A Democrat and Her Two Republican Friends

I just read a touching article on NPR that instantly reminded me of two special friends, Rob and Steph, both lifelong Republicans. It is about former Democratic Vice President Joe Biden's eulogy of Republican Senator John McCain and of their friendship, which spanned decades.

Rob is, truly, my longest close friend (from the age of six) and one of the most decent, kind, funny, loyal and wonderful men I've ever known. To say he wasn't a fan of Hillary Clinton, well, that would be an understatement! But he is my friend and I love him like a brother. He loves me like a sister too. The night of the inauguration, knowing how hard I had worked to elect Hillary and keep Trump out of the White House, Rob sent me a text that defines our friendship and his character.

It said "Hey doll, I know you're hurting tonight and I just wanted to let you know that we are thinking of you and we love you."

Gulp. His short and sincere note was the most thoughtful thing anyone has said to me regarding my election efforts and he didn't even want my candidate to win. He just knew that I was in pain and he reached out. I still get choked up thinking about that text.

Steph would've been my Republican opponent for the KS Legislature in 2012 had she been successful in the primary. We had coffee after the primary, and a connection was formed which still remains six years later.

We were both born on May 28.

We are both married to men named "Brian."

We are both madly in love with dogs.

We both experienced traumatic early childhoods.

We both push ourselves by entering various races/runs and, while neither of us is the fastest, we sure keep trying.

And we both deeply lament the fracture between members of both parties. On the rare occasion we are able to get together for a glass of wine, we laugh, catch up, and share frustration that results from witnessing conflicts and flaws within each of our own respective parties and some of their various characters. We've even discussed creating a way to show our community that two friends from opposing parties can listen to the other side and CAN come up with practical solutions.

Because, let's face it, as humans we are all flawed. And lest you get the wrong idea, I disagree with Steph and Rob on many policy issues (and they with me) and our personalities are different in many ways. I kind of LIKE our differences, though (I'm chuckling because both have tempers and I could use a little more fire myself). None of us is what anyone would ever call an extremist (not by sensible standards). And, honestly, I think this encompasses the majority of Americans.

Are there extremists? You bet, and both of my friends are concerned with that as well. You see, we agree on the basic fundamentals, just have opposing ideas on how best to make them happen.

And as humans, flawed though we are, we have the capability to listen to each other, humanize each other, respect each other, and to work together IF WE CHOOSE.

John McCain and Joe Biden understood this.

As American citizens we could learn a thing or two from them.

Thanks Rob and Steph.

And thank you Papa Joe for reminding us that treating each other with respect and working together for the greater good is something that can be done. We just have to ignore the outside noise, listen to each other, and give a little.

Rest in peace Senator McCain. Semper fortis.

Dirty Kanza 2018: Thrill of Victory and Agony of Defeat

I began this blog several weeks ago, creating the framework of a short diary by jotting notes about training for the Dirty Kanza 100. I envisioned something funny and cheeky, ending in victory with photos of Brian and I crossing the finishing line, standing on the ladder and adding our signatures to the huge finisher's poster.

I have this human habit of putting the cart before the horse. This was one of those times.

I did enjoy chronicling tales of my tried and true bike path, the one that at least allowed for as much saddle time as I could fit in while still being close to home in case of mechanical failure and the one I could get to quickly when able to squeeze in rides between full time work and family activities. The one that included several short hills with an 18% grade, that at least worked my legs. I was recording stories of walkers who took up the entire path , slowing me down RIGHT when starting to try and CLIMB those 18% grade hills, and of silly groups of teen girls taking selfies and sexy photos of themselves outside offset by reliable places where I could smell fresh wildflowers. The purple ones always reminded me of my co-worker Carol. Those wonderful smells would be offset by other places where the smell of dog waste predictably assailed my nostrils on every ride. During particular times the swarms of gnats drawn to my mouth were ever so entertaining, at least for the gnats.

The path was two miles from my house and just under 14 miles from the northern most point (the Kansas River) to the southern most point in Olathe. I could multiply my loops as many times as needed when increasing miles.

I love this path. I started to meet the same bikers and the same couples walking. I'd see various critters, including many snakes and once a magnificent turtle. On some occasions calves and their maternal guardians would be playing along the fence where a portion of their ranch buttressed up to the path. Close to this area I could always count on seeing red birds, chasing each other.

My path lacked one vital necessity, something made clear to me on Saturday during the Dirty Kanza. The path lacked gravel.

There are a few other things made painfully clear to me.

I wanted so badly to complete this race and kept telling myself it didn't matter how long it took. I turned 49 less than a week ago...I've felt a lack of control at work...and I'm completely too tuned into the political climate in the nation. This was an outlet and a challenge that has taken my mind off of those things or, at least, allowed me to work through some of them. I wanted to prove that I could push myself and my goal was to do it in 10 hours, max. That would've been slow by most of the riders' standards, extremely slow. But having ridden 50 miles of this course twice I thought I knew what I was getting into.

I logged roughly 450 training miles from April 1st and my longest ride was only 70 miles. I know, 70 is nothing to sniff at, but the Dirty Kanza riders aren't normal riders. And almost all of those miles were on pavement.

I do believe that if I were tasked with riding 100 miles on MY path I could do it. Although my body would become uncomfortable in varying places during training (it always moved around, kind of like a growing rash), I mentally figured out how to ignore those pains for the most part, or at least wait until the soreness kicked in somewhere else to take my mind off the last part of my body that had been complaining.

Alas, I was unable to finish the Dirty Kanza 100. I would ultimately bonk in a very quiet and predictable manner.

The day began with a raging rain storm that we had to drive through in order to get to the race start in downtown Emporia. Lightening lit up the horizon like a massive swarm of lightening bugs in a beautiful display of power. My first thoughts were that there would be no way I'd even begin the race if there was still lightening. Then fear of mud and water began to creep in.

Brian, my faithful 28 year long partner and committed riding companion for today's race, pulled our bikes off the rack and grabbed an old windbreaker he keeps in the jeep so I could quit shaking in the now cool misty rain. Then we headed towards the starting line.

The start times were all pushed back 30 minutes and by the time the 200 mile racers took off at 7:30 we could already tell that the clouds would eventually recede. It was then that I finally got excited about the race again.

My brother and sister in law, Scott and Sarah, had driven from Golden, Colorado, to participate in their first DK100. They are younger than us, avid bikers, and they have competed before. They also have multiple bikes to choose from, like Brian, and had chosen their cross bikes. As I looked around at over 600 bikers I keenly felt the difference in my bike from the other bikes. Seriously, there is a REASON they were all on cross bikes. In spite of this, it was a such a blast watching Scott and Sarah experience their first DK that I put on a happy face and told myself it wouldn't matter.

The "blast"...and "happy face"... were both temporary.

Things started out great as Brian and I maintained pace with the group heading out of town and onto the gravel. At one point, Scott said we were averaging 14+ miles an hour. This isn't fast for typical road bikers but, holy HELL, it IS a fast pace for me to maintain on gravel for miles at a stretch.

I was pushing myself and that wasn't the plan. Slow and steady, keeping my usual pace: THAT was the plan. I took solace when the group was re-routed because of the rain, allowing us to avoid the first big hill. This was the hill on which I had witnessed a man die last year.

I tried to eat. At about mile 20 it occurred to me that I hadn't eaten anything yet so I pulled out a Cliff bar and took a few bites. It tasted like cardboard. So I tucked it back in my bag and kept riding.

I did drink water and managed to finish one water bottle by the 50 mile cutoff. I knew I was in trouble, though, when 1/3 of the Cliff bar glared at me from my bag.

That was the only food I had eaten since two eggs at 5:00 am.

I don't KNOW where the time went. I don't KNOW why I didn't keep eating as I had trained to do. I only know that at around mile 38 I started to slow down. My pace dipped until it reached just under 11 miles an hour at the cutoff. Brian expressed concern, alerting me that our pace was dipping. I was starting to feel the weight of my hybrid bike, hating the fact that I wasn't on a cross bike. I also don't clip in. Yes, crazy, I know. I just never seemed to find the time to buys shoes, switch out my pedals, or practice getting comfortable clipping in and out. I just figured I could make it work this time and tackle that issue after the race.

Bad decision, particularly when going through mud puddles. My bike shoes were sopping wet and as I chugged up the never ending hills I found my feet sliding off the pedals.

In spite of all this, I was relieved when we finally rolled into Madison, beating the cutoff time by 30 minutes. Our SAG Team Duo, Barb and Jeff, were eagerly waiting, offering support and aid as they cleaned off our bikes, grabbed food out of the cooler and as Barb handed me a Coke. I wanted to slam the entire can but was aware enough to only drink a small amount. I grabbed a protein drink and forced myself to chug it instead.

