Gunfighter: A Modern Warrior's Life

Guest Blogger: Devra

***You may remember that I was on vacation in August, and that while I was relaxing with my family, several guest bloggers were nice enough to fill a lot of my spcae with grace and humor.  One of the bloggers that I had invited to post was the talented Devra, who is a very busy lady.  Devra said that she would be happy to guest-post, but whe I didn't hear from her, I figureds she just had too much going on.

Fast forward to last week.  I got an email from Devra telling me that she had written this,b ut had forgotten to send it.

Read on.***

I swear, I didn't even know I was going to El Paso before I agreed to be a guest blogger.
 
After I had made the commitment to be a guest blogger while Gunfighter went on his vacay I found out I would be going to El Paso, TX for a business trip. Immediately I smiled and thought, "Perfect timing. Absolutely perfect!" Seriously. It is what I thought. I meant it too.
 
Before you whisk me away for a drug screening to see if I am blogging while high, I'm going to explain that I am fully aware El Paso is not on any list of the Wonders of the World. And yes, I also realize August is not the best time of the year to visit any part of Texas whatsoever.  In fact, the last time I was in El Paso was over 20 years ago when I was pulled over for speeding by the real life version of Sheriff Buford T. Justice.  The experience went like this:
 
The sheriff swaggered up to the window of my car and stuck his sunglass ensconced face through my driver's side window.
 
Sheriff: Hi there lil lady! Can I ask you if you are aware that we have speed limits in the Great State of Texas?
 
Me: Yes. I am aware of that fact sir. I believe I was most likely exceeding one, if not more,of them and this behavior is probably the reason we are meeting right now in the middle of nowhere.
 
Sheriff: Why yes indeedy.  Darlin' this is NOT the middle of nowhere, this IS Salt Flat, Texas. And I clocked your veeehickle goin' about 92 miles per hour in a 55 mile an hour zone. Can you tell me, lil lady, does that sound about right?
 
Me: You mean I didn't even break 100? I've got to admit I'm disappointed. The whole reason I was speeding was to see if my car could break 100.  
 
Sheriff: Sweetheart, you do understand you're behind the wheel of a Volkswagen Rabbit. Dontcha?  
 
Me: Yes officer, I know. I was bored out of my mind while driving from Tucson on my way to Lubbock. I thought it was as  good a time as any to see how fast my car could actually go. I figured no one would mind. It's a straight shot and no one was around.  This is my first time driving through Texas. It's way flatter than I ever imagined. There's nothing out here!
 
Sheriff: No one except you, me, my radar gun.  Oh...and the laws against speeding in the Great State of Texas.
 
Me: (deeply sighing) Yes. I now realize I was not as alone as I had believed myself to be. I'm sorry.
 
Sheriff: I'm gonna give you a warning lil lady cuz you didn't boo hoo all over the place and try to convince me not to give you a ticket.  Plus the fact you was tryin' to run a Rabbit like it was a Hemi made this good ole boy's day.
 
Me: I appreciate that very much officer. I hope you understand that if the radio signals were stronger out here, I wouldn't have become so desperate for something else to do.
 
Sheriff: I smell what you're steppin in, darlin'.  Stay safe now. And remember you ain't in no 'Cuda.
 
And with that,  he handed me a warning and swaggered off into the sunset.
 
While I am happy to report my recent trip to Texas did not include being jacked up by a member of law enforcement, I did see my fair share of people in uniform. The purpose of my trip was to provide training for a group of soldiers at Ft. Bliss who are members of the Warrior Transition Battalion or the WTB.  WTB's are special  units set up on Army posts which have high numbers of Iraq and Afghanistan deployments. These units of   men and women serve their fellow soldiers, and their families, as the soldiers deal with the transition from being at war to being back home.  As you might well imagine, these battalion members are working all the time. I would bet most of them have recently strapped on a cell phone more often than they have strapped on a rifle.
 
The training I was providing is part of a Zero To Three military projects program for which I am a consultant- "Coming Together Around Military Families".  The purpose of this training was to increase awareness and discuss the dangers surrounding Compassion Fatigue.  Hopefully as we look upon our horizon- to the beginning of a new administration- we'll be able to bring our soldiers home soon, heal them, their loved ones and our country.
 
And in the meantime, I'll make a concerted effort to resist the almost overwhelming urge to break the speed of sound in this.

*****Thanks for this, Devra!  It was worth the wait.  For those of you who are unfamiliar with Devra Renner, she is the co-author of the award winning book; Mommy Guilt.  Devra blogs, along with her co-auther, Aviva Pflock, at Parentopia... and I have seen her drive her minivan, but I think the sound-barrie is safe... for the moment.*****
 

Guest Blogger - Katie: Gunfighter's "Handle"

Thank you my friend, for allowing me to rant on your space while taking a well deserved vaccy from bloggeritavilla. I appreciate that you are letting me crash while my place is fumigated. Blog fleas are such pesky beasts and I hope they aren’t contagious.

*clears throat and shifts uncomfortably in chair*

Hi! For anyone who doesn’t know me, my name is Katie, my personal blog is motherbumper where I spew nonsensical stuff and exorcise many insane demons that pollute my mind, all while sharing parenting tips because insanity and parenting go hand in hand, don't ya think? Oh – and I’m also the queen of run-on sentences and earth-shattering topic shifts.

Anyhow, guest posting makes me nervous. Actually 99% of life makes me nervous, I’m a bag of jitters just waiting to go off most days. Seriously though, at this very moment, guest posting is making me break out in hives.

OK, they aren’t real hives, they are mosquito bites that I got last night when taking the wee one Gigi over to the park at dusk. You’d think that I, being a somewhat intelligent human (totally stopped dragging my knuckles after a successful completion of “How to shake your inner Cro-Magnon Man” at The Learning Annex last summer) – anyhow, being a somewhat intelligent person, I would know to slather on some bug repellent on both self and child before going over to the park at the pinnacle of the biting hours.

