I’m One of Obama’s “Bitter” Pennsylvanians

“…And it’s not surprising then they get bitter, they cling to guns or religion or antipathy to people who aren’t like them or anti-immigrant sentiment or anti-trade sentiment as a way to explain their frustrations.”

This is the stereotype Senator Barack Obama has of small-town Midwestern Americans (including Pennsylvanians).  It’s funny how he can so freely stereotype some Americans (typical white-person when referring to his white grandmother’s prejudice) and the above comments, while other people get fired from their jobs for far less.

Obviously, Senator Obama is sorely out of touch with working-class America.  In Western Pennsylvania, so many of the working people here are children and grandchildren of immigrants.  My grandparents got off the boat from Italy at Ellis Island and worked hard to make a life here.  We are not anti-immigrant.  What we are, is, anti-freeload.  Our ancestors struggled to make ends meet, followed the rules to become citizens, and learned the customs and language and assimilated into the American dream.  We expect the same of immigrants today.  We don’t want to support a bunch of people that come into the country illegally, expect free medical care and education in return for nothing, and show disdain for their adopted country by not even learning the language.  Every American should be insulted by that.

Religion?  Since when is it bad to cling to religion during hard times?  Most religions bring comfort to people, keep society civil, and urge cohesiveness.  That is unless you subscribe to the divisive theology of Obama’s pastor, Reverend Wright, who seems to believe that America is divided into victimized black America and evil exploiting white America.  Never mind that Wright and Obama both grew up with many advantages that a lot of white working-class “evil-doers” only dream about.

And guns.  My guys don’t hunt, but they have their guns.  They like to target shoot, recreationally.  And, yes, we do want to be able to protect ourselves from any criminal out there that, even if guns somehow should be banned by the Democrats, would still illegally be able to obtain them.  We like to keep a more level playing field.  If it’s “bitter” to want to protect one’s family, I’ll choose to be bitter.

My Sabotaging Mind

Why is it that as soon as I start to see some small payback for all of my hard work (that is, maybe a pound or two less on the scale after busting my ass running or exercising), my weak food-obsessed brain starts thinking about how good some bad-for-you food would taste?  This happens even if I’m not particularly hungry.  I’ve been watching, eating smaller portions than I used to, because unlike the days of my youth when I actually got TEASED for being so skinny, (yeah, I was ahead of my time), I can’t stuff my face anymore without seeing that food magically transformed into an unsightly bulge somewhere on my midsection.  Even though I had a nice chef salad for lunch, and was pleasantly full, I started thinking about the potato chips Big Daddy had just brought home from the store.  So I had to eat some with some sour cream.  Then the tiny little pretzel sticks that the boys were munching on started calling my name.  I was already ODing on salt but I had to crunch on some of those babies.  And then, even though I don’t have a sweet tooth, I’m sure I’ll have some of that apple brown betty that Big Daddy brought home.  It looks pretty good and the rest of the gang will be chowing down.  I hate myself.  I don’t even know what I’m going to do when the boys will be home all summer and I have to stock the cupboards with tons of goodies.  Because they can eat it without gaining an ounce, just like I could, back in the day.

Everybody Wants Our $$$

It’s not like we have that much cash, but what we do have everybody seems to want a chunk of it.  Just this past week I got two almost identical calls from our college alma mater.  The only difference was the first call was made by a young man, the second was by a young female student.  It was a scripted call, asking if we’d been up to campus lately, informing us of changes going on, asking if our contact info was still the same.  Then the REAL reason for the call–money.  I have donated to our college before–Big Daddy and I met there.  And it provided us with a decent affordable education.  I know some very nice kids that go there now.  But I steered my own kids toward other schools because something happened there.  Even toward the end of our stay there, it seemed as if the admission standards had gotten lax.  A few years ago, almost every month there was a new story in the paper about a fight, alcohol poisoning, and even murder involving students in this once well-respected state university.  So, despite having the utmost respect for these dedicated young students calling for donations, I prefer to send my money to the wonderful private college my Youngest Son currently attends (I mean in addition to the room and board payments I make–he pretty much got enough scholarship money from them to cover the tuition).

About two weeks ago, Big Daddy got a call from an animal shelter that we have donated to in the past.  Big Daddy hasn’t perfected the art of politely saying no the way Mama has.  In fact, every year when they call, they ask for Big Daddy by his first name, like he’s a buddy.  They never want to speak to me.   I know who  I want to give to and I stand firm.  With the most persistent callers, you just have to say, “Sorry, I’ve already donated to so-and-so this year. Thank you for calling. Good-bye.” And then just hang up before they get a chance to waste your time and haggle with you.  So I hear Big Daddy telling this caller that we were going to donate our money this year to the animal shelter where we got our own dog.  He sounds firm.  But obviously this doesn’t deter the guy.  He keeps on, until Big Daddy finally says,  “Okay, just send an envelope.”

