I Don't Want to Buy Cheese from a Zombie

My writer/editor pal Ben made that arm!
Pretty stinkin' cool!

I’m not a big fan of Halloween. I do love how my neighborhood comes alive with kids dressed as fairies, firemen, anyone from Star Wars or, in the case of my kids this year, batgirl and a banana. Yes, a banana. (I just went with it. He was an orange last year. Whatever.) I also love any opportunity to pull out the curling iron, Aqua Net, leg warmers and rock the 80s look again. I love pumpkins and pumpkin flavored things. And, who doesn’t love the Reese’s pumpkins? Are you kidding me? They’re awesome. They have more sugar than regular Reese’s cups. True story. I saw it on the Food Channel.  

I truly will take any opportunity to dress in 80s
regalia. My hair was a thing of wonder. People
could look upon it and be healed!

HOWEVER, I startle easy. I always have. I’m, as they say in the South, wound tight. I like to think of it as cat-like reflexes but, I will go with wound tight. I’m not easily scared by challenges and very rarely, very, very rarely intimidated by people. So, it’s not a matter of having a timid spirit. There’s just a few things for which I have a low tolerance, overt evil for one and clowns for another. Here are a few other things that really bug me…

1. I hate walking into my local drugstore and having something on a string fly at my face. Why do they do that? It’s hooked up to the door in some way and when you walk in, screech, screech, there it is! I’m in a drugstore, ok? Nobody goes to the drugstore because of their great selection of one type of toilet paper or low prices on nothing. No. If I’m in a drugstore I’m picking up medicine because somebody is sick or because I don’t have the energy to go to the grocery store. The last thing I need at 9:30PM when I’m just praying I can get that bottle of pepto before hell is unleashed in my pants, is a critter on a string flying at me! Ok?
2. On that line of thought, I also don’t care for statues reaching out at me, turning toward me and/or screaming at me. This is a craft store standard and it is just wrong. And you know it’s going to happen. You see the statue thingy there but the stupid popsicle sticks you need for your kid’s school project are right beside it. So you take a breath, reach for the popsicle sticks and the motion sensor magic thing in the statue go off and it lunges for you. During what other holiday is this acceptable??? Sure at Christmas, a Santa may sing. But it doesn’t make a move for you and laugh sadistically afterward. And, tell me this, how do you think it would go over if these craft stores put Jesus statues out at Easter that when you walked past, they reached out and yelled, “I’m back from the dead!” Are you kidding me? People would pitch a fit saying their civil rights were violated. Oh yeah? Well so are mine when a hand reaches up out of a candy bowl at me. I have a right to get a Reese’s pumpkin without fear of retaliation from the bowl!
3. Please explain to me how is it ok for people to throw severed body parts around their yard during Halloween? There are folks in my neighborhood that have smoking cauldrens/altars with bloody leg stumps hanging out. I tell you, in October, if you really are a serial killer, you can just let it all hang out, throw your issues out in the street, literally, and nobody will say a word. (Except, you might get a Creepiest House award from the HOA.) I have a right to go to the mailbox without stepping over a severed finger or tolerating a Chucky doll staring at me from somebody’s upstairs window. If I sat in my upstairs window and made a face like that and ogled folks as they walked to the mailbox, my HOA would send a letter posthaste and I would be butchered on the neighborhood FB page by the very people that have a Chucky doll looking out their upstairs window and severed heads on their porch! 
4. Also, I should be able to watch Jimmy Fallon without having to close my eyes during the commercials. Look, I like shows like The Walking Dead, but I know what I’m about to see and I watch that show like normal people: during the day, with the shades up, the house alarm on and with a cross bow beside me. But, before I have a chance to fast forward through commercials on late night shows, a clown rushes up at the screen at me. A CLOWN! Are you kidding me? You shouldn’t be able to put something like that on TV unless the TV can also dispense anti anxiety medication during said commercial. A….CLOWN!!!!!! 
5. Speaking of Walking Dead, don’t show up at my door with an ax in your head. Period. And, I don’t want to see your 2 year old as a zombie either. The Walking Dead won’t even show zombie babies. That should tell you something. And, while I’m on the subject, I also don’t want to see them at the express check out at Kroger and certainly not behind the deli counter. You do realize that if (when!) a zombie apocalypse happens, lots of people are going to be killed not in the street, not on a bus or other public place difficult to escape, but while buying baby swiss or for the simple fact they only needed to buy fewer than 12 items.

