sometimes you can just walk away

The Internet is always exploding with opinions, but sometimes I am more aware of them than others, and right now there is so much spouting off that it makes my heart hurt. I've made no secret of my political leanings, but this isn't even about that. My side can be just as obnoxious as the other side.

I remember when I was a kid, politicians were the least trusted of all professions. No one thought that electing a politician was going to change the world. Now, we all seem to think that if we could just get our particular politician into office, everything would be fine. The only reason we're having problems is because that other guy was elected, or because the other guys are keeping our guys from fixing everything.

But you know, they're politicians. They're not miracle workers, they're not super human. It's unlikely that they'll make the world a better place. My parents used to worry that politicians had no core values, because they'd sell their souls to make a deal. Now we've got politicians who see compromise as a dirty word, who have built their reputation on being willing to bring the government to a dead halt rather than work a deal. But I think their fundamental impulse is still the same-- if they think refusing to compromise is going to get them votes, they'll refuse to compromise. If they see polls going the other way, they'll compromise in a heartbeat.

I'm sure there are still politicians who go into public service because they see it as public service, because they really believe they can make a difference in the system. And they probably can. But not as big a difference as you and I can make, by being kind and compassionate and refusing to allow differences in opinion to override everything else.

A friend of mine posted on her status the other day that she wasn't going to allow differences in politics to divide her from her friends. "I refuse to let a bunch of professional politicians take over my enjoyment of all of you," she posted. "You're not going change my mind and I won't change yours! Let's just keep posting pics of our families, pets, graduations, weddings, new babies, birthdays, words of encouragement, sympathy, and love of life!"

I'm pretty sure she and I are on opposite sides of the political fence, but I agree. I had a moment at church this last weekend that drove this point home even more. The sermon, which was excellent, was a meditation on chapter nine of the gospel of John, but what caught my eye was the last verse of chapter eight. Jesus gets into a confrontation with the Jewish leaders and they become so angry that they pick up stones to kill him. But Jesus, instead of standing his ground and refusing to back away, hides himself and slips into the crowd. Here's the author and founder of my faith, demonstrating that you don't have to take it to the wall every time a confrontation happens. Sometimes it's OK to just let it go.

I'm dreading the upcoming election season. I hate all the vitriol. But I'm making a resolution to do the best I can to tune out the political garbage, react out of compassion, and listen to the people I disagree with, really listen. I'll vote, of course, but I hope I can remember that the world changes when we change, not when a new group of politicians arrives in Washington.

7ToF: if I had a pony, I'd ride him on my boat

1. I have a love-hate relationship with my iPhone. Right now it's mostly love because I've learned how to work with its little idiosyncracies. But Siri and I have never been friends. Siri is the part of the iPhone operating system that allows you to speak in a normal voice to give your phone commands or even to ask google-type questions. "Siri, what's the best sushi restaurant nearby?" you hear a nattily-dressed hipster say casually into his phone on an iPhone commercial.

The siri/genie that lives in my phone is having none of that being ordered around shit. I'm sorry I couldn't understand you is the answer I hear from her, over and over. I rarely even try anymore.

It's possible that Siri remembers when I got my first iPhone several years ago when MadMax was 12 or 13. On more than one occasion I caught him and his friends cackling hysterically as they asked Siri (on my phone) highly intellectual questions like Do you fart? So it's possible, if Siri is programmed to have a five year memory, that she is still boycotting my phone. Dean's Siri works just fine. Few things make him happier than ordering Siri around. At least one of the women in his life does what he tells her to do.

Anyway. The point of this entire thing is that I figured out that I can change Siri's voice to male and British. So now I feel like I'm ordering James Bond around. It doesn't work any better than it used to, but it makes me happy. Daniel Craig can tell me he doesn't understand me anytime he wants.

2. I forgot to tell you last time that when we went to see Still Alice, it reminded us of one of our all-time favorite songs, Lyle Lovett's "If I had a Boat." We were Lyle fans way back before he even married Julia Roberts. My lord, we're old. We even saw him in concert once when he opened for Bonnie Raitt. There are lots of great Lyle songs, but I think "If I had a Boat" is still my favorite, not the least because of the third verse, where Tonto says "kemo sabe, kiss my ass I bought a boat and I'm going out to sea." Since I've been reading Sherman Alexie's Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven for my short story class, it seems appropriate, even if Lyle is thoroughly, thoroughly white (as am I).