My stomach started to knot up and I realized I hadn't had a bowel movement in over 24 hours...not for lack of trying, but I struggle in this area whenever I'm anywhere away from home and my gut was starting to get uncomfortable. TMI, of course, but in endurance races this is a reality. Ever use the port-a-potty before a marathon? Yep.

We forgot to take into account the 30 minute rain delay and Brian began pushing me to get moving, fearful that we'd miss the departure cutoff which was also mandatory if we didn't want to be disqualified. I hit the port-a-potty but it was a waste of a trip. I'd have to start the second 50 with an achy gut. In hindsight, I could've used those extra 30 minutes.

As we headed out of town the north wind was blasting us in the face. The ride to Madison had been pleasant with the north wind at our backs in places. Now we'd be headed back towards Emporia and would have to face the increasing wind head on. The sun was starting to blister as well, although it never did get as hot as it had been the previous day. Upper 80's was far more bearable than 90+ temperatures.

I knew in my heart that these conditions were actually quite good for this area, considering. Three years before there had been a horrible rain that resulted in bikers having to carry their bikes through 3-4 miles of mud. Success in this race is often dependent upon the weather and I had been given a gift...I just couldn't take advantage of it.

I knew I was failing, and even though I was still moving, still adding on miles, my pace had become agonizingly slow. I yelled over my shoulder to Brian "I'm not going to be able to finish this...I can't do 100 miles." He told me to stop, take a drink. He suggested we make it a few more miles.

I started biking again, head down, grinding forward. It was then that I tried to dig deep and pull from a reservoir I had prepared to use. I began thinking of physical ailments and disabilities that I'm blessed to not suffer from. I thought of persecuted populations and the atrocities heaped upon them. I thought of POW's.

And I am deeply ashamed because it wasn't enough. I felt that I couldn't go on. And I felt awful because I didn't HAVE to go on, even though I had told myself...convinced myself...that I wanted this badly enough that I would walk across the finish line if that's what it took.

I've been spoiled, accustomed to success sometimes without working as hard as some. And in those moments I considered that maybe this was the lesson I needed from the Dirty Kanza. A lesson in humility.

We called Barb and Jeff and waited with two other younger men who had also given up. They chatted with Brian while I attempted to push out of my mind the disappointment and anger I was feeling with myself. I wanted to cry but knew that tears over something like this would be, quite honestly, ridiculous. I mean that. I had done well, I had tried, I had trained and I had done something most people I know have never attempted, but quitting hurt.

A week has passed and I'm not certain if I'll try again next year. I will need a new bike and I will need to train using clips, of course. And I'll need to start training earlier. And eat enough...of the right food...before and during my training rides. I don't have to decide today but it will remain in the back of my mind until I come to some sort of resolution. Something feels unfulfilled.

In the meantime, I've registered for my first triathlon scheduled for late July. Barb is my motivator and my mentor - she talked me into it. Well, she suggested it, and before I could stop myself I had registered. I don't swim but I guess I'll have to learn.

I've got eight weeks. And as I sit here typing, watching Brian Williams talk about Anthony Bourdain's dark struggles, I've decided I'm going to embrace this new challenge. Regardless of how it turns out and regardless of how slow I do it. Because I am healthy...and happy...and because I am able.

In the end, that is the gift of the Dirty Kanza. Standing along the fence cheering the finishers on as they crossed the mat and watching Scott and Sarah sign the finisher's poster I felt alive. Tired and disappointed, but alive and happy for their accomplishments. And really, that is what is most important about an event like this. Joy for each other and the need to embrace an opportunity given to a body willing to try.

Friends, I tried. And you know what? I think I'll keep trying.

Dirty Kanza 2018

The Dirty Kanza is known as THE toughest gravel race in the country. Starting in 2006, it grew from 24 participants to 2,200 riders in 2017. A Sport's Illustrated writer wrote of it in 2017 "Dirty Kanza is a double century bike race on fire roads around Emporia, Ks. On a good year — Saturday, Jun. 4, 2017, for example — the winds are low and the roads are dry, the sun doesn’t scorch and the humidity isn’t oppressive. The lead racers take about 11 hours, and around 80% of riders finish. On other years, rain can turn the trails to thick clay, winds can blow riders off their bikes and temperatures can soar. Few finish in daylight, many fail to make the 20-hour cutoff and others abandon the attempt."

Dirty Kanza is actually comprised of four races: the DK25 Community Fun Ride (a 25 mile ride), the DK50 Lite (a 50 mile ride), the DK100 (100 miles in the Flint Hills) and the DK200, which is the crown jewel of the day. The DK 200 is considered by many to be the most difficult gravel race in not just the United States but the world. Riders travel from all over the nation, and a few from around the globe, to test their will and stamina. This year they have added a new jaw-dropping distance: the DKXL350, a 350 mile course that begins the day before, is completely self-supported, and which has 34 hand picked endurance riders.

I rode in the DK50 Lite in 2016 and 2017. The first year was like being dropped in a swimming pool for the first time and being told to swim.

And those were good conditions, with decent temperatures, no rain and moderate wind.

Last year was even more amazing in terms of the weather. What made it even cooler was that my husband Brian rode with me. He is an avid biker, accustomed to extreme sports. He completed the Louisville Ironman in 2011 so, yeah, he knows a little bit about endurance racing.

During the 2017 DK50 Lite race a rider died within the first 10 miles.

Our other riding friends, Barb and Jeff Kempf, were with us as we held up at the bottom of a hill at around mile 10. While waiting for the ambulance to arrive, we saw someone doing chest compressions on a man at the top of the hill. Then, when they finally gave us the green light, riders were allowed to solemnly pass by on the far right while his lifeless body lay on the gravel.

This was the second time I had been witness to someone dying in a race; the third time I had seen someone collapse.

The first was during Brian's 2011 Ironman. I was with him during the early morning hours of the start, hanging out in support while he waited within the mass of 2,685 swimmers eager to enter the water A flurry of activity started, a buzzing among the athletes, while a 46 year old man was being pulled out of the water. He had suffered cardiac arrest and drowned.

Then, in 2017, I was running in the Big 12 5K, a fun and relaxing race that includes fired up fans, awesome shirts and freezing temperatures. During the last 1/2 mile of the race I witnessed another runner performing CPR on a racer just seconds before I passed by. I witnessed the violence of the chest compressions and fell apart. Snot was running out of my nose as I cried while continuing on at the direction of law enforcement. A group of runners in front of me began to sing a hymn together, which resulted in MORE snot and tears. The next day I found out he had survived.

2011 and twice in 2017. I will never forget those moments and I will never take any physical activity for granted as a result.

The Dirty Kanza has grown so much that in 2017 registration for 2200 riders filled up within seconds of it opening. Brian and Jeff, for example, had planned to do the DK100 but were unable to get in. I remember frantically changing Brian's registration to the DK50 with me, which, fortunately, isn't the most sought after distance. It filled up in 15 minutes.

The DK100 is a signature achievement but completing the DK200 is like the Mount Everest of gravel riding.

This year they changed the rules and allowed riders to register in December. Then they held a lottery in January, notifying riders by email whether or not they had gotten into their distance of choice.

Brian and I, along with his brother Scott and Scott's wife Sarah, all four made it into the DK100. Hundreds of hopeful riders did not, which means I feel a sense of responsibility to take this seriously and give it my best shot.

Unfortunately, the Midwest version of Mother Nature doesn't seem to understand the importance of nice weekend weather. And being employed isn't conducive to long week-day rides.

Suitable riding weather finally arrived a few weeks ago and a generous boss has allowed me to flex some time during the week to take advantage of afternoons when the forecast called for sun and higher temperatures. This just means I'm finally getting saddle time with just five weeks to go. You might call this the "couch to DK100 in eight weeks," which is what it feels like. I'm racing against the clock to prepare my mind and body.

I'll be blogging about the process and sharing fun trail stories, like detailed descriptions of what it feels like to get hit full in the face by a teeming swarm of gnats as you fly down a hill. It's especially bad if the rider (myself) is singing to Metallica with her mouth open. Imagine Linda Blair circa 1973 wearing a bike helmet and projectile vomiting bugs after slamming a water bottle. Shiver.

Despite the bugs, this amateur is determined. Or maybe crazy. Or both. Either way, watch out Flint Hills. Here I come again.

What is YOUR worst driving behavior?

Honestly, the worst part about working full time is the drive.