  There’s no tidy ending to this post, no nice recap. I’m too creeped out by the clown thing to continue…  

Rolling for Dirt

My jiu-jitsu belt is getting dirty. And, the more I roll (practice) the dirtier it will get. Doesn’t matter how clean a gym is, and mine is very clean, the belt will get dingy, worn and frayed. And that is awesome. 
The worse your belt looks, the better. You avoid washing it all costs because that dirt, it’s not just sweat and dust, it’s your history. It’s the good days and bad, the wins, the losses. It’s all the times you barely made it to class and all the classes you didn’t want to leave. It’s the learning and all the lessons you learned put into action or, in my case, that someone put into action upon me. 

A new black belt and the black belt of my
coach at Ground Dwellers,
Professor Eddie Avelar. 

I’m a white belt and I’ll be one for a while. There’s only five belts in jiu-jitsu and to get to black takes a minimum of seven years. Your one goal as a white belt is survival. Little by little you will learn to attack but by and large, you just avoid being submitted (beaten). So, all that dirt on my belt, it’s me fending people off, me making mistakes. It’s never me having the upper hand. It’s basically all the dirt I’m kicking up in my own grave! Really. But, I wouldn’t wash it. Not for anything. My work is in that dirt. If my belt were pristine it would be because I hadn’t put my knowledge to use and what good is knowing anything if I do nothing with it? 
But, you know what? I’m human and it’s tempting to look at the dirt on my belt and get down on myself, focus on my defeats rather than victories and think of all the mistakes I made that day, and yesterday. Basically every single day. But, mistakes are invaluable teachers. They show me my weaknesses and highlight my strengths. Mistakes take me back to what I missed the first go around and let me decide wether or not I want to miss it again.
Mistakes also make us decide who we are. Am I the one who stays down or gets back up?  When I get back up, what then? Do I get back on the mat or hang up my belt for fear of getting it dirtier and more tattered? Do I choose to see the wear and tear for what it is? Proof that I’m still at it, still brave enough to get back in there and mess up again? And I will mess up again if I choose to jump back on the mat. My belt will get more worn from defeat but at some point, one day, some of that wear and tear will be from triumphs: triumphs I earned because I learned from defeat.  That’s why all the dirt and wear on my belt looks the same. The losses don’t look different than the wins because that fact is, the former leads to later. 

My pal Kelli and I. We're not so much
much leaning in as leaning on
each other. I have mascara down
my face and we are both soaked in sweat.
I'd also like to point out we are both
over 40. That's right, folks, the tough
chicks at this gym are actually
hens!

Regardless, I have to always remember that the dirt on my jiu-jitsu belt is where I have been, not where I am. Will I make some of the same mistakes again? Yep. But they will be the mistakes of now not mistakes anew. I will deal with them in the moment rather than rehashing the past. I will see them for what they are and learn from them. Today, when my professor attempted to choke me with his kimono, (yes, his) it wasn’t the first time I had gotten myself into that spot. But, this time was different. This time I said, “oh no!” (I really did) and guarded my neck. Now, I still made the same mistake that got me in that position, I still dug myself a hole. But I was smart enough to not get completely stuck in it. And that was a victory. Good dirt. But, I won’t focus on that victory dirt any more than the defeat dirt. Because, if I’m busy looking at my belt, what just happened, where I have been, I will miss what’s coming next. And I don’t want to miss what’s coming next. I have a hard enough time when I know good and well what’s coming at me!
The next time you mess up and you will - if you don’t, I pity you -  see it for what it is: dirt on your belt. Your history, your lessons, proof that you were on the mat battling it out, proof of a lesson learned and knowledge earned and, in that respect, all victorious grime because you still have on the belt. You’re still fighting. Wear that dirt with a heart that’s grateful for having lived long enough to make a mistake and having been given the opportunity to learn from it. 
We are human and humans mess up, we all have dirty belts. The only human that never had dirt on His belt was only half human. And the only reason He didn’t have dirt on it was because He chose to get it bloody instead. For you. For me. He did that you so no matter how filthy we get in defeat, we can still be clean. What greater triumph is there than that?  
Embrace your dirty, worn out, tattered belt. It’s your history, evidence of your time on the mat, a testimony of the times you messed up and got back at it. It’s your wins, your tap outs and the wins you got because you learned from having to tap out. And, in that, every bit of that dirt, wear and tear, is more evidence of victory than loss.