3. OK, so let's start celebrating midlife. For my short story class yesterday we read two stories (Updike "The Happiest I've Been" and Tillie Olsen "I Stand Here Ironing") that are at least in part about learning from the past. So Celebration #1: We've got lots of past to learn from. Of course you're never past the age of making mistakes, but one of the best things I've learned from my past is how to learn from my past. :-)

4. It also came up in discussion of those two stories how many mistakes we make when we're young that are unavoidable. You don't know anything when you're young, in spite of the fact that you think you know everything. It's entirely possible that the wisdom of being older is simply knowing that you don't know everything, therefore maybe being a little bit gentler, a little bit more humble, which makes mistakes less glaringly obvious. So, Celebration #2: we cover up our goofs better.

5. Celebration #3: A few days ago I was reading over some drama on FB that one of my younger women friends posted and I thought, OH MY LORD I'm so glad I'm past that age. My irl friends and I have our ups and downs, but I am so thankful that I'm past the age where a single remark or a snipe-y interaction can ruin my day.

6. Betty Neels. Have I told you about Betty Neels yet? I just discovered her a couple of months ago. She was a prolific writer of romance novels from the 1970s until her death in 2001--she wrote over 130. They're the ultimate comfort read. No violence, no sex, no profanity, and completely and utterly predictable plots. But sometimes that's just what I'm in the mood for. Try The Magic of Living or Henrietta's Own Castle.

7. Give a dog her medicine: What's your best method for giving a dog a pill? Jazz is on a daily arthritis medication. We tried shoving it in cream cheese, but turns out she doesn't really like cream cheese. Then we tried wrapping it in sandwich meat, but she is amazingly adept at eating the meat and spitting out the pill. I have no idea how she does it. Our current method works great--like all people who have both cats and dogs, we noticed that Jazz loved dear departed Cinder's food with a great love, so we can put the pill in a spoonful of canned cat food and she slurps it right down. But it's a bit messy, so if anybody has a better idea, let me know.

And that's it for me, have a great weekend. I'm going back to the pop-up box for comments so nobody's gets lost-- I really want to know how you give your dog medicine--so you'll have to check back to see if there are replies. Sorry about that, and we can keep discussing this in the future and see how it works.

The case of the disappearing comments

Comments are disappearing again. Sadly, it seems to happen randomly but more often than it should. I love comments and I don't want to lose any of them--you guys often have more interesting things to say than I do. So please bear with me while we get this figured out.

Also, if you want to try out commenting, this is a good post to try it on, you don't even have to say anything interesting (well, you never do, because not having anything interesting to say never keeps me from writing blog posts, so the precedent is set).

Here are the things that I know help:

- if you have a google account, log into it before you try to comment (Google owns Blogger/Blogspot, so the accounts are the same). Since my blog is so small, I have it set up so you don't have to have a Google account, though. You should be able to leave an anonymous comment. It's just more likely to get lost (apparently).

- change the security settings on your browser to allow "third-party cookies." According to this post, the commenting system uses CAPTCHA to make sure you are a real person, which uses cookies. If your browser blocks third party cookies, the CAPTCHA system won't work, but you don't get an error message, your comment just disappears. So when you click on "publish," nothing happens.*

- If you remember, before you click "Publish," press "ctrl-a" and then "ctrl-c."  That will highlight your entire comment and make a copy of it. Then if your comment gets lost, you can try it again and not have to type it all over again. Just press ctrl-v to paste the copied text into a new comment box. It's a pain, and I only occasionally remember to do it myself, but at least it's something.

There is a setting in the comments section on my side of it that I tried changing this week so that when you want to leave a comment, it will pop up a new window. Supposedly this is a more reliable way of leaving comments, but I'm not all that happy with it because it disables my ability to reply to comments (and also your ability to reply to other people's comments). So after about 24 hours I changed it back. If disappearing comments continue to be a problem, we can revisit this.

* To change this setting in Chrome: click on the Chrome menu icon (three horizontal lines in the upper right corner), click on "Settings," scroll down to the bottom and click on "Show Advanced Settings," click on "Content Settings," and uncheck the box that says "Block third party cookies."

I could not travel both and be one traveler

In case you missed it, the tagline for this blog is "Celebrating Midlife. Usually." After reading a discussion about the lack of blogs for women my age—not  young anymore, but not yet retirement age—I thought, I could do that. I'm middle aged, but I still have a kid at home, and we won't be retirement age for at least a dozen years.

But so far I haven't come up with much to say on that topic. Mainly because at the moment I'm not all that happy about being 53.

For one thing, being solidly into your fifties drives home that there are certain things you're never going to do. For me, that's having a career. We made the decision to move here a long time ago when it sounded like a fun place to live for a few years while PellMel was young. We knew there weren't many job opportunities in my field—I was a database analyst before we moved—but the timing seemed good for me to spend some time at home, and then we'd figure something out.