If you see a crazy almost middle-aged woman, wild eyed with her mouth open (you aren't really middle age until 50, right?), veering in and out of traffic on EITHER Shawnee Mission Parkway, I-70 or 71 Highway between the hours of 8:00-9:15 am Monday through Friday in a black Audi it might, just might, be moi. And I'm sorry, but you people are killing me.

Just killing me.

Hey, line of eight semi's convoying around the I-435 exit onto I-70, can you FREAKING SEPARATE? You are adding at least five minutes to my commute. FIVE MINUTES. And how in God's name do you manage to fuse all of your wide asses BACK TOGETHER at the most inopportune time - the one lane squeeze through downtown? Do you know how hard it is to veer over to the 71 Highway exit within that 1/4 mile window while stuck behind a chorus line of mammoth semi's chuggging, panting, and playing coy like they MIGHT want to move along but just can't decide?

And those of you merging onto 71 on my right, do you understand the laws of highway driving? Do you KNOW what a throttle is? Or what it can do? Oh, I promise, it can be fun. Try it. Please God, try it. Hell, do you understand speed? Or the meaning of the words "rush hour?" It means rush, and not the band (although from the speed of your driving I can only assume you're more of the Susan Boyle type of fan than Rush, sacame de mi miseria).

And while the driving on a Kansas or Missouri highway during rush hour can be frustrating, nothing, and I mean nothing, can compare to the horrific nightmare that is Shawnee Mission Parkway.

I broke my own rule on Thursday. Based upon mileage and route, Shawnee Mission Parkway SHOULD be a solid 15 minute faster drive to my office. Notice I say "should". Now, I live almost to the Colorado border from my office, true story, and I try to take the quickest route there when possible. Traffic tends to clear up a bit by 8:45 so I figured what the hell, I'll try it today since I'm running a bit late.

WRONG. Why do I do these things to myself? I need one of those oil change stickers in the corner of my windshield that says, bold and in all caps, "DO NOT, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, ATTEMPT TO TAKE SHAWNEE MISSION PARKWAY TO WORK DUMB ASS!!!!"

Sure enough, within five minutes of the drive THAT car was there. Sometimes it's a Subaru. Sometimes a beat up van. But remember, the vans can be like Jekyll and Hyde, mind you. Some are driving slow, swerving a little, but others can be aggressive as hell with drivers who look somewhat similar to me, shudder. THOSE drivers aren't afraid to use their middle fingers. And they usually have bumper stickers with fish or stupid stick figures and advertisements for pedophiles to figure out exactly what school their kids go to, how many pets and what kind they have, which sports their kids play and which marketing tier the mom sells from home. Yeah, "come and lure me" it screams.

I digress.

THOSE cars, like the Subaru or Toyota Camry's (why do old women always drive Camry's) perpetually end up in the left lane. You know, the FREAKING PASSING LANE, going 1/4 of a mile faster than the people in the right lane. You know, the lane for the rule followers. I'm not a rule follower, I'm running late, I need to get to work, I hate Shawnee Mission Parkway and I HATE YOU BECAUSE YOU WON'T GET THE HELL OVER AND LET ME PASS!!

Whew, that felt better. Usually, when I scream this while driving, a bit of spittle flies out of my mouth. It's a situation.

There is always the usual speed up and slow down driver, the "dur, can I get over yet?" dufus who can't seem to understand that when I'm gracious and pause long enough to let you merge in during construction it means you merge NOW AND NOT IN A MILE! There is the guy who decides a yellow light means stop, not speed through the intersection so I can draft you and ALSO get through. I'm headed to a fire, yes, now get the f-over!

And did I mention wanting to hurt the people who decided that starting construction ANYWHERE on Shawnee Mission Parkway was a good idea? Just pass out toothpicks in a booth so we can all jab them under our fingernails during the drive. It'll relieve that pain of the agonizing wait.

For the record, I'm not really this crazy. I'm actually a courteous driver. But holy hell, if I spoke out loud in public the things that go through my mind during that daily commute...let's just say, it wouldn't be flattering. And I can accept that. It's why I call my friends and leave desperate messages saying "I'm bored, please pick up" (bluetooth, promise). It's ACTUALLY an SOS call and I'm using you to save me from myself. When I'm talking to you I'm not focusing on killing the driver in front of or next to me.

You are doing a public service when you answer my call.

Thanks for letting me confess. This has been bothering me. But please don't worry, it's not as bad as it sounds, promise. I won't hurt anyone and, at times, the same spittle spewing, raging and wild eyed suburban freak hustling to get down to Troost might just begin cackling and laughing out loud. The things I call my fellow drivers can be that funny.

If you pick up my call, I can share those names with you.

You've been put on notice.

A Democrat, Independent, and Republican walked into a bar....

Wednesday night the unthinkable happened. A Democrat and an Independent hosted a meet and greet for a City Council Candidate. He's a registered Democrat. We also invited another City Council Candidate from the neighboring ward. He's a registered Republican. The race is non-partisan and these two candidates have approached their races with this in mind.

It was fun. We talked about city issues. We laughed. We listened to each other. We got along. And we actually agreed on most things while also carrying on civil dialogue, even taking into consideration we were all members of different parties. In fact, the issues we were discussing were not particularly contentious or about national issues. They simply focused on our own small community.

It can be done. Far from being difficult, it was refreshing.

Roughly 100 people were invited. Less than 10% came by to visit with the candidate. Unfortunately, this is reflective of our Democracy. Americans turn out for local elections at rates lower than 20%. I recently read that in our area, that number has been as low as 8%.

We all have hobbies. We all have interests. We all have priorities. I try to never judge people on those things because these differences are what make each of us so unique and special. Being part of a Democracy, though, requires a small bit of effort. We wax poetic about "those who fought for our freedoms and our right to vote" and then we quietly look the other way when the one responsibility that supports the entire system of government rolls around every year or two.

Do your part. It requires a small bit of effort that will be a blip in the radar of your busy and active life. First, find out just a little bit about the candidates. It's easy. Google them, ask your friends or neighbors if they know them, call them, email them or attend an event where they are meeting people. Then vote.

Those two things are all this great nation asks of you.

I took heart on Wednesday night, though. Two of the guests brought their very young children. That is the third part of our responsibility. Teach the next generation to step up and be engaged citizens.

Even if the majority of the community fails to do so.

How to Clean a House in Just a Few Easy Steps

Preface, this is a First World Problem, so if you are going to get all righteous, just walk away. Now.

Moving on.

Grandmother Mary Jean would be proud of what I'm about to write.

I've had my house cleaned by a number of different cleaning crews in the past. Only at various times, like when I was in a cast for ten weeks. Four different times, by four different agencies (I'll call them agencies...every cleaning "crew" is different). It never felt right when I did it. It still doesn't. But I'm running out of hours in the week and my house is getting pretty scary, so it's time to get serious about finding a permanent house cleaner.

And here's the thing.

NOBODY FREAKING KNOWS HOW TO CLEAN A DAMN HOUSE!!!

Whew, I feel better.

Maybe it's because I learned at the knee of my Grandma Mary Jean. She was notorious for vacuuming and dusting every day. Every other week she would deep clean the cabinet doors.

She was downright military-like when it came to teaching me to clean a house.

And I've slacked over the years. Oh, my, how I've slacked.

I'm ashamed at the level of slacking.

Kids...work....volunteer work....friends...exercise....maturity (which has taught me that a clean house should come last on the list when compared with spending time with my kids or my friends....all of these have intruded on my "used to be" clean house).

I simply don't have the time or the desire anymore and most of my friends use someone.

But it never works because the basic tenets of house cleaning, which were damn near biblical to my Grandmother, are being neglected. Unless I can find someone who understands and appreciates how you clean a house I'd rather it stay dirty and I'll get to it when I can.

Here are the basics:

1) When dusting, remove every item from the wooden surface you are dusting and dust underneath said items.

2) When dusting, remove every item from the wooden surface you are dusting and dust underneath said items.

3) One more time, in case you didn't fully understand numbers 1 & 2: When dusting, remove every item from the wooden surface you are dusting and dust underneath said items.

4) Dust the items you removed, even if it's just a quick swish. And dust the sides of the cabinet...and the front of the cabinet...and the doors of the cabinet. What's that? Yes, all the way to the bottom. Yes, I know, it's laborious. But it's important.

5) Wipe the dust cloth across the tops of frames. Every frame. It doesn't take long, I swear. Just do it when you walk by them. But do it.