Just West of the Nipple

My family just returned from a road trip and I am blessed to say, we all survived. We came home with as many as we left with, limbs large and small in tact. There were a few “incidents.” (I’m making quote fingers there.) We got rear ended (we weren’t injured by the grace of God), my daughter got a cold sore and my son was pecked on the chest by a chicken. Where on the chest you ask? In his words, “just west of the nipple.” It’s become a household motto, “just west of the nipple,” not only to tell where a thing is but describe when something kinda misses the mark. 
“Hey, where’s the toothpaste?”
“Just west of the nipple.”
“Ugh. These gluten free rolls are a little west of the nipple.”

 My daughter’s cold sore plagued my husband and I mentally through the trip. Neither of us have ever had one so we were kind of stumped as to how to deal with it. We put medicine on it and stressed about it needlessly, much to the delight of my daughter. Every time she caught us looking at it, she made her lip pulsate with her tongue and mimicked the sound of a heart beat.  

Anywho, we went to New Braunfels, Texas and visited Natural Bridge Caverns. I’ll leave those details for a little later on ‘cause that’s when I’ll get all reflective and thoughtful and stuff. We also visited a snake farm. Actually, Snake Farm. No frivolous catchy names for them. It was the one featured on Dirty Jobs, a show we all love. 

 

There were snakes of every nature, as the name of the place would suggest. But, they were in these tiny enclosures. Seriously, if you slid open the glass I think they would’ve popped out like those snakes-in-a-can joke things. I’m not sure how much room snakes actually need. Heaven knows the ones we saw weren’t doing anything but laying around being snakey. Except one. This one corn snake was doing its darnedest to get out of there. He looked like the shoppers outside Best Buy the day after Thanksgiving: weaving back and forth, tapping on the glass, a dazed look in his eyes.

We also saw newly hatched turtles, which have belly buttons by the way. How precious is that? There was also a little zoo there with all sorts of mammals and I tell ya, there was none of this namby pamby security glass. Oh no. Nuh uh. Not Texas, not at Snake Farm. It was just a chest high chain link fence, a secondary tall chain link fence about a yard away and from there it was all blood thirsty animals. Mountain lions, alligators, fanged macaques, wolves, tigers, buffaloes, wart hogs (whose testicles needed their own chain link fence) and a dog. I don’t know what that was about. It was just a dog, with a tag and collar. It belonged to somebody. It wasn’t some rogue, wild Texas beast. I don’t know how many shoes a dog has to chew up to be shamed a double fence at a zoo.  

There were also less deadly beasts i.e. prairie dogs, beavers, a porcupine, goats, pigs and chickens such as the one that pecked my son just west of his nipple. In the chicken’s defense, my son was trying to pick up its baby. All and all, it wasn’t a bad place although, again, I was disturbed at the small habitats of every creature. Except the dog. He must have really done something.

The Snake Farm visit was really secondary, an after thought. Natural Bridge Caverns is why we went and it was nothing short of amazing. I can’t begin to describe it. Well, yeah I can. It looks like the world around you is melting, like stone has turned to frosting. It was mind boggling. I found myself looking up all along, wondering if we were under the gift shop and if the people meandering about had any idea what was below their feet. Even if they saw pictures, I knew they would be surprised by what they saw. Some things just don’t translate on film. I also figured they’d be a bit taken aback by how warm it was down in there. Most caverns are chilly and as such I had every member of my family carry a jacket - which every one complained about. But, again, this is Texas. Ain’t nothing normal.

After touring the cavern we went sluicing. That’s where you pan for stuff in water. I bought a big ole’ bag of mud thinking that’s about what we’d sluice out: mud, which I was ok with. But, we got all kinds of stones. Even a few emeralds. We also got to see somebody crack a geode before we left. (We’re total gem/rock nerds if you haven’t guessed.) A geode looks like a hunk of cement. But, crack it open and there’s all these amazing crystal formations. It’s like a geological Easter egg.