Twenty-two years later, we've talked about moving several times, but we've never really seriously considered doing it. I was in on every single one of those discussions, and for the most part, I was always in agreement with the decision to stay. But now that it's really too late to do much about it, I find myself wailing inwardly, but I never had a career! 

That wasn't what I planned. I loved my work, and I loved getting paid. I never intended to be a stay-at-home mom. I guess technically speaking, I haven't been. I would start to go crazy with boredom, so I'd find a part-time job that would keep me busy for awhile. After a year or two or four, the job itself would become boring, and I'd go back to staying home. Then a year or two later, I'd do it again.

Up until four or five years ago, I still thought I was going to be able to go back to work. My tech skills were way out of date, but I figured at some point I would brush up and get a job and finally have a career. Until the professor of a programming classes I took a few years ago told me after class one day, "You're probably not going to be hired. You're competing with 22-year-olds who are willing to stay up all night eating M&Ms and drinking Red Bull."

I was grateful for his honesty, but ouch. That was when I went back and got my Master's in English. Teaching continuing ed classes is a lot of fun, but it's more of a hobby than a job. It barely pays for the books I buy to prep for the class.

I don't regret living here. I really don't. Given the same set of circumstances (great job for Dean, great place to raise kids, good friends and good community, etc), I'd make the same decisions all over again. I just wish I could have two lives, so I could spend one doing what we did, and the other one working.

I'm a bit embarrassed to post this, because could I be any more of a whiner? I am privileged, fortunate, lucky, blessed. I have great kids and a great spouse, we have fun adventures here in outdoor paradise, we're involved in a church I dearly love, we've been able to take some amazing trips. I've blogged and gone back to school and taught classes and led small groups. How crazy is it that there is still a part of me that is thinking, is this it? is this all I get to do?

I know it's stupid. But so far I haven't been able to let it go. It's like I'm grieving for the life I thought I'd have. I'm hoping that typing it out will help with that, and maybe you all will have some advice. Fortunately there are a lot of retirees around here, so I have plenty of examples of people who are active and interesting and vital well into their eighties. We have lots of time for more life. And maybe now that I've gotten this gripe out of my system, we can move on to celebrating.

Pass the margaritas.

7ToF: oops, it's Monday

1. I decided almost at the last minute to drive down to UTown on Friday (UTown is my blogname for the town about two hours south of here where our state university is located). I really, really needed to get out of town, and that's the easiest way to do it. I was only there about four hours--just enough time to pick up a dozen bagels (no good bagels here locally), eat lunch down by the river, visit their library (which I'm sure they think is small but is three or four times bigger than ours), and do a bit of shopping at Old Navy and Barnes&Noble. It was great, and just what I needed, but it wasn't so much UTown that did the trick as getting away and driving. I've always loved road trips, and one of the main reasons is that they give me time to think, sing loudly and off-key, and see a different view than what I see out my window every day.

2. So that's why "7 Things on Friday" didn't happen on Friday. I've never tried to do a weekly post like that before and it only took three weeks to realize that it's not going to happen every week. So the 7ToF posts will just appear when they appear. This one was already half-written in my head (all that time in the car, you know), so here you go.

3. You can't do a proper road trip without good music, right? I think I told you I've been listening to MadMax's country music recently, which embarrasses me a little bit since I've always been pro-rock and anti-country. But you know, it's perfect for a road trip. In case you want to try some of the good stuff, here is what is on my country playlist right now: Sunshine and Whiskey (Frankie Ballard), Neon Light (Blake Shelton), You Ain't Worth the Whiskey (Cole Swindell), Somethin' Bad (Miranda Lambert/Carrie Underwood), Shotgun Rider (Tim McGraw), Sun Daze (Florida Georgia Line). As pop music goes, it's not bad--clever lyrics and catchy tunes.

4. The Chickenz. Poor dears. We have a fox that lives in the field next to us. He (she?) is pretty bold, sauntering through our yard in broad daylight. But as long as we kept the chickens cooped up at night, he seemed to leave them alone. Until last week. For some reason, he took two chickens in broad daylight the other day. Or at least, that's what we're assuming happened, since they just disappeared. I've never named our chickens--mostly because I can't tell them apart--but once we were down to one, I named her Annie. She seemed so lonely that Dean called a friend of his on Saturday and got two more elderly Black Astralorps to keep her company. We named them Big Agnes and Baldy. They are all three different sizes, so presumably we'll be able to tell them apart. We probably won't be getting many eggs, but at least we have a tiny flock again.