6) If it has a glass surface (like the two huge doors on my antique cabinet in a, oh, I'd say fairly prominent position on my landing) then clean it. With glass cleaner. Please.

7) If it's a toilet, get on your hands and knees and clean the floor around the base of the toilet. Yes, all the way up to the wall and the baseboards. I know, I know...it's kind of gross. But it's part of CLEANING THE FREAKING TOILET.

8) While you are at it, wipe down the entire bowl and the base and back of the base. IT'S PART OF CLEANING THE FREAKING TOILET. And not just for one toilet. For ALL of the toilets.

9) When mopping a wooden floor, vacuum under pieces of furniture. Then mop the same area. You know, it's very obvious when someone is on the floor playing with their pets if a massive pile of dust and pet hair is growing under a buffet or a cabinet as if in a petri dish. It is fully expected that these surfaces get the same love and attention as the rest of the hard wood floors.

10) Look for cobwebs and destroy them. Sometimes, they are easy to spot. Like on the wall, eye level. You can use your vacuum to suck them up or the dusting cloth you just used to wipe of the top of the frames I mentioned. Just don't ignore them. Please.

It's bad enough that we live in a world where we no longer mop the kitchen floor on our hands and knees. My Grandmother is screaming from heaven and disturbing the angels because of this, I'm certain of it.

I fear that, along with the sewing/quilting, the printed newspaper, actual paper books, in person human interaction and phone calls, the art of housecleaning has disappeared.

My children are in for a looooong weekend. House cleaning boot camp is about to commence.

Oh, and if you happen to know any cleaning services that are run by a Depression Era, World War II Grandma? Send me the info. I'll pay anything.

p.s. Photos are from AFTER my house was recently cleaned...by a crew of three. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, give me strength.

My New Kitchen Toy!

I have all the gadgets.

I've got the food processor.

The blender.

The Kitchen Aid.

Two crockpots.

A rice steamer.

A waffle maker.

We use the waffle maker on birthdays. I use the Kitchen Aid during holidays. The blender? During the summer on those rare occasions when I make fun cocktails (otherwise it's the old standby's: wine, beer and vodka tonics). The rice steamer gets used pretty regularly and, if you like rice, is something I highly recommend.

The problem with all of these gadgets is storing the damn things.

To store them, I have to put them out of sight. And in my house? That's the kiss of death.

I have two gadgets, though, that I've decided I cannot live without and I'm so jazzed about the newest one that I have to share. I like them so much that I don't forget about them. I'm pretty sure I caught the Kitchen Aid whispering "I hate you" tonight when I passed her by to pull them off the shelves again.

Let me tell you about the first one that I've had for a little over a year. It is so awesome that I will literally plan a day to just use it.

It's the food saver. And Oh. My. God. Has it saved me.

This thing will shrink wrap anything, liquid or solid. I used it when we went on a 16 day trip through Yellowstone, etc, in our fifth wheel and, no joke, I prepared ahead of time enough meals and/or ingredients that we only ate dinner out three times. And it fit in our fifth wheel freezer!

I freeze the usual left over meals, like chili and stew, but also gravy to use in later recipes. I'll make a lasagne and freeze individual pieces so that Brian can grab one on the way out the door for work and by lunchtime it has thawed out enough to reheat. I will chop four or five onions at a time and freeze individual bags of one chopped onion each for later recipes. If I find a smoking deal on ground beef I will stock up and break it out into individual bags of a pound each. Honestly, I don't think there is anything I've found yet that I won't freeze using the food saver.

My only advice? Buy the actual Food Saver brand and then search for bags on Amazon that have high ratings. The off brand bags are cheaper. I got my Food Saver at Costco on sale for $139. It has easily saved me more than that.

Now, drum roll, about my new toy.

The Instantpot pressure cooker is the BOMB (shout out to Marcia, who I work with, for hooking me up)!

All I can say is that the meat in our house will never taste the same again. I'm getting rid of the crockpots too. This thing will BE a crockpot if that's what you want. The problem with the crockpots is that I've never been able to get the absolute most out of a piece of meat when using them. The Instantpot? Holy cow. The meat tastes like it came from a restaurant.

Most of the meat I've cooked so far has taken less than 30 minutes. Tonight I cooked an entire chicken, which was still partly frozen in the middle, and the actual pressure cooking time was 20 minutes flat.

The pot has a feature that allows you to saute in it; it heats up almost immediately, meaning the gravy I made when the chicken was completed was boiling in half the time it takes on the stove.

I made Kalua Pig last night - using a 5 lb bone in pork shoulder roast - and damn near had an orgasm it was so good.

Okay, that's a slight exaggeration, but you get the idea. It was tender and succulent and the flavor was out of this world. This one took 90 minutes but the preparation was so simple that it just meant I needed to make sure I planned ahead, which I did.

The Instantpot will allow you to release the pressure immediately when an item is finished cooking or, as with the Kalua Pig, it will release the pressure itself slowly. I wasn't going to be home when it finished due to kid taxi duty so I didn't have to worry about it overcooking.

I knew after the first use that I was in love. After not getting home from work until 7:45, and walking into a room with three people staring at me blindly asking "what's for dinner", I grabbed what I had one hand. That included three frozen chicken breasts. What can I say, we were overdue for a visit to the grocery store. I almost made them eat cereal, but instead tossed the breasts into the Instantpot along with some salsa, chili powder and salt. Voila! Fifteen minutes later we had shredded chicken tacos (it took five minutes for the cooker to pressurize and ten minutes to cook the chicken).

The first day I had off following that first success I searched a website referred by Marcia called Nom Nom Paleo and started printing recipes (the Kalua Pork photo is from her site but mine looked just the same, promise). I chose ones that I thought might be fairly easy, then hit the grocery store, and now I've got three meals cooked and frozen (hence my deepening love for the Food Saver) and tomorrow night we are eating Indian Curry Spareribs. It won't be until later in the evening but everything is ready and this one will take 35 minutes - 20 to cook and 15 to depressurize naturally.

If it is as good as what I've made so far you will hear the moaning across town.

If anyone else reading this has an Instantpot and wants to share recipes then I'm your girl. Please. I'm begging you.

Between the speed, efficiency and brilliant ability to leave meat moist and tender coupled with the option of freezing meals and not having to worry about what to make for dinner I'm sure my life will be a little more simple now. It seems like every night either I work late, the kids have activities, or both.

Now I don't have to feel guilty anymore for picking up carry out three or four nights a week.

And I'll have more time for wine and catching up with the kids about their day (not necessarily in that order, promise).

Get an Instantpot and a Food Saver. You won't regret it.

Tornado Brain and Remembering What Matters

Ok, so I can’t keep up with my own self.

With my head.

My appetite.

My emotions.

I don’t blog more because, frankly, every day there is something. Something to add. Something new.

So I wait until things settle.

But they don’t.

My God. They don’t.

My daughter’s activities are never ending.

My son’s activities are never ending.

My husband needs to have his space. Because that’s who he is.

And I love them all three. I want to experience all of their activities, be a part of all their needs.

But I love my friends.

I need my friends.

I want to do everything my friends have planned.

And it’s March.

Basketball interferes.

Because in March, basketball is EVERYTHING to me. Well, almost. Those three people, sigh. Basketball is number four in March.

And I need to call my mom more. Because she needs me.

And I need to see my grandmother more. Because I love her.

And I need to connect with my cousin the hermit more. Because I miss her.

But my country is in flames.

Donald Trump is my waking nightmare.

And I have to help. Have to keep working behind the scenes, in ways others don’t know I’m working. Being an activist, using my past connections delicately, prudently, to try and change things the next election.

I’m not sitting idle. I promise. You just don't know that I'm not sitting idle.

And I’m not exercising. Because I’m tired. Because I don’t care.

But I DO care. I don’t ever want to gain the weight back.

And it weighs on me.

So I’m on my second glass of wine tonight. Because it tastes good. And now I’m putting this on paper, so it’s an outlet. Like steam escaping from my new pressure cooker.

The pressure cooker that allowed me to make four different meals today that I can freeze. So that when I work late I can have something thawed for my family to eat.

They don't function the same when I'm not home taking care of things. And before you judge, I WANT to be home to take care of things. It is a way I show my family that I love them and I like it.

I'm a mix. A modern day woman, colored hair to boot, with the Greatest Generation's influence that leaves me feeling warm and satisfied when I cook for my family. When I'm THERE for them.

Because I’ve been working a little more lately, worried about my co-workers. We are a small crew and I’m just a part-time helper. But when several of us need time off there is no one else. It’s not my job to fix, but I care. I love my co-workers. I love my boss. I love the store.