“I got him down to $10,” Big Daddy says to me.  Hmmm, I think to myself.  I think HE got you UP to $10.  Whatever.

The Torture of the 5K

They’re sitting on the table, taunting me. Three 5K sign-up forms, one addressed to me, one to Youngest Son, and one to Soldier Son. Obviously, Soldier Son won’t be running this Memorial Day. He’s in Iraq. And I have no intention of running. I swore that my last race was two summers ago, until the family guilted me into running that fall in the Turkey Trot since Soldier Son had just come home from basic training and decided to run his first race. Don’t get me wrong. I love the camaraderie and the community atmosphere of these things. I also love the sense of accomplishment I feel when I finish. It’s just all the torture in between I’m not too fond of.

I never expect to win these things. At first, I was happy just to be able to run across the finish line and not be dead last. In fact, my very first Turkey Trot several years ago, I came in dead center for women in my age group (11 out of 22) at a respectable but certainly not impressive 31.42 minutes. I trained hard with Youngest Son for the following Fourth of July race but only shaved about a half minute from my time. I must have peaked there, because no matter how hard I’ve trained, it’s been downhill from there and it’s not because I didn’t work at it. Youngest Son was an awesome trainer. He had me running hills with him that most people wouldn’t walk. He had me sprinting until my legs felt like rubber. He does great in these races. He usually places or comes pretty close. But, unlike me, he never gives up. When we’re training and it hurts too much, I’ll quit running and start walking for a while. He looks at me disappointedly and says, “Just tell yourself walking is not an option.” That works for him.  But for me, it’s one of two options–walk, or die.

Youngest Son is thinking about doing this Memorial Day Race so I’ll hang on to these sign-up sheets for a while. And I’ll be there, too. On the sidelines, cheering him on.

Stupid Lawn Care Service

My mom is one of those people that is almost impossible to buy a gift for.  She’s past the age where she wants to collect anymore “things,” she’s finally retired from her store job and doesn’t need a whole lot of clothing (even if I could pick out something she’d like), and like a lot of us, just buys what she needs when she needs it.  I really like when I can surprise her with something she wants, so I make mental notes all year long if she mentions something she’d really like to have–and then hope she doesn’t go out and buy it before her birthday or Christmas.  And don’t think for one moment that just because she doesn’t know what she wants that you’re off the hook and can get away with no gift.  Believe me, she wants something.  You just gotta figure out what it is.

Sometimes the three of us (her kids) get together and buy her one big gift that she wants.  It’s a relief to all of us when she has a project in mind.  One year we got her a new kitchen floor.  Two Christmases ago we sprung for lawn treatments for the year.  So last year she was to get 4 or 5 treatments to take care of weeds, grubs, and crabgrass among other things.  My mom likes to have a nice lawn.

Last year was a rainy late spring.  I remember having to call the lawn service to ask them about when they were going to start the first treatment.  My husband (who knows about these things) said that if they started too late, the first treatment would be worthless.  They assured me that the treatment would work just fine.  They finally came, did their thing all year, and got their payment.  We weren’t that impressed.  There were still some weeds.  But we weren’t upset; they did their job.

This past Christmas we had some good gift ideas for mom.  We didn’t go the lawn care route.  It was just supposed to be a one time gift.  So imagine our surprise when my mom comes home, and finds a young man finishing up treating her lawn.  She said she didn’t order it.  He said he was sent there.  So she called us and asked if we set something up.

We each told her we hadn’t ordered anything.  I wasn’t even that impressed with their service last year.  I thought maybe they missed one last year and was making up for it.  What do I know?  Then today she gets a bill.

Well, she’s not going to pay it.  Neither is my brother, my sister, or myself.  No one ordered this.  When my mom called their office to ask about the bill, they said “Oh, we just automatically set up treatments for our past customers.”  Without a phone call?  Without an order?  We specifically told them how many treatments we wanted, we paid them for that many treatments, and then they take it upon themselves to just show up the next year without so much as a phone call?  And there was no written contract so there was no fine print to mention this strange sales practice.  It was all handled by telephone and was never mentioned that you had to “opt out” or they would just show up and spray your lawn without your consent.  So, I guess my mom just got a free lawn treatment.  I told her not to dare pay for it.  But I wonder how many poor little old ladies out there get duped into paying for something they just didn’t want.

“Punished With A Baby?”