Chickens are really hard to photograph! If you look closely, maybe you
can see why the one in the front is named Baldy

5. Dean and I went to see Still Alice. We both have alzheimer's in our family tree--my grandmother, his mom--so it wasn't easy to watch. In fact, about fifteen minutes into it I leaned over and whispered this is my worst nightmare. I do worry about it, all the time. I've always been spacey, and it gets worse and worse as I get older. But it's a really good movie, and Julianne Moore is terrific. There's no disputing her Oscar. About a third of the movie takes place with the camera zoomed in on her face, and she carries it effortlessly. At least, it seems effortless. It's probably an enormous amount of work to pull that off.

6.  Still on the movie theme: I went to see Home, the new DreamWorks movie, last week. I went by myself, because MadMax is too cool to go see kid movies these days and Dean was still studying for his big recertification exam. It's been awhile since I've seen a kids' movie that kept me absorbed from beginning to end. This one did, although Jim Parsons, who voices the main character, has such a distinctive voice that it's hard to get Sheldon Cooper out of your head. I enjoyed it, despite its mishmash of themes. Cute movie. I still haven't been to see the new Cinderella, so I may go see that some afternoon this week.

7. My last class of the semester started last Thursday--American Short Story. At the first meeting, since they haven't read any stories yet, we talk about how to analyze a short story for a little while, and then we read a couple of short-short stories out loud and work our way through them on the spot. One of the ones we did this time was "The Story of an Hour" by Kate Chopin, published in 1894. It's a terrific story and it's only about a thousand words long. A young woman finds out that her husband has been killed in a train wreck, and despite the fact that she seems to love him very much, she begins to realize what it will mean to be free of his stifling influence. If you've never read it, it's well worth reading. And then you can read the T.C. Boyle version, "Acts of God" in his 1994 collection Without a Hero, which--though considerably longer-- tells the same story from the man's point of view (since it's still under copyright, I can't link to it). I have no idea if Boyle was conscious of the Chopin story
while he was writing it, but they make a great pair of stories.

And that's it for me. Have a great week. Now that I'm teaching again posting here will probably slow down to a more reasonable pace.

you'd be pretty if you wore makeup (part 2 of the makeup post)

So the gist of the first makeup post was that I'm pretty pathetic when it comes to makeup, and also all things girly: hair, shoes, fashion, you name it. For most of my life, I looked at the amount of time and money those things took and rolled my eyes. Spend an hour in front of the mirror every morning? I'd end up pulling all my hair out instead of styling it. Spend $120 on a pair of jeans or $300 on a purse? I'd rather buy books or a laser printer. The tallest pair of heels I own? one pair of three-inchers, and I only wear them when absolutely necessary.

I want to breezily say that it's because I just don't care that much, and fashion is silly and frivolous. I have more important things to think about, right? It's what's inside that counts, not how you look, right?

In fact, the original version of this post was going to be a rant about how the beauty and fashion industry has ballooned to the point where it controls a huge amount of our national time and attention, not to mention money. I was going to critique how obsessed we are as a culture about how we look, and how we keep raising the bar higher, forcing ourselves to chase after something that is always out of reach.

I would have pointed out that all this stuff that I've always considered frivolous is turning into TV shows on what not to wear, endless Pinterest pins of fashion and hairstyles, entire websites devoted to critiquing celebrity clothes. Google "how to get the no make-up look" and I kid you not--dozens of results show up with "9 steps to achieving this important new makeup trend." Seriously? If I want to look like I'm not wearing makeup, I just don't wear any.

I remember reading in some feminist publication back in the 80s that the beauty/fashion industry was a patriarchal construct designed to convince women to waste time so they couldn't do anything of serious value. But whoever wrote that was wrong, because it's apparently not the fault of the patriarchy. Forty years after the feminist awakening of the 60s and 70s, our obsession with fashion and beauty is stronger than it ever was. We can't blame it on patriarchy anymore. (I suppose we might try the capitalist-materialist hegemony with more success, but that would be a different post.)

But like I said, that's what the post was going to be about.

Now that I'm sitting down to write it, I can't quite get there. Because if I'm honest, I have to admit that I've realized that the reason I didn't care all that much about fashion and beauty is because until I hit my mid-40s, I was able to look pretty much how I wanted to look without paying much attention to it. I did my 6-8 minutes of hair and mascara everyday, and I was happy enough with the results. Good genes or just too dumb to care? I have no idea, but other than cursing the occasional zit or griping about my stick-straight hair, I thought I was immune to worrying about my looks.