Pause.

I just breathed for the first time since I started typing.

And in that breath, I thought of Rhyan Loos. And her fight. My niece Hannah and the fight she lost. My cousin Rachael and the roller coaster of fights she has lived through.

I thought of my friends, who are struggling in their marriages.

I thought of my kid's peers and their own personal battles, from divorced homes to self-esteem issues and a myriad of themes, many of which we all have a connection to.

I thought of relatives…who I avoid. Because it’s awkward…not traditional…forced, obligated, when I don’t know them. Haven’t ever connected. Because my “story” isn’t normal. Yet I feel guilt. For not connecting.

And I feel like a failure. Deep, deep disappointment over a goal I had set. A training applied to with Department of Justice that I was rejected for. Because of the employment gap that I wrote about some time ago. The gap for those of us who leave our careers to stay home with our families. I knew this would happen.

The gap reared her ugly head and is the reason I was rejected. I feel humiliated. Washed up. Fear that I would be unable to provide for my family if I had to.

I breathe again. Sigh. Let it out.

I know in my head, yeah, in my heart, that this is all normal. I’m normal. My doubts, fatigue, worry and stress are normal and actually far less than the worry many others shoulder.

I bring it around.

First World Problem.

We are healthy.

I’ll say it again.

We. Are. Healthy.

That’s all that matters.

I can breathe again, while feeling relief that I can sleep now...because I remember the most important thing. The one thing that none of us can control and the one thing that can destroy us.

We. Are. Healthy.

And I’m good now.

Why, You Ask, Am #IWITHHER? Here's Why!

I've been asked many times over the years why I appear to "know so much" about politics and how I "decided to become a Democrat." Sometimes I think the questions are sincere. Other times I'm pretty sure I am being mocked.

My usual response involves an acknowledgement that I quit watching cable and TV news a long time ago (other than C-Span when I've got a little caffeine in me), a list of reputable news periodicals that I voraciously read which involve international publications and the Associated Press (no, I don't have an unlimited amount of time on my hands; I typically spend several hours a night in bed reading, resulting in less sleep); a humbling admission that I allow myself to cheat at times and read clearly biased opinion pieces because, well, because I'm human and still have a school girl type crush on Jon Stewart (KNOWING they are biased is the key) and then I refer the inquiring person to the Democratic platform. Because that is obviously WHY I am a Democrat.

Nobody ever wants to read the platform, sigh. Too long?

The point of this blog, though, is that I get asked. And lately I've been getting asked how I can support Hillary Clinton.

I've started some form or other of this blog many times over the last six months. Someone wisely recommended that I should share positive things about her rather than negative beliefs about her opponent so I'm going to try. Here's the rub though.

It takes time to list all of the reasons I support her because the details matter.

The details really do matter.

They may not matter to the media or to Americans who like their news served up quickly, provocatively and with two teams always in opposition. The details may seem boring and mundane to a population looking for a bad guy, ready to interrupt any form of detailed explanation with a "yes, BUT!!!" They may not be of importance to a generation weaned on reality television and visual stimulation.

They matter to me though. Which is why I not only support Hillary Clinton but I've actively volunteered with the campaign.

I'm known for being wordy, writing and talking too long. I'll try to be concise, clear and to the point. I'll try to include links to evidence supporting my position, all the while knowing and understanding that for those of you who within your soul of souls openly, viscerally and passionately hate her (yeah, that really isn't too harsh of a word considering some of you openly wish to see her executed) you won't read this and, if you do, you will be frothing at the mouth ready to pounce.

Let's jump right in, though, and get Benghazi out of the way first.

A bad thing happened in a dangerous country, to one of our embassies. It has happened before. In 1983 in Kuwait, in 1983 in Beirut when 63 died, in 2004 in Uzbekistan, in 2006 in Karachi (one of our diplomats died), again in 2006 in Damascus, in 2007 in Athens, and in 2008 in Serbia and in Yemen.

Two details and then we can move on.

First, none of those attacks resulted in a single investigation.

Benghazi has resulted in more investigations than the Boston Marathon bombing, the Oklahoma City bombing, the 9/11 attacks, and the U.S.S. Cole attack combined. 3,184 Americans died during these combined attacks and well over 6,000 were injured.

Second, there have been eight separate (one ongoing) investigations that included two Senate and six GOP dominated House committees. Within these committees there have been 32 separate hearings. Thirty two. 32. Let me say it again, in case you didn't understand. THIRTY TWO HEARINGS.

$7 million and two years later the investigations found no evidence of negligence or wrongdoing by the state department.

This is why I do not engage, debate or argue with people who are still hanging on to Benghazi.

Moving on.

The emails.

Previous Secretaries of State used their private email accounts. Yes, there were differences vis-a-vis the server. Hillary is notoriously not tech savvy. Neither am I. Which is why I looked at the situation a little more closely. She was allowed to use it. She admitted, in hind site, it wasn't the best choice. Technology changes quickly and she had asked to be allowed to use her Blackberry (meaning requesting tighter security on it) because she was comfortable and familiar with it and had been denied.

The FBI investigated. The did not find a case that would support bringing criminal charges. The final statement as it relates the investigation: "Opinions are irrelevant, and they were all uninformed by insight into our investigation, because we did the investigation the right way. Only facts matter, and the FBI found them here in an entirely apolitical and professional way."

By many estimates, $20 million and a over a year later the Federal Bureau of Investigation found no evidence of criminal conduct.

This is why I do not engage, debate or argue with people who are still hanging on to the emails.

Moving on.

Except...one more thing. I have to assume that those of you who just CAN'T get past these many, many investigations must be FBI investigators yourselves or on the Congressional Hearing committees and somehow are aware of things that the rest of the general population and, dare I say it, even those who made the findings in both situations, are not aware of. If so, please speak up. Seriously. We want to know what you know that the people who spent years investigating her don't know.

These are the reasons I support Hillary Clinton, as succinct and brief as I can be.

Her 2002 vote in the Senate was to give President Bush the leverage she believed would help finish the negotiations between Saddam Hussein and the United Nations and I truly believe her thoughtful and deliberate speech from the Senate floor reflected what every good leader should do: research thoroughly their decisions. There are details within that speech, very important historical details, that help clarify and elaborate why she voted the way she did. Although President Bush used his ensuing authority in a way that resulted in thousands of American deaths through war I was impressed with her deliberation and strength in making such a tough decision. Remember, there was no crystal ball and we were reeling as a nation following the attacks of 9/11; an attack that happened in her very own Senate District.

Some may disagree with the vote but there is no denying she laid out her reasons clearly and voted based upon her knowledge of Iraq's threat rather than her gut or on impulse. Okay, I realize there may be a FEW of you out there who maybe DO have crystal balls and somehow, because of that, you must have private evidence that she secretly KNEW President Bush was going to immediately rush to war. Maybe you are the ones continuing to push the false narrative that she loves war. If so, share your insight with the rest of us. Truly.

Hillary has first and foremost been a proponent of diplomacy and her efforts to bring about a ceasefire between Hamas and Israel is a prime example. She's already forged respected relationships with Israel, Egypt and Palestine.

Speaking of relationships with foreign nations, Clinton's exhaustive travel resulted in her meeting with more countries than any previous Secretary of State. Her fingerprints are on many international policies, including securing the bipartisan supported START (Strategic Arms Reduction Treaty) ratification with Russia, the release of political prisoners from Myanmar in 2012, and her participation in the Iranian nuclear agreement means she will already be in a firm and knowledgeable position to apply pressure from the oval office if she becomes President. With regard to Iran, she has been extremely firm as Senator but then accused of being soft while representing President Obama's stance; during the Iran deal she was able to work with China and Russia as well in joining the United States. Bottom line: regardless of a person's agreement on how firm she should or shouldn't have been there is nobody running for President in a better position to step into office on day one and deal with Iran. She has on the job experience in a way that can't be simply studied for or handled based upon an individual's whims or gut feelings depending upon the day. I trust her.

Secretary Clinton was also a pivotal player behind the scenes in opening relations with Cuba, something the Pope has even been a part of.

Let me pause for a moment and share something.

I didn't support Hillary when she ran for President in 2008. From the moment I heard Barack Obama speak at the Democratic National Convention in 2004 I began following him. He was my guy in 2008 and nothing Hillary could've done was going to change that.

I remember thinking and even saying "I think she's brilliant and experienced but it's not her time." As if I had any qualifications to determine when it was or wasn't her time. In all honesty, the real truth was probably that he spoke to me on a deeper level and, in hindsight, I didn't research her history. I just LIKED him more. This time I did research Hillary. Thoroughly. And what I found left me humbled for not realizing how amazing she really is. How in awe of her I am. How sick it makes me when I read the hate and vitriol online or when I hear "lock her up" chants or a call for her to be executed. It baffles me on a deeply profound level.