I used to be a Democrat.  That’s when I was young and idealistic, and I didn’t see how people work the system.  That was also before the Democratic party became the party of “victimization,” always trying to stir up discontent and envy instead of trying to reward responsibility and empowering people to better their own lives.  You see, it’s easier to win votes from people if you encourage them to be lazy and then promise to take care of them.  Senator Obama’s recent speech on how he wouldn’t want his daughters punished for a “mistake” with a baby is a prime example of how the Democrats think.  My guess is that they might just “sweep” that mistake out of existence, instead of taking responsibility for their actions.  It’s the Democrat way.

Mama’s Anal But She’s Usually Right

Big Daddy and I made a date this morning to enjoy the beautiful spring weather on the bike trail.  We loaded up the van and parked at one of the rest areas.  We took our bikes out, and then Big Daddy took the battery-operated remote control van key off the key ring.  I asked him, just because I’m the most anally cautious person on the planet, “Aren’t you worried you’re going to lose that key?” because I thought he was going to stuff it in his pocket for the ride.

“Yeah, that’s my plan,” Big Daddy says sarcastically.  Then he opens up the little zippered pack attached to his seat and tries to stuff his wallet in it.  “Oh, I didn’t know you had that pouch,” I said, relieved.  The wallet didn’t fit, so he took a $20 out and put it in the pouch with his cell phone and the van key.  Then he hid the wallet in the van.

We had a wonderful ride to the end of the trail.  It’s only about 5 miles and pretty flat, and fellow bikers and hikers said hello and nodded greetings.  It was just the perfect day to be outside.  We sat on a bench at the recreation area at the end of the trail and drank our water and watched some itty bitty soccer players at practice.  Boy did that bring back memories!

The only killer hill on that trail is leaving the recreation area, so even though I saw Big Daddy stop behind me, I told him I’d meet him up top.  If I would have stopped, I don’t think I could have psyched myself up enough to take the hill without walking.  When he caught up, I asked him if he lost something.  He said, “Yeah, the key.”  “What about the money and the cell phone?” I asked.  Luckily, it was just the key.  If it was the $20 I would have thought about all the nice cold Mr. Misty Floats it would have bought, and had he lost the phone, that would have been a disaster.  He has all his business contacts on that phone so things could have been a lot worse.  Big Daddy said to stop at my mom’s house (she lives near the other end of the trail), and he zoomed on ahead.  I thought he said he was going to ride home to get the other set of keys.

As it turns out, Big Daddy rode ahead to the end of the trail, where we were parked, thinking perhaps he lost the key right away and some Good Samaritan set it on the van.  I looked for it the whole ride to my mom’s.  As it turned out, not only did Big Daddy forget to zipper the pouch, but he forgot to lock the van.  The doors were all unlocked, and the wallet, with all our ID and credit cards, was sitting inside.  So, we didn’t even need to bring the key with us.

Even with all the drama, we still had a wonderful ride.  But, Big Daddy, don’t make fun of Mamacita!

Live And Let Live…But Sometimes…

One of the most wonderful things about our country is, for the most part, we can all pretty much do our own thing. We can worship as we see fit, with a few exceptions we can spend our money on what we want, and as long as we’re doing no obvious harm, we can raise our family without interference. I have my own beliefs and value system, but I believe everyone has the right to process the world and live in it in a way that makes sense to them. Don’t bother me, I won’t bother you, and we can get along just fine. We can even be friends.

That’s why I kind of surprised myself when I just had to react to a blog I read. I’ve read many blogs that I may not agree with, but I can kind of see where the person is coming from. In the few instances where I’ve felt compelled to leave a comment, it’s always been a thumbs up or an agreeable comment. And I certainly didn’t want to disrespect these people. They MAY be very nice people. But their mindset is so sad, I just had to open my big mouth (so to speak).

I’m just browsing, and something caught my eye about calling your husband “master.” I thought perhaps this was a tongue-in-cheek thing, so I clicked on it to perhaps be amused. And this woman was dead serious, as were some of the respondents that the man should rule the household and the woman should happily “submit” to this nonsense. To their credit, they printed my response and I’m sure they will never understand my viewpoint because they see the world only in literal terms, in black and white. And I know many people think this way; sadly, these are not the only people out there that live like this. But here’s the way I see it:

First of all, if you want to take the spiritual view: We are all made in God’s image. And God is a spirit: a genderless, without-a-body spirit. Maybe some of these people feel better thinking He’s an ancient man with a long beard, but I think most of the population has evolved enough to be able to see things more abstractly.