I was certainly never one to worry about age or birthdays or any of that. I flew right past 30 (I've had a 35-year-old personality since I was 8, I told people, 30 suits me just fine). 40 felt like I was finally a real adult. But turning 50 hit me hard. Starting a few years before, my skin changed and my body changed and I couldn't sleep--and I wasn't doing anything different. It just happened. What the hell is this? I've never been as skinny as I wanted to be, but I've never had a muffin top, not until one suddenly appeared a couple of years ago.

And that was when I discovered that I do care about how I look, in spite of having airily claiming not to my entire adult life. It was a little bit embarrassing and it made me mad at myself. Because suddenly I looked in the mirror and didn't like what I saw, and it upset me far more than it should have. Maybe far more than it would have if I'd been paying attention all along.

Since I've always been a bit opposed to makeup and obsessing about my looks, my first response was to dump the whole thing. It doesn't matter what I do, I'm still going to look like a frumpy middle-aged bore, so why bother? I said something like that to a friend a few months ago. I think I might have added, I have serious bags under my eyes, but if I use concealer, I look like a raccoon. Why bother? She was silent for a minute, and then she said, Well, I do my makeup as best I can and then at least I can say I tried.

At first that response really bothered me. What are we saying here? At least I tried to cover up my ugly agedness? It sounded so close to apologizing for being older. I know I look like crap, but I'm doing my best to cover it up.

But as I'm reluctantly experimenting with actually wearing foundation on a daily basis for the first time in my life, I have to admit: it makes a noticeable difference. It feels like people respond to me more positively--which could admittedly be my imagination. But the part that I know for sure is that I feel more confident this way. A couple of weeks ago I went to lunch with a group of women who intimidate me a bit, and I definitely felt more confident facing them because I knew I'd done what I could to look good.

I guess I could say because I tried. Damn it. I don't want it to be true. I want it not to matter what's on the outside. It's what's on the inside that should count, right? And in the long run, an empty head or a cold heart can't be glossed over no matter how much makeup you put on, so it's still true.

But I have to admit it helps my confidence and my courage level to do what I can to look good. And this is certainly not the post I thought I was going to write. I guess there's a balance in there somewhere that I'm just figuring out at this late date. Advice and insight welcome, as always.

quien es mas moral?

A couple of years ago when I went to visit my mom in Texas, I went with her to her Sunday School class at her Southern Baptist church. There were about 40 people in the class, mostly retirement-age couples. The guy who taught the class was obviously a very intelligent man, with interesting things to say. I even found myself jotting down notes for a couple of possible blog posts.

But when he was almost done, he said something that caused me to stare in disbelief. He said (probably not an exact quote): "It's a good thing I'm a Christian, because if it weren't for the fear of eternal damnation, you better believe I'd be out there sleeping with every beautiful woman I could find."

I'm not making that up. He might have meant it as a joke, because it got a laugh out of the audience, although in my memory, it was mainly male laughter.

But I was shocked. First of all, the guy is delusional. The number of beautiful women out there holding their breath waiting for the chance to jump him as soon as he decides to cheat on his wife? Probably zip.

But putting that aside, he couldn't be bothered to be faithful to his wife out of loyalty? out of commitment to their lengthy marriage? or, geeze, let me think here....because he loves her? The only thing that is keeping him from hopping in the sack with the first willing babe he could find is fear of hellfire?

The whole idea is so screwed up that it still ticks me off two years later. His wife was sitting right there in the front row. Lesson One in how not to humiliate your wife: don't publicly announce that the only reason you're faithful to her is because otherwise you're afraid you'd burn in hell.

You can probably see where I'm going with this. In yesterday's post, we had Dan Savage and the Savage Love community, addressing some pretty outrageous situations, yet doing their best to make ethical decisions based on fairness and respect. Mr. Sunday School Teacher would undoubtedly consider Dan Savage to be an immoral pervert, yet he is basing his ethical decisions on fear and questionable theology, and in the process embarrassing his wife half to death.

Which one would you go to for advice?

my VGBF

Caveat lector (which, according to Twitter's latin scholars, means let the reader beware): If you believe that sex should only take place between a man and a woman who are married, and you are offended by the idea that anything else is acceptable, skip this post. I respect that, and you probably won't appreciate this post.

OK, now that we've got that out of the way. Here's the post.

I've had several virtual best friends over the years since I've been online. Social media allow you to feel like you're getting to know someone you've never met. You feel like you know them really well. Like they could be your best friend. The Bloggess, for example. Or any of several writers whose blogs or tweets I've followed.