In all four of those instances, Snake Farm, the cavern, sluicing, the geode, the looks were deceiving. (Well, not Snake Farm. I mean, the name kind of says it but I had no idea the other animals would be there. Especially the dog.) I misjudged every single one. That’s what we do as humans and it’s natural to make a snap judgement on appearance. It kept our ancestors alive, keeps us alive. (I know it’s kept me from eating tons of stuff and kissing more than one date!) 

But, there’s a difference in making a judgement call and passing judgement. It’s the latter that gets us. Most of the time I think our assumptions are not quite on target, just west of the nipple, so to speak. And based on that, we form a complete storyline in our head that is only true in our head. We need to give things and folks a chance to dazzle us and just as important, we need to be willing to be dazzled. We need to be willing to crack a geode and expect amazing things because sometimes a hunk of rock holds treasure.

On that same token, not all that glitters is gold. Not everything that looks wonderful is. Sometimes the person making everyone laugh is crying out inside. Sometimes the person in the Mercedes is flat broke. And, sometimes, a cage labeled wombat houses a very forlorn dog. You just don’t know because in truth, you only know the things you seek to understand and you can only see what you make an effort to look for. And, even in those cases, more likely than not, we will only know in part. In truth, our assumptions say more about us than the thing about which we are making a deduction. 

Make wise decisions, but don’t declare judgement. Give people, caverns, bags of mud, hunks of rock and side-of-the-road zoos a chance. After all, Jesus sure gave us one long before we even had a chance to make total boobs of ourselves. We’re fallible and completely west of the nipple. But, He loves us anyway, gives us the benefit of the doubt and although He is the only one who can truly judge us, He offers grace rather than judgement. He loves us and forgives us for chewing up shoes rather than throwing us behind a double chain link fence. And, He’s even merciful enough to free us when we imprison ourselves.

The good Lord knows all, nothing is hidden from His sight.  Hebrews 4:13 (I’m looking at you, Snake Farm dog.)

Summer is Winning

My daughter took this pic of me. I think my face says it all.
Note my lack of make-up and all the glasses/cups/ remotes/ books
next to me. If you could see my cat's face, you'd see her
ever present pain of  disappointment in my shortcomings as her servant.
Classy stuff.

I almost didn’t post this.  But, after talking with a friend yesterday, I felt like I should. I told her about a hard time I was having and she was relieved by my honesty and thanked me for it. She was struggling too. With what you ask? We’re sick of our kids!!!! They are winning and summer is beating us like an old rug. I’m seriously failing at it. Really, I had such high hopes. Although, not sure what they were now except sleeping in, which I don’t do and if the kids do, it only means they will go to bed later that night. And, of course, that means I will get to bed later too. 

I guess I imagined lazy summer days. You know, the kind where the house is clean and we’re all just reading the dozens of library books we checked out or quietly playing Legos and unicorns are grazing in the back yard. I add in that last one because it’s about as likely as the first two. Although we did, for the record, check out dozens of library books which I now owe late fees on. 

See, we’ve been pretty busy. My daughter has tutoring three times a week, my son has had a ton of orthodontist appointments and goes to therapy once a week (Asperberger’s), they both have jiujitsu twice a week and I try to get to kickboxing and jiujitsu myself. (The nerve of me daring to have an outlet.) Somewhere in there I get groceries, kids in tow complaining about the cruelty of me including them in such a mundane task, do laundry, which there’s a lot of during the summer, and feed everyone…something. 

Last summer, I remember grilling a lot: vegetables, fish, other stuff I can’t think of but know I grilled. This summer, I step out and barely get half way to the grill before mosquitos have nearly drained me. Pale and anemic, I crawl back to the door where the cat is staring at me through the glass with her usual, “you’re such a disappointment” look, meowing her cat curses. One of which probably drew the mosquitos in the first place. Dinner ends up being whatever takes the least effort. (For reference, Rice-a-Roni is a huge effort. All that stirring at the beginning. Who am I, the queen of England that I have time for that?) And, I used to cook. For realsy, Martha Stewart Living cook. Now, it’s a daily struggle not to succumb to the Siren call of McDonald’s. That Ronald, he’s a ruby-haired temptress. Have you ever noticed how pear shaped he is? Him and Grimace both. With good reason! For that same reason the Hamburgler is ashamed to show his face.

