I was planning a scathing post on the epic fail that is the choice of Sarah Palin as Republican VP nominee, but after seeing that woefully unprepared, out-of-her-depth interview with Katie Couric I just can’t do it. Not right now anyway, seems unnecessarily cruel. She’s apparently going to have some more interviews before the VP debate; depending on how people perceive her performances afterwards, I may have to resurrect my original objections.

But I do want to address something that her supporters tout, that I have not heard her come out and say in so many words. Her saintly shouldering of the “burden” of a special-needs child. I actually heard a girl in line at the store say just how much she admires Palin for that. Look, having a child with special-needs doesn’t make you extraordinary, or a saint, or a martyr; it makes you a mom, just like every other mom in the world. No better, no worse. I’m sure Sarah Palin herself does not look on her child as a burden, so why this public saint-making?

Oh yes, she found out, through amniocentesis, that she was carrying a child with Downs Syndrome and made the choice to continue her pregnancy. So what.

Why is it so amazing to people on the right that she would have her baby. Would these same people choose to terminate if they found out they were having a special-needs child? Is that now an acceptable reason to compromise one’s personal convictions? Are these people against terminating pregnancies except if the baby isn’t “perfect” and then it’s fine and dandy? So I guess that’s what makes Palin so saintly for having her “imperfect” baby. Well then, it seems that lots of moms (and dads, too) should be up for sainthood, including lots of Democrats. Which, no doubt, comes as quite a surprise to Phyllis Schlafly.

On September 2, Phyllis Schlafly went on a radio show and spewed forth this hateful bile: “If Sarah Palin were a Democrat, she would have aborted the baby. That’s the difference between the Republicans and the Democrats. And Sarah Palin demonstrated that she is pro-life in contra to all of the Democrats.”

She continued on with some statistics and the assertion that Democrats are full-on all about the abortions. Must be why none of us ever have any kids. Oh wait, we do. What do you know about that?

Before I move on let me set the record straight, (addendum) Shlafly-style. Contra to all of the Republicans, we (Democrats) believe that no one should be discriminated against because of race, religion, ethnic background, gender, age, ability, or sexual orientation (I think of it more as “sexual hard-wiring”); we believe that all people should have a living wage and affordable healthcare and enough to eat; we believe that quality education is the first step to a better life; we believe that concern for children does not stop at birth; we believe that families have value, all families of all configurations, not just some faux-50’s “ideal” family; we believe that hatred is not a family value; we believe the earth is not ours to destroy; we believe that waging preemptive war is a bad thing; we believe that religious beliefs are best taught in the church and in the home and should not be promoted in schools; we have respect for people of faith, different faiths, or no faith at all and are not so presumptuous to imagine that we can force others to our personal beliefs; and for the record, Phyllis, being pro-choice means that we respect each other enough to trust that each woman is capable of making her own medical choices, that we have absolutely no right to dictate what happens inside of someone else’s body.

So there, I’ve just schlaflied all Republicans. I have presented my personal beliefs as the beliefs of all Democrats, painting those high-minded ideals as the polar opposite of what all Republicans believe, regardless. I have vilified all Republicans, assuming that they all are greedy, selfish, bigoted, ignorant, fearful, hate-filled warmongers. (addendum)It isn’t right when I do it, and it is certainly wasn’t right when Schlafly did it. I know a lot of folks who vote republican because they mistakenly believe the lies put forth by people like Schlafly and others. (addendum)But I do not think they are evil, just deceived.

(addendum) But obviously many prominent right-wingers think all Democrats are evil, Schlafly, Dobson, Pat Robertson, too many to mention. And they have no problem spreading lies and hatred. (all addendums are dedicated to Bob.)

With such public figures proclaiming Democrats’ beliefs to be “evil”, is it any wonder that a delusional man walked into the UU church in Knoxville and opened fire? Is it any wonder that doctors have been murdered for providing legal, requested healthcare for women? Is it wonder that women still are at a wage disadvantage compare to men? Is it any wonder that people think single-payer healthcare is bad? Is it any wonder that gay people are still denied the right to marry the people they love in most states? Is it any wonder that synagogues and mosques are still targets of hatred? Is it any wonder that good stewardship of the earth has been rejected as weak? Is it any wonder that science and critical thinking have been thrown over in favor of superstition and denial? Is it any wonder children, and their care and their health and their education, are not our society’s first priority?

But children are generally a parent’s first priority. And even though I’m sure that Palin and I have very different parenting philosophies, I have no doubt she makes her children a priority and loves them to pieces. But she’s no saint for carrying a pregnancy to term.

And here’s why: If either of my children had had Downs, I too would’ve carried them to term, because I would have not found out until after they were born. I got kind of a late start on having babies and was offered amniocentesis for my daughter. The doctor told me there was a slight risk of miscarriage, and after having two miscarriages I really didn’t want to even slightly risk another. But my decision to forgo the amnio was cemented when the doctor asked both of us, “Would it make a difference?” He was asking us if we would terminate such a pregnancy. We both said, quite forcefully, “No!” And he told us not to take the chance.