My new virtual best friend is Dan Savage, and he's gay, so he can be my gay best friend, right? At first glance, he's not an obvious pick for my VGBF. He's brusque, pugnacious, sometimes obnoxious, often outrageous—not qualities that usually define me. He’s also thought-provoking and interesting, and on the turn of a dime, he can be quite kind and even sweet. But he's not putting up with bullshit and lies. He doesn't back away from controversy, or stirring it up, and he's not afraid to be blunt about what he's thinking.

I've been reading Dan’s online column, Savage Love, for a couple of years now. (I don’t want to link to it, but you can google it easily enough.) I think Julie was the one who originally told me about him. Savage Love is a sex advice column, and it’s fascinating. 

Then a couple of weeks ago I read his collection of essays American Savage, which are maybe a bit uneven, but there's some serious food for thought in that book. Dean and I had a couple of really interesting conversations about it—he didn’t read it, but I kept bringing it up.

Let me warn you ahead of time that there are some reasons not to read Dan’s writing. Profanity abounds, for one thing, and there is plenty of explicit talk about sex of every variety. Ohmyword the things people ask about. *blush* (A word to the wise: when he warns, "Don't read this one if you're squeamish," don't read it. Not kidding.) There is also a community of commenters at Savage Love who don’t hold back their opinions, or even phrase them politely most of the time. When they disagree with Dan's advice, they let him know. Sometimes they are more outrageous than Dan, sometimes they rein him in.

But if you can see past that stuff, there are even better reasons why you should read Dan's work. It helps that he and I agree about most of the political issues he raises, but mainly he's just interesting. A mind awake, as they say. Other than being middle class white parents, he and I have very little in common, but I've found some good relationship advice on Savage Love, and some good general information on being a decent human being, too.  

What I love about Dan is that he's waded in to the morass that is modern sexuality and tried to make some sense of it. Underneath the outrageous questions and the eyebrow-raising situations that come up, you can hear people trying to figure out, is this OK? Am I a freak? What does it mean to 'do the right thing' in this situation? and I find it fascinating. It’s like a huge, amorphous sociology experiment.

He and his community have come up with a number of ideas that are starting to enter the mainstream--like the "price of admission," i.e., whatever it is that you have to do to stay in a relationship with some particular person. A simple example--if you fall in love with someone who is highly allergic to cats, the price of admission for that relationship is you're never going to have a cat. Or "the campground rule": if you're in a relationship with someone significantly younger or less experienced than you, you have a responsibility to leave them in better shape than you found them.

Dan has popularized the idea that you can't really control what turns you on, so there's no sense fighting it (those are your "kinks"). But knowing what turns you on should make you smarter about choosing your relationship partner. Someone out there has the reciprocal kink(s), and you can find that person rather than making yourself (and your partner) miserable in a relationship that doesn't work. For example, if you know you're not going to be able to be monogamous, it is irresponsible to commit to someone who wants a monogamous relationship. And if cheating itself is what turns you on, find somebody who is turned on by being cheated on, because apparently they're out there (Leopold Bloom, the protagonist of Ulysses, would probably be one of them).

It's not traditional morality--at least not compared to the morality I was raised with (and thank God for that)--but it is morality. A lot of this is stuff that should be common sense, but we have a culture that is so weirded out about talking about sex that the conversations often don't happen. Of course, it's way better now than it was back in the prehistoric days before I got married, but still. He's opened up a lot of topics to public conversation that were previously off-limits, and it can be really refreshing to read that.

Just for the record, I don't agree with him about everything, and there's possibly going to be one more post about my major disagreement with him. But it wouldn't be so interesting if I agreed with everything he said. I think he's worth reading. Like I said at the top, if you're of the mindset that sex should only happen between a man and a woman who are married, you're not going to appreciate Dan. But if your experience is wider than that (mine isn't), or if you're just curious about what's going on out there in the world (like me), Dan's your guy. And if you're willing to broaden your definition of sexual fidelity to include "being faithful to whatever my partner and I have agreed to," he's got some pretty eye-opening insights.

Mini-beers, donuts, and trust

I was raised Southern Baptist. Unlike some Southern Baptists, my parents were never strict teetotalers, by which I mean that you could occasionally catch them at a dinner party self-consciously holding a glass of wine. There was rarely any alcohol in our house, though, and I don't ever remember them serving it to guests.

Ha—that reminds me of a story. One of the moments when I was most embarrassed by my parents, in the way only a snotty recent college grad can be, was the weekend of our wedding back in 1984. My parents had invited the wedding party and various family friends over for a barbecue.

I gingerly approached them about serving beer at the barbecue. I wouldn’t have been too upset if they had said no—because what a great story to tell to the amusement of the groomsmen, none of whom were raised in the Bible Belt—but to my surprise, they said they were OK with it, and my dad even drove twenty miles or so out of our dry county to a liquor store to buy some beer.