Moving on.

Her history with trade is complex, as international trade is known to be, and she's dealt with each trade situation case by case. But hey, "case by case" isn't a sexy two word sound bite, is it?

As Senator, she voted on 10 trade deals with a "yes" to six and "no" to four. An example of a "no" was CAFTA because she didn't feel it protected American jobs. She has always maintained that each needed to be looked at individually and, as with TPP, as more information is available a stance can logically change. With regard to TPP, though, folks often forget that she was representing the Obama administration as Secretary of State, not voting on it as a Senator. The roles are very different. She is opposed to it now and she has the freedom to be. When I look at her history I always try to explore what her job was at the time and what her responsibilities were. A Senator and a Secretary of State are different. A similar situation occurred with the Keystone Pipeline. As Secretary of State she was also representing the administration; because of this, she said they were inclined to back it but QUALIFIED (I know, not sexy) by noting that analyses wasn't complete and they hadn't taken a final position. Frankly, that is all she said until 2015 when she opposed it based upon that "further" analyses.

Sorry to do this, but let me pause again.

I'm married to an engineer. He painfully ponders every decision and may change his mind on something multiple times as new information becomes available and as he explores how different details work together within this new information. Because of this, I feel safe. I feel like I can trust him to never go off half cocked and put our family's finances, safety or future at risk. Maybe that is why I LIKE that Hillary has, at times, changed her mind depending upon her role and depending upon new analyses of information.

Moving on.

Haiti & Honduras are examples of two different situations that she was involved with. As UN special envoy in Haiti she helped raise hundreds of millions of dollars after the 2010 earthquake and as Secretary of State she visited multiple times and helped facilitate the securing of billions of dollars for the country. Honduras was far more complicated but at the end of the day was an Obama administration's call. Hindsite is always 20/20 and declaring a coup immediately would've shut off all international aid. The administration feared a civil war and loss of life. To intervene or not to intervene was the dilemma. When I talk about "on the job training" this is what I mean. She's got it.

Volunteering for the campaign has allowed me to meet a number of people who know her personally and they all say the same thing: she is at her best when visiting a third world country, bending down and talking to children. It is her ability to be nurturing in these situations when the spotlight isn't on her but, yet, strong and commanding when in a position of having to take a very difficult or controversial stance that makes me admire her even more.

She worked for children, farmers and veterans when First Lady of Arkansas and was behind the CHIP program which resulted in thousands of low income children receiving health care. She set the stage for healthcare reform in this country. Her speech on women's rights in Bejing is still honored today and is considered a game changer internationally. She walked through the rubble after 9/11 and worked to secure services for first responders and to rebuild. While Senator, she was respected across the aisle and it seems to be only when she is running for office that so much ugliness is directed at her. Her amazing work for foster children is actually one of the things I love the most about her and even more impressive is that she worked so closely with GOP House Majority Leader Tom DeLay in order to draft policy. One of the thing Americans are most frustrated with when it comes to Washington is the inability of both sides to work together. Hillary can and has worked very closely across the aisle with Republicans; they just won't admit it during a campaign season.

She trusts no one outside of her inner circle and I don't blame her. She's been followed, attacked and belittled for decades. Rumors and conspiracy theories abound but she stands strong. She stared down hours and hours of questions before Congress with no wrong doing to be found and, yet, people still repeat the rumors, the lies, the exaggerations, the stories devoid of specifics that would clarify or explain, and the right wing propaganda machine.

The speaking fees? She was paid because of her knowledge. It is her intellectual property, she was no longer in office, and there is absolutely no, nada, zero evidence that any "favors" were granted as a result nor that they would be. People with desired experience get paid to speak but it only seems to be a problem the handful of times SHE did it.

Before I wrap this up, in case some of you Hillary haters have made it this far, let me just address one more thing that I've taken the time to explore. The books about her. The juicy stories about throwing things or yelling profanities. David Brock, author of "Troopergate", has since admitted that he isn't certain of the truthfulness of his sources and regrets writing the book. Other supposed quotes in other books have no identified sources, often take her words out of context and, in some cases, make claims about her statements that by date and claimed places simply are not possible. These types of books I put in the "conspiracy theory" category.

In the 90's I wondered why she stayed with President Clinton after the scandal but then I married and had children. I realized I had been harsh to have questioned a decision so private, so personal and I continue to wonder how average citizens, with flaws and family secrets, can have judged her so harshly. Everything she has ever done she's had to do better, longer and with a thicker skin all while wearing heels, makeup and enduring comments criticizing her wardrobe, her figure, her hair and voice. And, yet, she continues to fight for what she believes in and for this country. She is stronger than I could ever be and she is a pivotal female role model for my daughter. She is not perfect but, then, who is? I don't know her personally and I don't want her to be my friend. I want her to be my President. I want her knowledge, experience and intelligence leading us.

Hillary is made of nails. She's prepared in a way that probably no other candidate has ever been prepared to step into the oval office on day one, look at our domestic and international issues with a fully discerning and pragmatic lense, able to act with deliberate thought and sense and not emotion or impulse, and she is, no question, the best choice for this country.

I don't always agree with her but I'll sleep soundly at night knowing she will get that 3 am wakeup call.

So the next time someone asks me why I support Hillary I will simply send them this link. Feel free to do the same and proudly proclaim #imwithher!!

The Ugliness of Healing

We could learn a great deal about human behavior simply from watching our own bodies at work.

I suffered a severe ankle sprain a week ago. Watching the healing process has reminded me of another process, one we should be cognizant of when dealing with each other.

My ankle hurt badly at first. So bad that I cried. It swelled and had to be elevated.

But as the ankle heals, it looks worse. In fact, the black and blue discoloration was really quite gross and ugly at one point.

It reminds me of humans when we are working through the grieving process.

Think about it.

When someone close to us dies we often lash out at those around us. It is to be expected. Most of the time, for sensitive and aware individuals, we don't take this anger personally. We chalk it up to the grieving process and try to give the person who is hurting time and space.

Once the early stages pass, and the person in pain continues moving forward, they let go of the anger.

But make no mistake, when we are healing we can often be ugly and may not appear to be our usual selves on the outside.

It is much easier to sympathize with an individual who is physically hurting when we can actually see, with our own two eyes, the black and blue marks. So we have to look for the signs not reflected in the physical body when someone is healing from emotional pain.

This person may be curt when talking to you. They may be extra sensitive and lash out at perceived slights that were never intended. This person may attempt to cut off relationships irrationally.

These are all the ugly parts of the healing process. Sadly, the difference between these and a bruise is that bruises don't leave permanent cuts in a relationship.

If you are on the receiving end of a person's "ugly bruising" try to step back and remember that it truly is a process. Most recover eventually and may regret how they acted.

I want that to be the case with the tone and tenor of many United States citizens regarding the San Bernardino shooting and the anger towards all Muslims.

I hope, once the initial shock and fear pass, that the ugly "bruising" we are seeing and hearing so much of will diminish and that many of these previously tolerant and kind people will look back in horror at the mass labeling of Muslims as "terrorists", at the hateful speech and threatening actions.

If and when this happens, those of us who watched the process need to be kind. We need to understand that they were lashing out from fear and sadness.

This doesn't apply to all of the people filled with mistrust and anger towards the Muslim community (some will never change; bigotry is simply a part of the internal wiring of certain individuals), but I have to believe that many of the people in this country who are so openly ugly are simply reacting to the initial anger and sadness over the shooting. They are frustrated with ISIS and with what they understandably cannot understand. Maybe they are just working through the process.

Just like my ankle.

It has to get uglier before it can fully heal.

Our nation has experienced this type of ugliness before and I daresay it will happen in the future. Such is our species.

We should pay attention to mother nature, though, and not allow the ugliness to take over.

I'm keeping my ankle wrapped and I am aware of what the bruising and the discoloration means. It will go away and I need to speed that process along as quickly as possible.

I wish we could wrap Donald Trump and the others like him with an ace bandage so the process can't be broadcast so loudly.

I fear these wounds are more like a terminal disease for many though. Unable to heal.

Please let your fear be a minor pain; allow the bruises to work through the process but then heal. Go back to being the good, kind and sensible people I know you once were.

Please.