That decision didn’t make me a saint. That decision made me a mom, just like every other woman who has a baby. And even if I had decided to go ahead with amnio and had gotten a diagnosis of Downs, I still would’ve had both my babies and not changed a thing! Hey, look at that, a Democrat who wouldn’t have terminated her pregnancies!

But I’m still not a saint, and neither is Sarah Palin.

My supernatural klutz powers are as strong as ever. I’ve always been a klutz–that saying about not being able to walk and chew gum at the same time? That’s about me. But this week has been a veritable showcase of accidents.

Tuesday evening I stopped at the store for a few things and went through the express lane. Just as I was turning to leave I slipped on a puddle on the floor and nearly hit said floor. But I only hit the puddle with one foot, slipping while the other foot remained in its original position. So I ended up nearly in splits position on the floor, which is no small thing for a chubby 40-year old woman with a bum hip. As always, innocent spectators were appalled while it was no big deal for me.

Then on Wednesday morning I fell on the front porch. It was raining and the porch was wet, and I was retrieving the stroller from the car. I hit a slick spot and then hit the ground. When I fall out in public I make a real effort not to yell or scream or cry or yelp, that way fewer people take notice of my humiliation. But that morning I was at my own house and nobody else was in view, so did I ever holler! Hubby heard me while he was in the shower. I told him that I fell, again, but that I was ok. I wasn’t, but what was he supposed to do about it? My leg is feeling much better now, thank you, but I re-hurt the foot I tore a ligament in when I was preggers with Pumpkin. That is not a happy foot.

The central problem seems to be shortage of synapses. If I try to do too much or even think about too much while trying to perform some kind, any kind of physical task, something fails. Usually my feet. You see, my body wants me to give my full, undivided attention to every little physical task. Not that I blame it, every time I don’t remain perfectly motionless my body is in mortal peril. But I’m not sure that remaining perfectly motionless would solve the problem. I’m the kind of person who would be struck by a meteorite while sitting on her own couch.

Apparently, when I’m walking, I should only be thinking “Right foot left foot right foot left foot…” This also applies to simple things like making lunch.

Today, while making lunch, I experienced a synapse malfunction of epic fail proportions. Boil water, insert pasta, sounds easy right? But there was a problem–I wasn’t just thinking “Open bag of pasta, pour into water.” I was planning an anti-Palin post in my head, and then I started thinking about grating some Parmesan for the pasta and wondering where my rotary grater thingy was. The cheese was the last straw, the straw that broke the synapse’s back.

Somehow, only slightly less than half the bag of pasta ended up in the pot. The rest spilled on floor and on the stove top, right around the burner I was using. Just barely on time, I remembered to turn off the flame before I started a massive kitchen fire. I’m pretty disappointed, it was a bag of tri-color fusilli from Italy. My favorite. Still, Pumpkin and I did have enough for lunch. And it was good.

Now if only I could manage to stay upright.

Like all parents, we have been stressing the importance of honesty to our children. But every time I told one of them to always tell the truth, I felt like a fraud. And I couldn’t understand why.

In the past two weeks I have had to admit some uncomfortable truths to myself. You see, I haven’t been happy in a very long time. But if you had asked me how I describe myself the answer would’ve been “happy,” until about two weeks ago. I’m not sad or mopey or depressed, and I confused the absence of depression with true happiness. If I had been more honest, I would have described myself as angry, thwarted, dissatisfied.

My husband said that I have been unhappy for as long as he can remember. And he’s right. There are bits and pieces of happiness in my life–Hubby, Monkey, Pumpkin. But running underneath it all is a fetid stream of disappointment and it has been there since I was a teenager.

It seems cliched and too easy to lay the blame on my parents, but they at least got the ball rolling. My parents were two very unhappy people. Dad always seemed happiest in his absence from home. When he wasn’t at work, he was at church, stuffing his life full of other people and crowding us out. He joined a bass fishing club so he could be away on Saturdays as well, free from the thought of all his many obligations.

Mother was an unhappy woman from a long line of unhappy women. My maternal grandmother never was allowed to fulfill her potential and she made damn sure that her daughter wasn’t either. To be fair, both of my parents seem much happier now. They take fun vacations and smile a lot more. Perhaps it was having children that turned them both into such curmudgeons. Now the pressure is off and they can afford to loosen up a little. And they are much better grandparents than parents.

I never felt as if my hopes and dreams carried any weight. Writing was the first thing I really wanted to do. I wrote my first free verse at 12, it wasn’t very good, but I was 12. I read it proudly to my parents who promptly belittled everything about it. They stabbed me right in the dreams.

As I matured, others took notice of my writing and praised me for it. But no amount of outside encouragement could make up for its utter lack in the home-front. Journalism seemed like a good outlet, so I joined the school paper. (And not at my parents’ prompting mind you. My driver’s ed partner encouraged me. Thanks Gina!) But journalism and I weren’t a good fit. And nobody ever informed me that you don’t have to write for the paper to have a career in writing.