He came back with mini-beers.

8 oz cans of beer--do they even make these anymore?

I think they were called ponies. Now, a pony is a half-keg, but back then a pony was a half-size can of beer, probably eight ounces. They looked like little toy beers. Dean and the groomsmen--like most college students--had plenty of experience with beer. They were so bemused by those little cans they hardly drank any of it, and my parents were left with a couple dozen mini-beers that they probably eventually threw out or gave to the neighbors. Who knows, I never asked.

Anyway. The point is, my parents never drank much alcohol. Behind that was a deeply, deeply embedded suspicion of the addictive properties of alcohol. Sure, it was OK to have a couple of drinks a year, but more than that and you would inevitably find yourself sliding down the slippery slope into alcoholism, unable to hold a job, stay married, or take care of your children, etc etc etc. And that exact sequence of events occurs often enough that their opinion was never really challenged.

Once I grew up and left home, I quickly got over that when I discovered the joy of an ice cold beer after a hot, sticky company softball game. Then I discovered the value of a pitcher of margaritas shared with girlfriends, or a slowly sipped shot of Grey Goose, or a microbrew with pizza, or any of a number of other harmless occasional uses of alcohol.

But that said, I’ve never been much of a drinker. I could count on one hand the number of times that I’ve finished two drinks in one night. And I rarely have more than half a dozen drinks in a month. I just don’t think about it. So I’ve never really challenged my own inherited fear that if I let myself break my own loose rules—only drink at night, only have one—I will inevitably turn into an alcoholic.

This is turning into a long story. Sorry about that.

About a month ago, I came home from the second or third meeting of my noontime Ulysses reading group, and I was so stressed (for many reasons, but if I explain I'll get way off track) that I couldn't figure out how to de-stress. Suddenly it occurred to me: I am 53. I am a fully functioning adult. I can have a drink to relax.

Oh, boy, another part of me thought. Here I am at the top of the slippery slope. If I do this, I’m on my way to being one of those housewives that is drunk and disheveled in the middle of the day. But I did it anyway. I fixed myself a drink, and sat down in front of the window and watched it snow while I drank it.

And you know what happened? Well, that day, it made me sleepy and I took a nap. But long term, you know what happened? Nothing. In fact, about two weeks later, I suddenly remembered that I had done that and hadn’t given it a thought since.

Huh, I thought. Well, that’s interesting. I guess I don’t have an addictive personality. Which may seem like no big deal if you grew up in a family where drinking was no big deal, but to me, it was like this cascade of calcified assumptions dissolved away in a matter of minutes—assumptions about alcohol, about people who drink, about what would happen to me if I cut loose in the middle of the day like a crazy person.

I had a similar experience during Lent when I let myself eat whatever I wanted for a few weeks. A couple of times I decided I wanted old-fashioned donuts, so I’d go out and buy half a dozen. Then I’d get them home, and I’d eat three of them. Three donuts is still plenty decadent, but you know--I didn’t eat all six. I wasn’t even tempted to.

What I discovered is that if I trust myself, I can trust myself. The old-fashioned donuts were totally awesome—especially if I drive all the way down to the grocery store south of town where they make them from scratch—but they’re not something I want every day. In fact, after letting myself “gorge” on donuts twice during Lent, I may not eat another one for months.

Which is making me question some deeply held fears I have about myself and food. For years now, I’ve approached food as an enemy. If I give in, if I let myself eat what I want, I will blimp out. I will never stop eating. I will eat until I’m sick. But what I discovered was the opposite. If I give myself permission to eat what I want to eat, I usually make pretty good choices. Once I ate my way through the inevitable overblown reaction to deprivation (which took about three weeks), I discovered that I can pretty much trust myself when it comes to choosing foods. And that's a good thing to know.

7ToF: turn and face the strange

When I decided to do the "7 Things on Friday" posts, it didn't exactly occur to me that they would be coming around so fast. Friday seems to happen every damn week. I really do have four posts that are almost ready to go, three half written and one in my head, but we were out of town three days this week, and we're headed out of internet range for the weekend, so they'll have to wait for next week. In the meantime, here are seven things.

1. The college visits were a blast. MadMax may not be interested, but Dean and I are ready to sign up right now. Seriously.

2. The weather has been classic spring-in-Montana. One minute it is bright and sunny and breathtakingly gorgeous. The next minute it is snowing sideways. Then it's sunny again, then it rains, then the wind is howling, then there are heavy gray clouds hanging so low overhead you feel like you could jump up and touch them. All in one day. It's entertaining, anyway.