Because we’re busy, I’m in my van almost everyday (It’s developed a smell that will require an exorcism to remove), the inside of my house looks like it’s thrown up, my meals are barely even meeting the definition, laundry is undone and I’m not getting to work on my book one iota. I got up one morning around 5:30 A.M. to work on it and was doing great until my kids woke up…early. And my husband decided to get up and go to work…early. And in case you’re wondering why I’m not working on it now rather than writing this, my book requires more concentration. While I’m writing this, my kids are upstairs singing and making toot noises. I can’t do actual work with Masters of Flatulence playing. Call me A.D.D. (Which, I have so…there is that.)

And on that note, I don’t know what’s worse, them fighting or getting along! When they are copacetic, they roar through the house like Vikings on a tear, pillaging and destroying. When they fight, there’s screaming and telenovela style drama. Yesterday, my son got ticked off at his sister and calmly and menacingly said he was going to tell all her secrets. Her eyes widened and she cried out, “no, no, please, I beg you, don’t tell my secrets. Don’t tell them!” What secrets? Is she teaching Chemistry and selling meth on the side? She’s eight for Pete’s sake! (In case you’re wondering, I didn’t ask what secrets and I don’t want to know! And, I’m choosing to ignore the fact she has a teddy bear she calls Heisenburg.)

These things alone, I might could stomach. But, because I apparently enjoy punishing myself, I get on Facebook where everyone has posted pictures of their summers, which look nothing like mine. They’re on beaches, at theme parks, or doing some fun craft with their kids - all of which have on clothing. (My kids are apparently training for Naked and Afraid except they’re only half naked I’m the only one afraid. You’d think that them insisting on being in their underpants all the time would make for less laundry but not so and I’m not sure why that is.) Then there are the selfies of all the gals out having fun at Bunko (which I wasn’t invited to and I don’t know why as I am quite obviously a real pip) and in the background is a sparking clean house. Or they are all tan and happy sitting at a local restaurant where other people are cooking their food and cleaning their dishes for them. 

And, in case I wasn’t feeling low enough personally, I get a professional smack as well. My writer pals are announcing their new book release dates and/or contracts or posting their word counts. “Wrote 3500 words today, maybe a little over!” Maybe a little over? You don’t know for sure? Well, at least I’ve got that one on you, I know exactly how many I wrote. Zero. Bam! Gotcha! (By the way, know where I’m checking Facebook? The toilet. Yep, that’s right. Go ahead and judge me, I don’t care. That’s the only place I get a minute’s peace. And, I literally mean one minute. Yesterday, while I was in the throws of regret over a Fiber One bar - those things should have a warning label - the kids ran into the bathroom five times to tell me there was a hurt bird in the yard. On the sixth announcement, I screamed, “Don’t you come in here, don’t even think about it.” So, my son stands at the threshold and whispers, “the bird is still in the yard, it’s hurt, but we’re taking care of it.” Great, I think, I don’t even want to know what “we’re taking care of it” means. I mentioned my son has Asperger’s. He’s a fountain of factual knowledge a good portion of which is medical. He could have performed a tracheotomy on the poor bird for all I knew.)

So, there is it folks. My summer. I’m failing at it. And, I feel awful about it. But, what I feel worse about is that I’m looking forward to my kids going back to school, to using the restroom in peace, not wondering if bird surgery is taking place in my yard or if my daughter is selling meth and if she is, why am I not seeing the money? What kind of mother am I? Not the good kind. I’ve seen the good kind. They sit in restaurants with their well behaved kids, ordering an extra helping of broccoli because little Johnny just loves it! And, I’m willing to bet little Johnny hasn’t convinced his sister the mole on her hand is Black Death (Happened) or the five year old neighbor that he might have cardiac arrhythmia (Also happened)or pooped in the bathroom trashcan because their brother was on the toilet - even though there are 2 other toilets in the house (So happened). And, I bet that mom doesn’t even own Fiber One bars. (Again, those things…they should sneak them to Al Queda.)

So, people, if you see me out in public…wait, lost my train of thought, my daughter just came in the room in her underpants and is rolling on the floor making toot noises with her mouth and clapping. Oh well, at least she has on a shirt.