I loved to write stories and used the typing practice my parents forced on me to write them. My dad would read the stories to check my typing progress and laugh at me for my ideas. I learned to push my dreams down where no one would laugh at them anymore.

When college time loomed, I quietly sent off for information from Bryn Mawr and Mt. Holyoke. I wanted so badly to go to a women’s college and study writing, but I knew better than to voice those desires. Again and again I silenced my dreams, refusing to give them voice.

Denying myself my hopes and dreams became a kind of survival mechanism. If I didn’t tell anybody what I really wanted, they couldn’t laugh at me, denigrate me, dismiss me. And after a time I forgot who I was and what I wanted. I forgot why I wasn’t happy.

I began looking for other things, outside things to make me happy. If I only do this thing, then I will be happy. But nothing outside of me had the power to make me happy or unhappy.

I always knew I wanted marriage and a family, so I married the love of my life, who loves me, happy or sad, good or bad. Adjusting to married life kept my mind occupied for a long time. Then just the busyness of life took over and I forgot, for a time, about the unhappiness. But then we started trying to have a baby and ran into some difficulties.

Unhappiness threatened to overwhelm me. My body was betraying me daily, steadfastly refusing to get pregnant. I mistakenly believed that my infertility was the cause of my unhappiness and when I finally had a baby, everything would be all right.

What a terrible burden to put on a baby. Then post-partum depression hit. I was in the deepest, blackest pit in the dungeon. Alone, unnourished, with only the dank, stony walls of my prison to comfort me. Even after I came out of PPD, I still had a load of anger and resentment to carry around.

No matter what I tried, I couldn’t off-load that anger and resentment. Too often they would come bubbling up to the surface, spilling over onto my poor family. I thought going to nursing school would “fix” me. But I don’t really want to be a nurse. I’m certainly capable of being a nurse, but I’m not suited to it. Maybe I was trying to curry favor with my impossible-to-please mother.

Finally I couldn’t take anymore denial–I had to admit to my husband and to myself just how I really felt. I had to admit that I am not the basically happy person that I fancied myself to be. I am not a happy person, there I admitted it. I was honest.

Then I had to figure out why. It felt like there was something missing inside, but what? What is this shape in my heart? The one that I can trace with my mind, the way you can trace a missing tooth with your tongue. Oh yes, that is the shape of my dreams, my hopes, the thing I really want but have been unable to say aloud in too many years.

I want to be a writer! An author, the kind that gets recognized and paid for her words. The kind whose thoughts are valued and whose ideas see the light of day in the printed word. I want my words, my thoughts, my ideas, my fine sharp mind, to be set down in print.

With a boldness I have never expressed before, I claim my dreams. Never again will I allow any thought of my parents to dictate what I do and do not write.So, to all my readers–I am now open for business as a writer. If you know anyone who needs a writer be sure to let me know and let them know, too.

When did my baby boy become a big boy?

Today was Monkey’s first full day of Kindergarten. He’s got his own locker and a brand-new lunch bag. And a mama who just can’t believe he’s growing up so fast. Monkey was so excited that he barely even acknowledged me when I said goodbye. I made it half-way back to the main doors before I started crying.

When Pumpkin and I picked him up, he just seemed like it was no big deal! But he had a lot of fun and got to eat his lunch in the cafeteria like a big kid, so he was happy about that. So far, I think lunch is his favorite subject.

Attention politicians (mostly male, mostly hetero): Your sex lives are none of my business! Please stop calling your mating habits to my attention.

I am exhausted with all of your petty little sex scandals, so stop it! It’s like you all are just a big group of over-grown 5-year olds. My 5-year old is a good boy, but he has trouble behaving like a good boy all the time. He doesn’t always mind, he can be mean to his little sister, and he’s developed a very bad habit of calling (mainly) me an idiot. So needless to say, he gets in his fair share of trouble. And when he has to deal with the consequences of his actions, he tends to cry and say he’s sorry, he didn’t mean it. And I accept his apologies, but tell him it would be much better for him if he didn’t do the things he has to be sorry about.

So wouldn’t it be easier for you people to just not do anything you’re going to have to apologize for later? Save yourselves the trouble of hiding and denying and then, finally, making a forced, crocodile-tear-filled public statement, wronged spouse dutifully by your side. Why make the world, mainly me, witness to your disgrace? Practice some discretion, some tact, some taste, how about some good judgment. Don’t get caught with your pants down by never having your pants down in the first place. Lordy, do I have to do your thinking for you?

Apparently I do.

First things first, don’t cheat! Seems easy, right? Let’s take it step-by-step, if you are a budding politician or think that you would like to be involved in any sort of government anything and you haven’t stepped out on your spouse yet–don’t. Just don’t. If you are a more established politician and you have remained faithful to your vows, good, keep doing that. But if you are now, or have been in the past, cheating on your spouse, stop this instant! Put on your pants and go home.