Second of all, this is such a cop out. These chest-thumping men that always have to have things their way and so spew some Bible quotes so that they can bully their wives and children are living by the laws of the jungle. Whoever is physically strong survives, and the weaker must submit or die. Of course, in this country there are laws against this now, so they intimidate these weak-minded women with the fear of eternal damnation. Whatever happened to using your “talents.” Why should women hide their talents, defer to someone they know is wrong, give up on their own ideas, simply because their husband has a PENIS? In fact, I’m sure many REAL men will agree that the PENIS is often responsible for helping them make a perhaps not-so-brilliant decision.

And, to end this little rant session, what if you accidentally marry an asshole? I can see where a weaker woman may be relieved to leave all the decisions up to their husband–and vice-versa. But people marry young, and the true colors of a spouse might not show up until after the wedding. So, you’re stuck married to a mean, self-centered idiot who does not make good decisions, and yet he gets to run your one and only life, your chance to make a difference in this world, and worse yet, is responsible for the precious children in your lives–and you stand back and say “yes, dear.” The kids need shoes but go buy your fancy new car–or whatever makes this type of man feel like a man.

Okay. Enough said.

I’m Almost Blonde–And So’s Big Daddy

The first thing I did when tax season was drawing to a close, was schedule a hair appointment for this week.  Having no time for even routine maintenance was really making me feel pretty frumpy.  I decided a few years ago that my hair looks best between chin and shoulder length, and it was way past my shoulders.  And even though one of those root touch up kits kept me from having to put a bag over my head, I was long overdue for a nice fresh color.

My stylist had tried something different last year.  She loves experimenting with color, and I’m a willing participant which she probably loves.  Last summer, I wanted to go strawberry blonde because I thought it would look good with my tan.  She advised against it because my hair was too dark at the time and she didn’t want to have to strip the color.  So instead, we went with a gorgeous auburn shade with some subtle golden highlights.  I felt glamorous all summer.

Today, since my hair was so faded, she said I could probably go lighter than usual and she could put in some even lighter highlights.  When she was done, what a transformation!  Perfect length, great style, and I was as close to blonde as I’ve ever been.  I mentioned to my stylist that Big Daddy was gonna like this!

Well, he came home from his 3 hour drive (this was his once a month week to do business out of town) and was raring to go bike riding.  I walked past him thinking for sure that he’d notice the hair (it’s radically different).  He was focused on that bike ride, I guess.  He was probably tired from the drive, I suppose.  But he didn’t mention the hair until I brought it up.  This is not really a HUGE deal except for the fact that he ALWAYS ALWAYS ALWAYS comments on how I don’t pay attention.  The whole family thinks I’m a space cadet because I miss little details.  So I may look blonde, but Big Daddy had a blonde moment of his own.

It Wasn’t Funny But I Had To Laugh

Why is it that sometimes, just because you know you’re not supposed to laugh, you just get the urge to crack up until the tears roll down your face?  That used to happen a lot at the dinner table when I was a kid.  My parents would be at their wits end with us and finally tell my brother and I to quit goofing off, no laughing and no talking, just EAT.  And bro and I would catch a glimpse of each other and just about choke trying not to laugh.

Well, this morning that same urge came over me at Big Daddy’s expense.  Since I was so busy yesterday trying to get the house back into a livable state and filing a state extension for Soldier Son’s taxes, I figured I’d just get up when Big Daddy did this morning and iron a shirt for him while he was in the shower.  Well, lo and behold—no clean shirts.  Yikes.  So I said to him, “It’s supposed to be nice today.  Do you want to wear a short-sleeve shirt?”

“Not really,” he replied, a bit curtly.  Then I spotted a nicely ironed tan shirt hanging in the closet.  I know he prefers the white ones but…not a lot of options here.

He wasn’t in a very good mood when he was putting the tan shirt on.  “Oh, great.  A tailored shirt,” he grumbled.  He could barely get the buttons buttoned.  I’m thinking to myself that he looked a little “meaty” in the shirt, but I wasn’t about to say anything.  He couldn’t very well go shirtless.

A few minutes later, I hear him stomping back upstairs.  He starts ripping off the tie.  “Why didn’t you tell me I looked like a rolled sausage,” he glares at me.  I start chuckling; I can’t help it.  I know it’s not funny being responsible for someone’s bad day and I know he’s not going to like me being amused by this situation.  But the look on his face…and, is it maybe nerves?  I don’t know, but every time I looked at him, I had that sick urge to laugh.  He put on the short-sleeve shirt.  It DID look better.

On a brighter note, I’m meeting my co-workers today for our annual after-tax-season lunch.  I think I’ll eat a lot because when I asked Big Daddy what he wanted for dinner tonight, he said, “Nothing.”