3. A FB friend of mine started a 100-mile April challenge. Since I walk, and my knees don't do very well if I walk every day, the chance of me actually reaching 100 miles is pretty dang slim. But I figure if I sign up for the challenge, I'll walk a whole lot more than I would without it, so I signed up. I'm aiming for 75, although 60 would still be a pretty good push.

4. Lent is just about over, so my experiment with giving up self-weight-bashing is, too. I discovered very shortly into it that I couldn't give up weight-bashing without also giving up beating myself up over what food I eat. Which led to a bit of a wild ride, since I have allowed myself to eat pretty much whatever I want for the past month, health and nutrition be damned. Once I decided that, the next three weeks were practically a food orgy of all the things I usually don't let myself eat (glazed old fashioned donuts, anyone? I swear I could founder on the things, and practically did). The odd thing is that I don't seem to have gained any weight--at least not based on the "do my clothes still fit he same?" test-- I haven't actually weighed myself yet since that was part of the Lent deal. I will probably have more to say about this next week when I'm officially done.

5. The first couple of months after PellMel went off to college, I missed her so badly it was like a bodily ache. Over the years since then (that was 2008), it's slowly become routine. She's an adult now, she lives in Seattle and she is doing great. Nothing makes a parent happier than knowing that their kid is happy. But every once in awhile, I get a wave of missing her that is so strong it practically takes my breath away, and it happens at the oddest times. Example: we spent quite a bit of time in days past doing Legos. There were a few fairly spectacular fairy princess castles built with Bellevue Legos--although I wasn't allowed to help much, she mostly built those on her own. I was at Target the other day and they have a new line of "Elves" Legos that are pretty damn cool. I was nearly keeled over by a wave of wishing that she was still eight and we could spread a set of Legos over the dining room table (driving Dean crazy) and bury ourselves in building for the weekend.

Screenshot from the Legos website

6. MadMax's easy recipe of the week: Imagine my shock when my 17-year-old announced he wanted to learn how to cook. Pork Tenderloin is becoming his specialty. Here is the rub he likes, which is loosely adapted from a Robin Miller's Robin Rescues Dinner: 1 tablespoon sugar, 2 teaspoons thyme, 1 teaspoon ground cumin, 1 teaspoon garlic powder, 1 teaspoon onion powder, 1/2 teaspoon ground ginger, 1/2 teaspoon dry mustard, 1/2 teaspoon smoked paprika, 1/2 teaspoon chipotle powder, 1 teaspoon salt, 1/4 teaspoon black pepper. Stir together, rub over the tenderloin. Roast for about 25 min at 400° or until a meat thermometer registers 160°. Yum.

7. As someone who was raised to be intensely Evangelical, Easter week always brings up a wide range of feelings, positive and negative. As those of you who have been around for awhile know, I've written many blog posts on the subject (see either the Lent tag or the Easter tag on my old blog). But this year, although the range of feelings is still there, I'm a little surprised to realize I have absolutely no desire to write about it. Maybe I've said as much as I have to say on the subject. Then again, maybe next year I will start right back up again. Either way, Happy Easter or Eostre, Happy Passover, or just Happy Spring to you and yours.

Being Liberal

I wrote a tweet this morning criticizing the current crop of so-called "religious freedom" legislation. If you're interested, it was going to say something like: "religious freedom means you get to choose your religious beliefs, it doesn't mean you get to discriminate against those who disagree," possibly to be followed up by one saying something like "if you are opposed to same-sex marriage, don't do it" -- a thought I borrowed more or less from Dan Savage, author of American Savage.

But I ended up not tweeting it, and here is the strange thing. It wasn't because I was worried I would offend my conservative followers. It will come as no surprise to any of them that I hold the typical liberal opinions, including support for gay marriage.

No, I didn't click on the "Tweet" button because I was worried about other liberals. It's a damn tricky thing to be a liberal these days. You can have the best of intentions, have your heart in the right place, have your liberal voting record framed, shined, and hanging up in plain view, but if you phrase your opinion even slightly wrong, all the ferocity of the politically correct thought police will come flaming down upon your head.

Of course, there is very little chance that one of my tweets will be noticed by anybody outside of my (thankfully) forgiving and supportive group of friends. But there's enough of a chance that after deliberating for a few minutes, I finally decided it wasn't worth the risk. I hang out on Twitter some, on Facebook a little more (since three of my favorite groups of women are hosted there), but for the most part I am a social media ignoramus. I'm just not savvy enough to make sure I say the right thing.

So I didn't say anything. And that is a sad commentary on the current state of American liberalism, which is after all, the arena where we should be encouraged and supported in being our unique, diverse, sometimes clumsy, selves.