Next, we’ll talk about why you shouldn’t cheat. Beyond the fact that it’s wrong, cheating is just plain dumb and stupid. Unless you and your spouse have a previous mutual agreement that yours is an open marriage, cheating is a serious breach of trust. And if you do have an open marriage, don’t go into politics. Most of your constituents just aren’t going to understand. Blame the Puritans. But I digress. At least pretend like you know it’s wrong.

On to the dumb and stupid part. You do not live in a vacuum, or on a desert island, or in an impenetrable shell of your own colossal ego. You are not as discreet as you think you are. Waiters see you, bellboys see you, security guards see you. Even if your spouse is totally blind-sided, there are way more people than just the two of you who know your dirty little secret. Perhaps your lover told a friend, in strict confidence of course, and that bouncer can be bribed. And you can’t quite discount the idea that you may been set up all along.

You will be found out. Some nosy reporter will make a shocking discovery and then the whole world know. And then I’m going to know. And that’s the real problem, I’m sick of hearing about it. Could we please just get some politicians with some freakin’ standards here?!

I think a big part of the problem lies in the kinds of people who seek public office. The mix of self-confidence and self-delusion that cause some people to decide that they would make fabulous governors or senators or city council members also makes them feel as if they are above reproach or even temptation itself. Ah, pride cometh before the fall! When your mind is on lofty goals (you are saving your little corner of humanity!), it is so much easier to stumble. And then there are those people who have such inflated senses of their own importance and superiority that they honestly believe that the rules that govern us mere mortals do not apply to them.

As a college freshman, I dated one such budding sociopath, I mean politician. His stated life-goal was to be a politician, he wanted to run for some kind of office. I was oh-so-very naive and not very experienced with dating. After a disastrous high school run of entrenched geekitude and unrequited crushes (the best kind!), I was flattered that such a handsome, ambitious guy found me worthy of his attention. This situation could’ve ended with heartbreak and teen pregnancy, but I had worked out, in advance, exactly what I was ready for in a relationship and what I wasn’t. When I wasn’t ready to commence a full adult, sexual relationship, he dumped me (in the middle of a party) for someone who was. To my eternal shame, I dated him again about a year later. I still wasn’t ready and he dumped me again, telling me I was selfish. You know, for not ignoring my own wishes and immediately caving in to his!

So when I see these politicians up on the dais, boo-hooing because they got caught, I always think of that boyfriend. And how I could have ended up one of those women, standing up there beside a disgraced man. Except for those pesky standards of mine! You know, the ones I worked out long before I was ever in a position to exercise them.

That’s what you politicians need to do, work out your standards before you actually need them. Decide way ahead of time that things like soliciting call-girls and hitting on interns and pages are bad things. Don’t pick up random strangers or have long-standing affairs. Ask any loving, faithful spouse how he or she would want to be treated and do that. Understand that being a faithful spouse is a pretty high standard, and exceed it. Because being faithful to the public you serve should be an even higher standard. And if you figure all these things out before temptation throws itself in your path, then you may not be as vulnerable to that temptation.

And then I may not have to find out how you get your jollies. Really people, too much information.

OK, so everybody can relax now, Poison Control tells me that compact fluorescent light bulbs do not contain toxic levels of mercury. And how might I have come into this information, you may well ask? Sit down, this is going to take a little while.

It’s July, in Oklahoma, and it is hot. The kind of hot I call “Killing Hot,” really too hot to take the kiddos to the playground very often. Unless we could manage to get out there by 8 am, but we can’t. Because this is me we’re talking about, here. The unrepentant night owl, the irascible morning grouch. So, the entire House has become a playground.

Last week Monkey’s bestest friend from school, Z., came over so his mama could go on a job interview. The kids needed perfectly clean, organized and clutter-free play-spaces, because half the fun of playing is making a mess. And we all know that the cleaner the room before, the more fun it is to mess it up!

But I digress. The day before Z. came over, I had my mother-in-law come over to watch the kids while I cleaned (mostly Pumpkin’s room, she’s destructo-girl!). Monkey is 5, Pumpkin is 3, I should be able to just go off into another part of the House and clean, without adult back-up, right? HA!!!! You don’t know my kids. I don’t dare leave these two unsupervised for longer than the time it takes to start a load of laundry or dishes. My daughter eats crayons, for Pete’s sake! And my son can field-strip every stick of furniture in the House (including the wall-mounted bookcases) in under ten minutes!

My request was simple: keep the kids in the living room while I pick up the bedrooms. Simple, yes. Easy, not by a long shot. My daughter is a world-class escape artist; she has defeated every single child-proofing product I have ever tried. She can even worm her way out of a snug five-point harness. She’s Houdini-toddler. So, yes it is disappointing that she managed to give Nana the slip, but it’s not surprising.

About 20 minutes into my cleaning, I walked out into the hall to see my pants-free toddler throwing her poopy diaper into my kitchen! It was like one of those slow-motion movie moments: I yelled, “Nooooooo!” while diving head-first, like some bizarro-world baseball player, for the noxious missile. I missed. It landed with a disheartening “splat!”, it was the sound of my failure as a parent. Please, somebody, anybody, tell me how to keep a diaper on a potty-training toddler.