At the end of the day (please say this day will end today), I'm blessed. If this summer kills me, I died a free woman in the United States knowing Jesus loves me. And, I went normally. Yes, this is all normal. Being a parent, wait, being a human,  living life can be tough. Even a blessed life. If it's not, I have to wonder how much you're really living. Also, I have laughed at all this. Now, it was the kind of laugh that usually gets you a rx but I laughed nonetheless. Because, even though my kids are certifiably nuts, they are awesome and I wouldn't change them...oh my word, if my daughter doesn't stop making that noise!!!!!!!


The end.

My Red Roots

   I have always had questions about my roots, from whence I come. Oh, I’ve been told likely stories of Scotland, England and Native America but none of those have struck a chord with me. Something some how in some way was missing and that thing kept me from embracing who or, in this case what, I truly am. Until now. Behold, the mystery hath been solved. Exhibit A (that means look at the pic on the left): I am a vampire. You can see me here in my cage fresh off a kill. 

It is utterly ridiculous that I am realizing what I am only after having seen the pictorial evidence. Here’s why…
Fact: I fairly well burst into flames just seeing a picture of the sun. Seriously, my bathing suit is basically a burka. I’m pretty sure the lifeguards have reported me to homeland security. I totally fit the “profile”. That and I also scream out words that sound like Arabic but aren’t. I have found that if the table at the water park that I want is occupied, all I have to do is float over in my dark Angel of Death suit and scream out in my Persian gibberish and ta-da, free table. Of course, I also do that just ‘cause I dislike people (I’ll get back to that) and that act gives me a pretty wide berth.

Fact: I dislike people. That too speaks to my vampiric nature. You would think I would like people since I need them to survive but not so. Being raised in a human guise must have made me subconsciously shun, yea verily despise, my natural taste for people and I, therefore,  developed a distaste for them. People are the worst mammals next to bats (I’ll get back to that). They always want to you say stuff and do stuff and not throw things at them. (note: i love my children. just want to put that out there.)


Fact: Bats are awful. More evidence that I am a vampire and have been raised to shun my nature. Bats are little, hairy, pig-faced, goblins that fly. They fly! Do you understand the implications of that! They can fly into your hair, get caught and you would have to be decapitated because you would be ruined forever. There is no going back to society after a bat has been caught in your hair! You would be in a constant state of flashback. How could you not? And, have you seen them fly, their bodies I mean? They have for real bodies with arms and legs and pot bellies and they just spread their creepy skin wings and fling it all out there like little perverts. They don’t even try to cover up their stuff. They are awful. End of discussion.

You may be thinking that me being in a photo proves that I am not a vampire. Fact: that theory has never been validated. Also, my parents surely knew of my “situation”, I mean, they took a pic of me in my blood soaked glory and it is highly possible, they had a special camera capable of such. But again, who said we couldn’t be captured in pictures? Probably vampires that just hated school picture day. I think that's also where the whole "glittery in sunlight" mumbo jumbo started. I said that as a excuse to avoid the sun as well as being in a bathing suit in public way before I knew I was an undead.

I would also like to submit that the picture of me could simply show that as a baby, I enjoyed the taste of lipstick. Maybe.

The End.

Water Park Revelation: What I Learned from Seeing Elderly Men in Speedos

  Recently I went to a water park with my kids and I have to say, it was downright revelatory. Here are a few things that struck me.  

1. Walmart will sell a bikini to anybody. For reals. No physical prerequisites. Whatever your “situation,” Faded Glory is down with it.
2. That said, 50% of Americans may be dissatisfied with the President, but 99.9% of folks at Splashtown, Spring, Texas, are totally satisfied with themselves. 
3. I don’t know what they are making bikinis of these days, but the tensile strength of it is mind boggling. They should make bridges and sky scrapers out of it. I saw strings holding up, holding back and holding down body parts that I’m not sure the Hoover Dam could handle.
4. Anyone, regardless of race, religion or tax bracket, can get plastic surgery and they do. A lot. All over. I heard a kid ask their parent for some ice cream and the parent replied to the child, “do I look like I’m made of money?” I’m not sure what the kid said in response but in fairness, both yes and no should have been completely acceptable.
5. There should be a Room of Reckoning that you must walk through before entering the park akin to the Southern Oracle that Atreyu had to walk through in The Neverending Story. In that room you should see what your swimsuit will look like after getting off a water slide. If it appears as if your body has in fact swallowed the swimsuit, you should have to put on a pair of shorts. If you refuse, you get fried Southern Oracle style.
6. If you are pregnant, don’t waste your money on a tent-like swimming frock. (See #1)
7. If you are a fair skinned red head like me, do the honorable thing and wear a burqini. (Look it up. It’s a real thing.) Not only will it keep you from blinding others with your luminous, pale skin, but it will protect you from the sun. Plus, if you get one in black, like I have, people tend to let you step ahead of them in line because they fear you may in fact be the Angel of Death.
8. I now know where Tim Burton goes for inspiration.
9. The only people not having fun, the %.1 I referred to in #2, were probably the folks worried about how they looked. Did I see any of those people, the ones tugging their swimsuit to make sure they were covered or sucking in their stomachs? No. I saw no one seemingly worried about their appearance. I assume they existed just by statistics.
10. Being surrounded by folks completely oblivious or unfettered by social propriety, is kind of nice.