Ways to Keep Busy While Running a Half Marathon

13.1 miles is a really long time when you are running. Okay, FINE, I'll humbly acknowledge when I am walking/running. The first thing I discovered when training was that a four minute run/two minute walk was my salvation; as long as I could maintain that pace I knew I could finish. Beyond that, how in God's name does a person stay sane while covering that distance on foot? Here are a few of my activities.

Poop before the race. Do not laugh at this. Very, VERY important. If you can't do it at home then head to the porta-potty the minute you arrive at the starting site because if you are lucky you'll find one untouched (aww, the sweet pleasures in life). If you do not manage this very basic human action then you will spend the next 13.1 miles worrying about it. Who needs worry?

Pandora beats the shuffle every time. Because you never know what song is coming next which means you never think "God, I'm so sick of that song" (trust me, this comes from experience).

Never wear underwear that is too big. Don't laugh. I've had my underwear slide all the way down under my butt cheeks before and let me tell you, it's slightly embarrassing having to shove your hand down the back of your shorts in order to pull them back up again. In addition, even though you KNOW it's your undewear, it FEELS like your shorts so you panic thinking your shorts have slid all the way down your backside. Race day? Definitely don't want to provide stories for the people behind you. Solution? Shorts that have a built in underwear liner. I run in one pair of shorts almost exclusively. When they die my running days may die with them. That's how much I love these shorts.

Check out the butts of people in front of you. Now don't laugh, this can provide a large chunk of entertainment and it's actually my favorite part of participating in races (besides the medals). I've discovered that butts of all shapes and sizes run. I've also discovered that some look good in certain types of shorts and others, well, made me realize how horrifying my own ass must've looked in those tight KU running pants I so proudly sported last March. Seriously. Thick spandex ladies, I beg of you; because cheap, thin spandex shows every...single...dimple...and choose black. I came up behind a nude colored pair of spandex shorts and thought the woman was naked. And this was not someone I'd want to see nude. For the love of God, no nude spandex. Ever.

Spend time looking at the ground so you avoid stepping in the hundreds of wads of phlegm that dot the surface. Yes, I'll admit to having spit a few times in the past when running but it was ONLY in extremely hot weather and I made it a point to spit towards the side of the sidewalk into the grass. Phlegm on the sidewalk keeps me focused on not puking rather than my own fatigue. Even the disgusting things in life can come in handy.

Check out real estate along the run. Realize some houses will be out of your price range forever. Accept this. Use other houses as a reminder to never, ever complain about your own again. Spot a cute apartment with a balcony and a cool view downtown? Imagine the amount of fun the twenty-something hottie who lives in it must be having...they probably don't drive a van (so uncool)...they are probably sleeping in right now after partying all night...ask yourself what the hell happened because YOU used to be cool...then look at the nude spandex in front of you and remember that at least you aren't wearing THOSE...and remind yourself that you are over half way to retirement while twenty-something hottie has his/her entire career to sweat for "the man" and chuckle softly in gratitude that you don't have a hangover or the beer shits today because YOU went to bed early. Puff out your chest, feel righteous and move on to the next mile.

Check out the sun rising and close your eyes for a moment (only a moment, you'll trip and fall if you keep your eyes closed too long) savoring the moment. Then remember that a blind woman with a guide passed you at mile two.

About the time you are feeling pretty accomplished at mile 10 notice the cool bicycles and official looking guys on them coming up on your left and in that moment realize they are leading the marathon leader. Accept that there are people getting ready to pass you and they've run TWENTY THREE+ FREAKING MILES to your measly ten. Now this will provide some really good food for thought, hopefully taking your mind off the fact that you are starting to lean a little while running, in a broken/intoxicated and embarrassing sort of way (you know this because you can see your shadow on the ground in front of you and it's rather bizarre). Think about how much you hate that marathon runner. Seriously. Who the hell runs that fast? Then notice the three graceful "gazelle-chariots of fire" sleek and lean runners pass you WHILE HAVING A CONVERSATION WITH EACH OTHER. For the love of GOD, who can talk after running 23 miles?

Alternate between hating these over achievers and admiring them. Briefly, in a psychological break (it's okay, these things happen when the body starts to weaken), imagine that it is YOU in the lead, after having run 24 miles...wait, after running 100 miles (it's YOUR mental breakdown so why not Hollywood this up), and you are getting ready to head down the finisher's chute to cheers, glory and a made for TV movie in your future!

Shake yourself back to reality after tripping and notice your bizarrely shaped shadow again (is that an old woman in front of you?). Keenly observe that there truly are some genetic differences between those of you on the right side of the road (i.e. 1/2 marathon runners bringing up the rear) and those on the left side of the road. For starters, no fat. Seriously. Not a single, teeny, tiny ounce of fat anywhere to be seen. And much can be seen. Because these guys have loose tank tops on and tiny running shorts. In 40 degree weather. And they are sprinting. It would be like filling a basketball court with average people and then throwing Wilt Chamberlain into the middle. He'd kind of stand out.

Smile at the supporters during the early miles of the race and pat those fun signs that say "touch here for power".

Grin through your teeth at about mile 8 and silently wonder what the hell these folks are getting out of standing out here in the cold weather cheering you on. Tell yourself you are being a dick and accept that they are sweet and keep chugging away.

Look for a rock at about mile 11 so you can knock those grins off their faces. Imagine places you can shove those stupid cow bells. Don't they know you are dying? Realize in that moment that you can't feel you hand and even if you could you aren't sure you have the strength to throw a rock, much less shove anything into anything. In fact, at this point you are pretty sure that if you had underwear on and if it were to slide down you'd simply have to cross the finish line with panties hanging out of the bottom of your shorts because you wouldn't even have the strength to pull them up.

Notice the shadow shape again and begin giggling uncontrollably.

At mile 13, you know you are home free so you can finally remove the headphones and listen to the cheers. As you enter the finisher's chute, start to sprint because, hey, you want to look like you've kept up THIS pace the entire race. Yes, I'm a bad ass!! Immediately cringe as your calf says "oh HELL no you don't" and realize if you do more than a slow jog you'll be on the ground crawling towards that mat in humiliation. So chin up high, jog like you feel fresh and then, once you cross, find yourself fighting back tears.

As with most things I write, there are doses of exaggeration and humor thrown in.

But I was serious about the underwear. And the pooping.

Oh, and the sunrise. The messages within a sunrise can provide sustenance for any distance if we let them.

Keep It Simple

Keep it simple.

This is the new message to myself today.

Details aren’t important, but after several weeks of intense stress I found myself starting to buckle. Sleepless nights, stomach pain, impatience with my family and…the number one tell-tale sign that something major is going on with me…a fever blister knocking at the door (managed to keep HIM at bay, fortunately).

At times like these I begin to question everything about myself, start believing that every action is the wrong one, every word out of my mouth should have been something different and I wonder if every person I come into contact with thinks very little of me.

Insecurities don’t just sneak up, they come flying at me like Mike Tyson’s left hook.

Again, the details aren’t important; it is the solution that I am in need of.

Here are the two things I must do when these emotions come visiting. I must change the self-talk going on in my head and distance myself from the cause of the stress.

Marah played in a soccer tournament out of town this weekend, which provided a distraction and a built in escape from ground zero. But that doesn’t mean the self-talk went away. Not even close.

It has been slow going, but the new messages are starting to flow a little more freely, a little more consistently and I am starting to believe them.

I am human.

I am flawed.

My heart is in the right place.

I am not responsible for the actions of other people.

I am not fully cognizant of all details in all situations. I am making assumptions….and we all know what ends up happening when we make assumptions.

Do not trust people who are not in my inner circle. Understand that as a species, we individually will most often do what we need to do to further our own personal agendas.

I am who I am and should never apologize for being the sum of my life experiences as long as I follow the golden rule.

Keep it simple; keep it in perspective.

It is not trite to step back and think about someone you know who is in the midst of a terminal illness when we get caught up in the drama of non-life threatening life situations.

It is perspective.

It is not trite to consider the people within our own communities who are hungry, poor, battling addiction or living with abuse when we get caught up in non-life threatening day to day stress.

This all became clear to me over the weekend when I spoke with a young man from Serbia. In the context of a jovial conversation I asked if he had ever visited Dubrovnik, Croatia, because I have been there and it is beautiful.

Seven words said it all as he shook his head no.

“They don’t like us very much there.”

War.

That was the perspective I needed to pull myself over the hurdle.

Find your own perspective, whatever it may be, and use kindness and compassion within the messages you give yourself.

Today is my reboot. And if I find myself slipping again? I’ll just return to these words as a reminder.

The Man Who Knew Phog

How many times in our lives do we meet someone new and ignore the chance to find out about them?