After cleaning up that little unpleasantness, I had to sit down for a minute. Seemed like a good time to check my email, so I sat down with my laptop. And that’s as far as I got with that idea. I glanced over at my side table and saw the light bulb from my lamp, on the table.

We have had lamp troubles for years, 5 years to be exact. We used to have the cutest wooden-based lamps from IKEA. They lasted until my son started pulling himself up on the furniture. It never occurred to us that wooden lamps would be breakable, but he quickly showed us the error of our ways. Bye-bye cute table-top lamps!

What to do, what to do? Should we take the chance and get more table lamps? No way! We’re way too smart for that! Yeah right. So we did the most logical thing, we bought wall-mounted lamps. They are cute and simple and silvery. And no where near as child-resistant as I had hoped. My daredevil daughter just climbs the table or stands on the back of the couch to reach them. And she takes out the light bulbs. Every. Time.

With a roll of the eyes and a frustrated-mom huff, I dragged my tired self up to put that light bulb right back from whence it came. Until I touched a sharp edge. The tube was broken, it looked like a little slice had been removed. I knew exactly where to lay the blame–on my diaper-throwing daughter. Imagining glass shards embedded in tiny fingers, I checked and cleaned her hands. Then I looked for any stray bulb pieces on the table, couch, and carpet. Satisfied that bare hands or feet would be safe for the immediate future, I tried to pry some information out of Nana. She still swears that Pumpkin was with her the entire time.

I replaced the bulb and didn’t think a thing about it, until the next time she removed my light bulb. Then, on Sunday evening Nana called just to tell me about the scary-light-bulb story in the paper. I read the article when things finally settled down, the next day.

When a light bulb breaks, and this wasn’t the first one, I pick up the pieces and just put them in the trash. Silly me. According to the rather alarmist newspaper article, a broken CF light bulb is an environmental catastrophe second only to the Exxon Valdez. When that light bulb (often pronounced “light bub” here) broke, I should have evacuated the House, turned off the A/C, and called out the Hazmat squad.

Understandably concerned about the massive amount of mercury and who-knows-what-else Pumpkin may have come in contact with, I called the doctor’s office. The nurse suggested I call Poison Control, and maybe the EPA! Poison Control and I are old friends, I’m that mom who calls them when she gives the baby a tenth of a mil too much baby Tylenol. Then there was the time Monkey tasted diaper rash cream, they actually giggled about that one, where I could hear them. And once I called because Monkey found a stray carpet cleaning granule and put it in his mouth. The Poison Control Guy said, “Ma’am, that stuff is made of cellulose.” Yep, I called Poison Control because the baby ate paper.

Anyway, the long-suffering Poison Control man reassured me that the amount of mercury in a CF bulb is less than is found in a thermometer. He said that the minuscule amount of mercury is nowhere near enough to be toxic to her, “no matter what the internet says.” He was more concerned about cuts from the broken glass.

One lesson I took away from all this: if a toddler wants your light bulbs, she’s gonna get them. So to reduce the risk of injury, and to keep from having to replace ridiculously expensive CF bulbs all the time, I now remove the bulbs from the fixtures in the morning, before Pumpkin gets out of bed. So nobody needs to panic, everything’s under control.

I am currently watching Ni Hao, Kai-lan, even when the kids aren’t in the room. Right now, we are having a TV problem–it’s 10 years old, takes about an hour to warm up and until then the picture flips and distorts. So once the TV is on, it is on for the day, whether anybody is watching it or not. When the kids leave, I just mute the sound.

Anyway, Kai-lan is a nice show, Pumpkin likes it more than Monkey does, and even repeats the Mandarin words. The visual style is very simple and colorful. The characters remind me of a cross between Hello Kitty and an Avon “It’s a Small World” perfume bottle I had when I was a little girl. The only problem I have is not with the show itself, it’s with Nick, Jr. Love the shows, hate hate hate the commercials. I would pay cash money if my oldest didn’t have the Chuck E Cheese theme song memorized now.

The next show, Pokemon DP, is definitely a favorite of Monkey’s. He plays Pokemon something-or-other every night with his daddy, he’s got a bunch of the cards, and he adores the show. I’ve always liked anime, Robotech was one of my favorites in high school. The show is as intricate as the video games. Last week, Monkey found one of my pens and wrote a little “R” on the pocket of his grey t-shirt. He told me it’s because he’s a member of Team Rocket. Pumpkin hates the show and screams, “That’s not my favorite!” whenever Monkey watches it.

One show they both agree upon is a classic: Popeye. They love it! And they take turns pretending to be Popeye and Bluto. I hear a lot of talk about spinach, but it’s just the pretend kind. Actually offer them real live spinach and they act like you just served up a poop sandwich. One interesting thing–while they like to run around and make straws into corn cob pipes, they don’t hit each other! So that’s good. Another interesting little tidbit, it’s always Popeye and Bluto, Olive Oyl never figures into it. I don’t mind that at all. Olive Oyl makes the rest of us dames look bad! Seriously, that character plays into so many negative stereotypes of women that I’m glad she’s not included. She’s fickle, she’s irrational, she’s ditzy, she’s a bad driver, and she’s only a prop to further the Popeye/Bluto rivalry dynamic.