While I have to say that although I do not approve of teeny bikinis on women, men or kids, I wholeheartedly am in favor of being ok with who you are. Whatever your situation, tall, short, fat, thin, pregnant to the max, and/or tragically pale, embrace it. If you spend all your time tugging at your swimsuit or wondering which waterslide will make your thighs look the best, you’re going to miss the fun and not just at Splashtown, but in life. How do I know that? Personal experience.

I’ve missed the fun on occasion. I was the girl at the beach digging a hole in the sand so when I lied down, my butt would go into it, thereby making it seem smaller. Yes, I did that. I also sucked in my nonexistent gut and stuck out the padding of my bathing suit top. (Seriously, I had so much padding, I could have been shot at point blank in the heart and walked away unscathed.) 

And, that’s all I was able to do. Suck it in, stick it out, make sure my butt was securely in the hole I had dug. I couldn’t get up and have fun because the only thing anybody can do when all they’re thinking of is how they look, is think about how they look. You can’t surf, knee board, play beach volleyball or even build a proper sand castle because a righteous sand castle involves squatting and bending over.

So, in summary, may we all take a lesson from the lady at Splashtown wearing a leotard and stockings, the elderly men in Speedos and the man with the tattoo that was probably way cooler before whatever surgery he had that cut out the middle portion of it, as well as the multitude of others completely unfettered by social propriety. May we all, like them, embrace who we are and how we look so fiercely that we are able to completely let go and enjoy every moment of life. 

Aliens Against Sexual Assault

       If you keep up with the news through social media, you might have seen the backlash over the newly crowned Miss USA’s comments during the pageant. What? Didn’t know there was a newly crowned Miss USA? Yeah, me neither. I haven’t watched a pageant in forever. However, once upon a time, I did watch it. Faithfully. I wanted to see what Americans were going to send to the Miss Universe pageant. I say what rather than who because I’m pretty sure some of those gals are in fact aliens. Otherwise, it would just be called, The Miss Earth Pageant. (Think about it!)  

Even if you’ve never seen a pageant of any sort, you do know that at some point, the women/aliens are asked questions and to the credit of the competitors, they are tough questions. The topics cover world events, popular issues and other stuff that proves the female beings can think on their feet and/or that the signal from their mothership is coming in loud and clear. 

Alright, I’ll quit poking fun. I have friends who have done the pageant thing and they are smart cookies. The problem I, and many others, have had with the competitions is that there seems to be a pretty wide disparity between the importance of the women’s inner and outer beauty.  

However, this year, the focus ended up being solidly put on a woman’s brains and what she said. Miss Nevada was asked by a judge how she felt about the epidemic of rape on college campuses. In her response, she dared to say that women should be taught to protect themselves. And, within moments, Twitter nearly broke. People were hash tagging (more like bash tagging) her right and left. Tweets proclaimed that women shouldn’t have to learn self defense in order to not be assaulted, that men should be taught not to rape (Like it’s a class at the local Junior College), and that she was insinuating rape was the fault of the victims for not being able to defend themselves and all and all it was the perpetuation of the “rape culture of America,” which is to say, our tendency as a society to excuse, tolerate or simply accept the act. (Deep breath.) 

