politician. If you are inconvenienced by park closures, take two shots. Drink every time any politician says their party is "winning." Take a shot if Boehner cries. Another if Harry Reid calls Boehner a name. Drain the bottle when you hear "debt ceiling."

Realize that this "crisis" is a Crisis du jour. There’s no doubt we must love this permanent state of emergency we enjoy in America. After all, we've survived the Benghazi Crisis, the IRS Crisis, and the NSA Crisis. Before that it was the Budget Emergencies of 2011 and 2010. There was the Bailout Crisis, and the Immigration Reform Crisis and the Energy Policy Crisis and the Gun Control Crisis and the Social Security Crisis and the Medicare Crisis and who can forget The Defense of Marriage Crisis? There was the Election Crisis and the Birth Certificate Crisis and well, hell, I forget, it’s all such a blur.

Finally and best of all, this government shutdown just may be the diaper this King Baby called Congress fills that is stinky enough for us voters to make the change: in representation. Perhaps the antics of this week will encourage more rational citizens to realize: Congress? Well, they're just not that into us. Join me in a guided imagery, if you will, where we go to our happy places and laws are actually agreed on and passed there and no politician drinks on the job.

So hang in there, my fellow Americans! We are bigger than this crisis. We still have the Kardashians, the cronut, and NASCAR. This, too, shall pass, and a new news cycle will begin. A celebrity will gain weight or forget her underwear. An elected official will tweet pictures of his unmentionables to a Hooters' waitress. Perhaps, and just perhaps, more people will reluctantly agree keeping formula available for America's hungry babies and being able to get a service veteran a loan for his house is just as important as winning. We are America, people, and so hope springs eternal.