I’d be really worried if either my son or my daughter wanted to identify with such a character. But I’d be pleased if either one pretended to be Dora or Kai-lan. But alas, strong, capable, identifiably-human girl characters are few and far between. Well, there’s always Velma.

Every single one of my teenage years took place in the 80’s. I know this is the time about which I am supposed to wax nostalgic. But I won’t. I’m absolutely sure that there are some pathetic souls who look longingly back on their high school years as the their peak years, their best years, after which all else is downhill. That is so sad. When I left my high school, and the little town it was in, I shook its dust from my tiny shoes and never looked back. I even refused to attend my 10-year class reunion, thinking that a mere decade was not enough time in which real change can occur. In me or others.

This year I turned 40, officially entering middle-age and marking my 20th anniversary of not being a teenager anymore. In that 20 years I: have been married for 17 of them, had two beautiful, infuriating children, started writing again, swallowed the bitter pill and attended my 20-year class reunion, but I still don’t think I’ve reached my peak. I feel that I still have way more to accomplish, more to offer the world.

So I’m not one of those crotchety, stuck-in-the-past, “you kids get off my lawn!” types. The world of the 80’s was no utopia: cold war, the constant threat of nuclear war, apartheid, famine, AIDS, Ronald Reagan. But there were certain elements of the 80’s that I miss. The wildness and experimentation in fashion–clothes, hair, make-up, anything and everything goes. The music, oh the music. My iPod is just stuffed with music from the Eighties or with artists that got their starts in the 80’s. And not Top 40 stuff either, it’s New Wave, punk, or electronica. Artists that changed the aural landscape of music.

Something else I miss–the movies about teenagers. I was thankfully too young to be subjected to the “Porky’s” franchise but I was of an age to truly enjoy and relate to all the John Hughes movies. If you couldn’t relate exactly to one of his characters, at least you could relate to all the free-floating angst. Some movies were about the brand-new feelings and experiences that all teenagers have to go through, but which they all feel are unique unto themselves. “No one has ever felt this way before!” On a side note, I will have to try very hard not to laugh when I hear this kind of drama from my kids. It’s not the raw and new feelings that are so amusing, it is the absolute certainty that no one else in the history of humanity has ever felt thusly. Sixteen Candles springs to mind.

Some movies were subversive fun, all about refusing to submit and conform yourself to someone else’s goals and expectations. Fast Times At Ridgemont High and Ferris Bueller’s Day Off are both lovely examples.

We have bought a lot of these movies on DVD, and they hold up very well. Some of the movies I liked back then, seen first through naive and uncritical eyes, haven’t retained their charm. Dirty Dancing, oh the shame. I loved that movie so much that I cut off a pair of Levi’s just like Baby’s and wore them with white Keds. I think I watched it with my mom. And Footloose. I went to see this little gem with my friend Sheila and we loved it!!! Unalloyed adoration! We saw it at the dinky little one-screen movie theater that was then tucked into a corner at Ne-Mar Shopping Center in Claremore. Afterwards, we danced around like mad idiots, probably causing many shoppers to laugh their asses off at us. Did I mention that we were dancing on the covered sidewalks of Ne-Mar Shopping Center in Claremore, Oklahoma? Just want you to get the full effect.

And I won’t even go into Red Dawn.

We had our share of gross-out or overtly sexual or slasher movies. The aforementioned Porky’s is one such sterling example. Not to mention Nightmare on Elm Street. I actually lost sleep over that one. Curses on you, Wes Craven! So I’m not saying that all the teenage movies from the Eighties were more culturally worthy than the ones made in the 90’s or this decade.

And I’m not some conservative anti-everything curmudgeon who bemoans the coarsening of our culture. I just don’t think that recycling the same movie plots over and over is very fun. One plot I find particularly annoying is the ugly/nerdy/smart unpopular/miserably unhappy girl is magically transformed through the power of fashion and lipgloss into the prom queen. Along the way she has a magical awakening to the awesomeness of the high school Big Man on Campus, the one she either previously dismissed or secretly desired.

Over and over again we are presented with the smart but somehow socially unacceptable, unworthy of love girl who only becomes a fully realized, completely worthy person when she is turned into a beautiful, sexy girl. The nerd-girl, smart-girl cannot be celebrated for her brain power alone. Her talents are secondary or worthless in the face of her non-adherence to accepted beauty norms. She cannot be celebrated for her independence of spirit, she can only be feted when she conforms and sublimates herself to love! Only in the connection to a sought-after male is she deemed worthy.