I cannot say that we condone it, however we certainly don’t deal with it, in fact we do a really great job of not dealing with all manner of abuse. We teach strategies on avoiding dangerous situations and safety tips and that “no means no” and it’s not the fault of the victim. But darn it, we won’t physically teach the down and dirty reality of self defense. We teach, “this shouldn’t happen” or “go tell an adult,” but not the, “if it does happen, you gouge their eyes out.”

Here’s the thing, Miss Nevada, the winner and current Miss USA, wasn’t just giving an uneducated opinion or one gleaned from a pageant coach. The lady is a 4th degree black belt in Taekwondo. That’s a huge deal, a decade of work at least, and entitles her to be addressed as Master Miss USA. When she answered as she did, she spoke from experience. Nothing on earth teaches you the importance of defending yourself like learning to defend yourself. As soon as you are taught the skills, you understand quickly how completely assailable you are without them. The only thing I can compare it to is handling a gun. You have no idea the damage it can do until you learn to shoot one and when you finally do, you have a deep respect for the weapon.

I have been a student of martial arts for years and truly can’t see myself not being one. My introduction was through a self defense class and before taking that class, if I had been asked what I would do were some one to attack me, I would have said I would beat the snot out of them. The truth, however, was when the instructor jumped at me, I cowered inside and out. And, it wasn’t because I was surprised at how being the target of aggression felt. I recoiled because being attacked is an affront to not only the senses but our civilized self. It shouldn’t happen, everything in us says it’s wrong, which is why self defense is essential. That same domesticated part of us that is saying, abuse is wrong, is likely hesitant to stop it for the same reason. Hurting another human doesn’t feel right, even when they are hurting us. 

Here’s what I mean. One of the first things I was taught was the eye gouge. When the instructor said the words, I grimaced. When he asked why, I said I didn’t want to blind somebody for the rest of their life. He put his hands on his hips, cocked his head to the side and said that attacker was trying to steal a mother from my children, a wife from my husband, a daughter from my mother. That person was trying to take my life and I better always assume that was the intent: to kill me. (It was a very Liam Neeson, Taken, kind of moment!) And, he was right.

Look, physical assault isn’t a myth, ok? It’s not a unicorn. It exists. It happens. You know how often? 78 women an hour. Stop. Reread that. 78 WOMEN ARE SEXUALLY ASSAULTED IN THIS COUNTRY EVERY SINGLE HOUR. And that’s just the women, not men (yes, they are assaulted too), not kids and that’s not including violent assault without sex. 

Strangely, I bet ya, almost every person in that statistic knows how to swim. (Stay with me.) I bet you somewhere along the way somebody taught each of those women to swim as a matter of safety. Never mind that water could be avoided, never mind it wasn’t going to jump out of the bushes on a college campus and drown them. They were taught so they wouldn’t be one of the ten Americans that drown everyday. But, ironically, they probably weren’t taught to fight against being one of the 78 sexually assaulted every hour.

I’m not saying any assault is the fault of the victim for not knowing self defense. It is not. I repeat, it is not ever the fault of the victim. I’m saying, if you think it’s important to know how to swim, take self defense. You’re more likely going to need the later than former. Does it mean you will never be attacked? No. And, a whole lot of drowning victims know how to swim, does that stop anybody from learning the skill as a precautionary measure?

Knowing how to defend yourself will not only lessen the likelihood of you being attacked, and it does, but it gives you a fighting chance to survive, literally. It gives you the confidence to fight back and fighting back does take confidence just as reporting the crime does. Reporting abuse, that takes vicious bravery. And you will get some in knowing how to defend yourself. You will hold your head higher and look at the world differently. Not as a place of aggression, but a place where there can be peace because by golly, you can bring the peace if need be.  

Please, learn self defense. You deserve that. You don’t have to be in shape or a certain size. Promise. No matter what your physical circumstance, you can learn something. Call your local martial arts place, police station, YMCA, your church, call your kids’ school and request it. It’s a matter of safety. And, it not only makes you safer, but those around you as well.  

So, this once, just this once, I’m going to advise all of you, men and women alike, be like a pageant contestant. Learn to fight. Fight like a high heeled, sequin gown wearing, black belt holding minion of destruction. You deserve that. You’re worth that. 

Thank you, Master Miss USA. Thank you for encouraging all of us to take a stand. You are an inspiration. And, if you are an alien, thank you for coming in peace and daring to speak out against violence. Live long and prosper. May your spray tan never fade.