I’m guilty.

I can recall times when I was simply not interested, or distracted or so busy I only wanted to shake hands and move on.

There was even a time in my life when I thought “I already have enough friends. I don’t have time for any more.”

So many missed opportunities. So many amazing people in this world, each unique and special and each with their own rare story to tell.

My high school reunion a month ago is a good example. I met someone who reminded me that it is important to look, listen and hear another person when you meet them. You just might find a gem and a reminder of the things you love.

A childhood friend approached me after our dinner banquet ended and said “hey, you need to meet this man because I think you’d be interested in him!”

The man’s name is Keith Kappelmann and by the end of our short visit I was compelled to return to my hotel room, mid-reunion, so I could write down every detail of our exchange.

Keith graduated from White City High School in 1944, two years after my Grandmother Mary Jean Harmison. She passed away six years ago and I have felt the loss deeply. This man knew her, remembered her.

Keith’s sister Jean was also with him and she graduated in 1949 with my late Great Aunt Naomi Harmison. White City is a very small town and people from this generation are disappearing rapidly.

The first thing I did after returning home that weekend was to dig out my Grandmother’s 1942 year book. It is thin, paper, tattered and yellowed but I have loved looking at since moving in with my grandparents at the age of six. I know each page, recognize the names of her 17 class members. I would lie on the floor in our dining room and pour over the pages. Harlow Warneke, class Vice-President, seemed so handsome to me. Thelma Pretzer, class Secretary Treasurer, must have been smart, at least in my young mind.

I always thought my grandmother was the prettiest in her class and I could pick her out of every group photo.

Somehow, though, in those same group photos, I had missed a tall sophomore named Keith Kappelmann.

Keith told me that he remembered my Grandmother, that she had been sweet and kind. I knew this but it was wonderful hearing it from someone who had known her in her youth.

This little connection was only that, though. Little.

Keith and I had far more in common.

You see, Keith was tall for that time. 6’5 in fact. And he played basketball.

He planned to attend the University of Kansas and maybe, just maybe, play basketball under Phog Allen. Unfortunately, World War II was raging and like the rest of his generation Keith entered the military.

Yes, another connection.

Keith joined the United States Army and served in the Battle of Okinawa.

For those of you who know my own story, Okinawa is a very poignant place to my family. Keith served there at the same time as my Grandfather Delbert. Keith told me he spent most of his time on Okinawa helping with the supply chain on the Yontan airbase. My grandfather would’ve been further south at the same time, in heavy combat prior to losing his arm during the battle for Dakeshi Ridge.

Two Morris County boys, halfway around the world, fighting for their country on a small island in the middle of the Pacific.

I wonder if their paths ever crossed. If the jeep carrying my grandfather’s battered and injured body maybe passed by Keith as he was walking on the air base. So physically close, both knowing the same blue eyed girl, and yet so far away at the same time.

I’m sure I may have appeared a little odd and eager to Mr. Kappelmann, who is now in his nineties. In a ballroom filled with people a 46 year old woman was peppering him with questions, intent and focused. Of course he downplayed his time in the service, saying he didn’t do “much”, just helped on the airbase. Only I know what happened on the Island of Okinawa in 1945, to our own servicemen, to the Japanese soldiers and, most important, to the natives. It was a violent and turbulent place with many victims and nightmares.

When Mr. Kappelmann returned to Kansas he chose the same path as my grandfather. They both entered the University of Kansas in the fall of 1946 under the GI Bill. In addition to combing through my grandmother’s high school year book, I also dug through a University of Kansas 1946 year book, picked up several years ago in a KU vintage shopping expedition. I had never explored the KU album as deeply as I have in the following weeks since meeting Mr. Kappelmann and it has been a fascinating journey. In the fall of 1946, according to one of the year book articles, there were 370 veterans enrolled at KU. Mr. Kappelmann and my grandfather would have been two of them. By the spring, the number of veterans would be well over a thousand.

By that same fall of ‘46, Delbert was a married father, trying to juggle husband and father duties while completing homework using a single, non-dominant hand. The disability presented struggles, although to use that word could invoke his wrath.

Keith was single and, in piecing together what I can from our short chat, tried to resume his original course before the war created a detour.

Which involved Jayhawk Basketball.

Talk about yanking the proverbial “Marlys chain”. My grandmother…White City High School circa 1940’s…World War II Okinawa…KU basketball. We would be soul mates if only the same age and single.

I tried to contain myself while talking to Mr. Kappelmann. It was apparent that his small group was heading home from the reunion when we were introduced and I didn’t want to delay them. But curiosity was obnoxiously roaring in my head, creeping from my tongue.

The basketball story is short. There was roster space for 20 players and Keith was the 21st player, meaning he could still practice with the squad without suiting up. But he was a different man after the war, as was an entire generation.

He mentioned Charlie Black and Otto Schnellbacher; seemed impressed that I knew who these men were. He talked about the break the war caused and how the top tier players had been able to play while over seas, leaving them more like professionals after they returned. Players who hadn’t seen a basketball court during their time in the military had lost valuable time and seemed remedial next to the All-Americans.

The old veteran and KU alum was honest and forthright. He said that during one particular practice Phog Allen was pushing him to perform a particular spin move the correct way. The famed coach told Keith he wanted it perfected by the next day.

Keith told me he thought to himself “you know, I don’t really need this job.” So he left the team and continued moving forward with a free education (the word “free” somehow doesn’t seem quite appropriate now, does it).

I immediately thought to myself “no wonder - you had just been through war and this must’ve seemed so trivial, so minor; now that you had the financial support through the GI Bill to pay for an education I can’t say that I blame you.”

He talked about dunking and the fact that it was a fairly new phenomena and one which Phog Allen deeply disagreed. The players who were able to dunk would wait until Phog left the gym and then they would take every opportunity to dunk. The price, if caught, was high because Phog would bench the offenders during the next game.

Standing next to Keith was Jean’s husband. He was a Lawrence High School graduate, Class of ’49, and, like his brother-in-law Keith, had stories to share.

He said as a kid he managed a paper route which went right by Phog Allen’s home and he would often see Phog out walking. In 1938 his Boy Scout troop watched a game in Hoch Auditorium. It was so crowded students had to sit on the stage.

What was absolutely fascinating to me was the way they all still seemed to remember small details, like purchasing tickets to half of the basketball and football games for $20 during a time when only a fraction of the student body could even fit into Hoch Auditorium.

Keith’s brother-in-law recalled a time when Phog would actually address the young men who were registering for selective service, giving them a patriotic pep talk, if you will.

The conversation eventually drifted to Dick Harp and Phog’s retirement. Although Keith hasn’t seen the new movie, staring Justin Wesley, he says there was a law at the time that required Phog to retire at a certain age. But he gives credit to Coach Dick Harp, Allen’s predecessor, for ushering in an era of African American acceptance onto the court during a time when the country was extremely segregated.

Politeness required that I eventually allow them to continue heading towards the door but Mr. Kappelmann shared one last bit of information about himself. After college he joined the Air Force instead of reenlisting in the Army and served in the Korean War.

And although I was feeling guilty for holding them up and pressing them with questions, he relieved my guilt by telling me that meeting me and seeing my interest in him was the best part of the two reunions he had attended. They told me it was nice meeting a member of the Harmison Clan.

It was a brief meeting, a passing if you will. But I’ve continued to think about all three of them because they are from a generation that we are losing by the day, by the hour. Certainly, meeting someone who was coached by Phog Allen was a genuine pleasure. Hearing stories of Hoch Auditorium and Phog’s disdain for the slam dunk was, in the vernacular, awesome.

I was more honored, though, to meet a World War II Veteran, someone who had served on the same island at the same time as my grandfather. And though Mr. Kappelmann and every other member of The Greatest Generation will tell you “I was nothing, I did nothing, the others were heroes”, many of us recognize that this isn’t true at all. Every one of them contributed and was part of a unity and a commitment to putting our country, our freedom and our way of life before all else.

I’m documenting this to thank him for his service and for sharing a little of himself with a stranger. It meant more to me than he could know and for just a brief moment I could imagine him as a young man walking the halls of White City High School with a beautiful young blue eyed girl named Mary Jean Harmison.

Make sure to talk to people. You never know if their story may speak to you.

Update 11/09/2015: I received notice today that Mr. Kappelmann passed away on October 31. Having lost my own grandparents, I can honestly say it is a bittersweet thing when such a unique and special member of this generation leaves us. What an amazing life he lived and what a humble gift it was to have met him so soon before he left his family and friends. Obituary linked here.