There are three movies which point out the problem from different perspectives. There is one scene in The Breakfast Club which I find problematic. Ally Sheedy’s interesting, wholly subversive character is transformed with a headband and an eye pencil into a completely ordinary, socially-acceptable girl, whereupon she catches the fancy of the Big Man on Campus-in-residence. I always identified with Ally-before, not Ally-after.

Never Been Kissed is, of course, a more recent movie in the magic-makeover vein. While I generally enjoy this movie, I find the end to be both edifying and frustrating. At the prom scene, Drew Barrymore’s character, Josie Grossy, who is no longer gross, finds that she cannot make herself conform to the expectations of the popular crowd and forcefully rejects the kind of kids who used to reject her. The frustrating part is that when she finally receives her “first real kiss” from Sam, she is the transformed Josie still. She is no longer the slightly frumpy, mousy grown-up Josie from the beginning.

And finally, the Revenge of the Nerds movies. The nerds triumph over their rivals in all their nerdy glory! The nerds do not need to conform to societal norms to achieve success. My big problem is not the dearth of similarly triumphant lady nerds, but the fact that the nerds still crave and “win” hot girls. We see that the nerdy girls are no prize.

Why can’t the nerdy/smart girls triumph in all their nerdy, brainy, awkward glory? I am, and always have been, a nerdy girl. I didn’t have to transform myself into a living Barbie doll to find love, or success. Somebody, somewhere give us a Revenge of the Nerd-Girls movie!

Addendum: The movies listed are by no means all of my most favorites or my most hateds. Feel free to use the comments as an open forum. Tell us what you did and/or did not like about the 80’s or its pop culture. And share with us your most favorite and most hated movies from the Eighties!

Yesterday evening we drove over to Quiktrip to get a bag of ice and some desperately needed (by Monkey) bubble gum. While I was waiting in line, rather impatiently I might add as the bag of ice was dripping on my toes, I heard a very interesting exchange.

There was a very cute goth/punk/pagan girl standing in line in front of me. Her goth/punk/pagan boyfriend was talking to her very loudly. He said (and I paraphrase) “Now, you are next in line! Don’t let any of these other people push in front of you again. This always happens to you! You’re next! Only that guy was here before you were, all these other people walked up after you did!”

It may have sounded to an untrained ear as if he were yelling at her, berating her in public. But he wasn’t. He was addressing other people’s behavior problems in the most diplomatic means possible. He was putting everyone else on notice that his girlfriend was being treated rudely and he was not about to stand for it. I felt an immediate connection to this girl, to this couple. You may remember, from my last post, the man and his eight family members who tried to line-jump me at the food court. Well, this seriously happens to me all the time! Unless Hubby is with me. Nobody ignores Hubby. He is a big, tall, imposing guy and strangers don’t know he’s just a really nice man. The boyfriend probably sees that all the time, too.

The boyfriend was no where near as big as Hubby, but as he is goth/punk/pagan he probably scares the bejeebers out of people. I don’t say pagan lightly, they were both wearing/tattooed with pentagrams. I have never been scared of goth/punk/pagan people, why would I be? I used to dress like that. In fact, I still have an affinity for black clothing, kind of like Johnny Cash. Just call me The Mom in Black.

Anyway, not only was this girl dressed the way I used to dress, she was wearing nerd glasses much like mine. I looked at her and thought, OMG! This is me twenty years ago! Since she’s probably used to being treated like she’s a scary weirdo, (gasps, hushed and hidden whispers, mothers pulling their children away in fear that the weird may be contagious) I knew I had to say something nice and positive to her. Just to let her know that there is somebody out there who gets it.

I could’ve commiserated with her over the line-jumping thing, but it may be as sensitive a subject for her as it is for me. So I decided to compliment her appearance in some way. I liked her glasses and the very impressive spiked collar she was wearing, but I chose to say her wallet was cute. She was holding it quite prominently on the counter in front of her, almost brandishing it, but more closely, putting it on display. And I don’t blame her, it was a truly interesting wallet. It looked just like this one.

I absolutely love things that are dark and kind of creepy. Halloween is vying with Christmas for favorite holiday status. My favorite tales are supernatural ones: ghosts, Bigfoot, Loch Ness monster, vampires, ghost-lights, UFO’s. I don’t care for the gory stuff though.

So I said, “I love your wallet. That is so cute!” She answered, “Thanks! I got it on E-bay!” You can never go wrong complimenting a lady’s handbag.

Fortunate. Unfortunate. The Prairie Family has terrible luck or incredibly good luck, depending on how you look at it.

The air conditioner at the House started malfunctioning on Saturday. This is July. In Oklahoma. Absolutely, positively the month that no one wants the air conditioning to go on the blink. It’s something to do with the condenser pump, I think. Before the repairman showed up Saturday morning, we were able to get the pump to work and the air conditioner to run. So we cancelled. Then we did our shopping (local produce and meats) and dropped by the Apple Store to check on iPhones. No dice.

So we went home to a cool House and planned a day trip to Oklahoma City for the next day. By Sunday morning the air conditioning was malfunctioning again. The repairman never returned our call so we turned it off, closed up the House, and headed out. This past weekend was the mildest July weekend I have ever experienced in Oklahoma, so we figured that things wouldn’t get too unbearable in the House. We’d be back just about the time when day was fading into night and the temperature falling.

Things didn’t go according to plan. The drive up on I44 was uneventful, minus the occasional backseat outburst. Things didn’t start to go awry until we got to the Apple Store. Last year, when the first iPhone was released, Hubby walked into the store on the Sunday following and walked out with an iPhone not ten minutes later. This year was a bit different. There was no way I was taking Monkey and Pumpkin into the Apple Store, so we did a little shopping in Pottery Barn Kids. Then we went to the Food Court to eat lunch. Big mistake.

When I saw that line at the one and only fast food joint the kids were willing to entertain, my heart sank. I just knew that waiting in that line with those kids was destined to end in sorrow. I was right. Maybe the children were really as awful as they seemed to be, or maybe I was just magnifying normal but rowdy behaviors into monstrosity because of the stress of waiting with two hungry kids in the longest lunch line ever. When the end was in sight, after about a jillion years, some dude decided he was going to take advantage of my seeming distraction and line-jump me. With all eight of his family members in tow.

He picked the wrong mean mama to mess with, at the wrongest possible time! This happens to me a lot. I’m short, I’m a mom, I’m not hot, so therefore, I am invisible. But something in me snapped. “Sir!” I said to him. Nothing. Louder, “Sir!” still nothing. Finally, in my best drill-sergeant-mama voice, I yelled, “SIR! I WAS NEXT!” I can’t make my son stand still and quiet in public, but I can make a grown man tuck tail and slink away! I do not believe that is a mistake he will ever make again.

I was too shaken to eat, but I got food into the kids. By the time they were finished and cleaned up, Hubby had his new phone and we left to go procure lunch for ourselves.

We’ve been to OKC many, many times, and I even have family there, so we are fairly familiar with the general lay-out. I wanted us to take Route 66 home, all the way from Edmond, so I could take pictures of the Round Barn in Arcadia, but alas it was not to be. At least not yet. Since we had to go through Edmond anyway, we pulled into a Sonic there to eat. We ordered, our food arrived, and Hubby turned off the car. And immediately turned it back on for the air conditioning. It was our undoing.

Now, I have never heard automatic weapons fire in real life, only in the movies or on TV, but something began making a loud, repetitive noise, “BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG!” We thought somebody was shooting at us until I noticed red-brown “smoke” kicking up from under our car. Hubby turned off the car and made me get out to see what made the racket. I ask you, why am I always the one who has to look under the car? I don’t know anything about cars! Oh yeah, I’m not the one with the hurt back. Anyway, I could see a black hose dangling loose off the underside and a piece of black hose that had apparently shot off as shrapnel lying on the ground next to the car. The poor people in the next car over were visibly shaken but pointing, and trying to help. There was a puddle of apple-green stuff under the dangling hose. This could not be good.

I borrowed a phone book, called a wrecker, and my uncle. He drove his SUV to the Sonic, helped us load the baby seats into it, and graciously took us into his home. The wrecker followed us there, where we parked our poor, sick car.

But while we were waiting for all these things to transpire, I had time to think about our predicament. O.K., bemoan our predicament. I kept wondering what somebody or something was trying to tell us, tell me. And what that information might be. Why would such a string of bad luck hit us? Just last week, I had to pay a ridiculous amount of money to get the front end of the car fixed like new. Then the House A.C. breaks, then the car breaks down, while we’re out of town! Woe is me! Woe is us!

I am a big believer in the power of the mind and the power of the spirit. We shape our own reality through our thoughts. If you look for bad things to happen, you’ll find them. And not to sound like a Pollyanna, if you expect good things to happen, then good things will happen. To a degree. No amount of positive thinking was going to keep the car from breaking down; all the negative thoughts in the world can’t make an air conditioner break down. I have seen the power of prayer, but prayer is not some incantation that will magically fix broken machinery.

After much thought, it occurred to me that we didn’t suffer a run of bad luck, we benefited from an extraordinary concatenation of positive events that ameliorated the negative effects of bad stuff that was going to happen anyway. Our car broke down while we were away from the House, but just a handful of miles from my aunt and uncle. A week from now, they won’t be there, so how incredible to find them at home. We passed a decent repair shop on our way to their house. The repair shop was able to fix our car early Monday morning, so we were able to leave for Tulsa just after noon.

And about our House air conditioning? After sitting dormant for almost two days, it came back on and worked well enough to keep us and the kids comfortable until the repairman arrived this morning. Only a new air filter and some cleaning and servicing had to be done, no major repairs.

During what promised to be the hottest part of the day, we were stranded in Edmond, in my aunt and uncle’s air conditioned home. The babies got to sleep in cool comfort, not in a stuffy, hot House.

Oddly enough, it was a high-pressure air-conditioner hose that caused that BANG-BANG-BANG sound. And the red-brown smoke? Just some of central Oklahoma’s famous red dirt.

So, you see, it’s all in how you look at it.