But no, I constantly send us out into this urban jungle of Toronto with nary a drop of OFF or citronella to be found. Have I taken my parenting skills to an all time low for laziness? Or would that be a high? No, definitely a low – I’m too lazy and cheap to get high.

Hey, I’m getting off topic here. I didn’t come to discuss why I’m too lazy and cheap to slather myself or more importantly, my child in bug juice, I’m here to do a guest post for my bud Gunfighter.

Actually, funny thing about that Gunfighter handle*: I think of Monsieur Gunfighter as too polite and peaceful to have such a lead-lined online name of “Gunfighter”. Is that just me?

* can I just say how hard I laughed when I reread that I used the word handle and then though omg, is “handle” going to get me in trouble because DUDE I said “Gunfighter’s handle” and that sounds so naughty… but I digress. And also refuse to change it.

Wait one second, are gunfighters not polite by nature? Polite gunfighter is not an oxymoron, is it? Let me think about this. Hmmm Dirty Harry always invited others to “make his day” which in itself, is a very selfless and polite sentiment.

Let me examine this “gunfighter” moniker. Wait … OMG, I get it… holy cow, I’m so slow on the uptake: Gunfighter means one with a reputation for being dangerous with a gun. So is his “gun” the mightly “pen” which in turn, is actually the “keyboard”. Oh my, can you believe I just figured that out?

Woah.

Know what? Now I just love his name the Gunfighter more than before. The Gunfighter handle rocks. Hey, I just achieved some online enlightenment while simultaneously making a naughty statement. Now that’s talent - just like the Gunfighter. 

Merci beaucoups, Katie, ma belle amis (hey, that's FRENCH!  Ain't you impressed?).  I appreciate your taking the time to post at my li'l ol, no account blog! 

Well that's it for my guest bloggers, friends... I am back from my vacation, tanned (no, really... if you want, I'll take off my watch and prove it), rested and ready... for something, I guess.

I really appreciate the efforts of  Anali, Janet, Shannon, Heather-in-Minnesoooohta, Katie, Brillig, Becky, The Zaftig Redhead, Jessica, Maria, Heather-in-Loozeeanna, and Sonia.  Thank you so much, ladies, for jumping in and adding a little luster to my otherwise dull blog.  I heart all of you... big, pink, puffy, fluffy, hearts (with unicorns!).

GF

Guest Blogger - Becky (DMBR)

Since GF is on his summer vacation, I thought this might be an appropriate topic. (Stay dry, GF!)

 

So here's what I did on my summer vacation: I moved a family of five from Gator Country to Corn Country in less than two months. As if I didn't already have enough to do. Now that I've been here at least a full week, I've noticed some interesting differences.

 

We have a basement. Do you know how weird it is to have a basement again? We could have used one during hurricane season in Gator Country. But, then, we probably couldn't have used it without SCUBA gear.

 

Car insurance costs less. That might have something to do with having about 3 million fewer people to run over or get run over by.

 

We have corn. Lots of it. Our property is actually surrounded by bean fields, which sort of eases the creepy Children of the Corn feel of having rustling cornstalks up to the door. I have room for a baseball field in my back yard, though. If I call Kevin Costner, will he come?

 

We have fireflies, aka lightning bugs, except I think the crop duster killed them all the other day. (The crop dusting doesn't seem to bother the crickets, though.)

 

Home insurance costs less. My new company asked if I already had insurance with them. I laughed. "No, y'all stopped writing policies in Florida. Remember?"

 

We have no homeowners association. Happy dance!

 

We have houseflies. Yikes, do we have houseflies. Not that we never got them in Gator Country. Just ... almost never.

 

We have people who know what they're doing when they come to the house to install things. Last time I let Verizon into my house? FOUR GUYS took ALL DAY to figure out the router. Here? Two guys showed up, hooked up my telephone line and Internet, hardwired two computers and my fax/printer and set up the router for wireless connection -- in LESS THAN AN HOUR.

 

We have no security system. When I called to cancel our service, she asked, "Will you need service in your new home?" Not unless the cows get unruly and start stealing electronics to support their cud lab in the barn.

 

So there you have it. Come winter, I'm sure I'll have even more differences to complain, er, talk about.

GF Says:  Thanks a bunch for subbing for me, Becky.  I am sure that many of you are already readers of Becky's excellent blog, Deep Muck, Big Rake (The Bullshit Stops Here), but if you aren't,  I think you owe it to yourself to go give her a read.

Today is the last day of our vacation... unless you count tomorrow, when we'll be making the 800 mile drive back to the Old Dominion.  Our last guest blogger is already queued-up and ready to go... when you read tomorrow's post, we'll be on the road.

GF

PUMAs My Ass!

Hi all!

I am still on vacation with my family in sunny (finally), hot, Florida.  We have been enjoying ourselves immensely, and are reluctant to return back to the grind next week, but alas we must.

Before I go any further, let me take a moment to thank the guest bloggers who have graced my blog with their words and time.  Thanks to all of you, I haven't had to come up with anything witty to say for nearly two weeks... not that I am particularly witty most of the time anyway.  I hope that everyone who reads here with any regularity will go to the blogs of my guests and read them regularly.  These are smart, funny, deep, sensitive, and even ornery folks that may either entertain, inform, or even infuriate you... but one thing is certain, you will enjoy them.

Now to the point of this post.  In the months since Barack Obama has secured enough delegates to secure the Democratic nomination for President of the United States, there has emerged a group of ardent Hillary Clinton supporters who call themselves PUMAs (which stands for "Party Unity My Ass").  Many of these people have vowed to punish the Democratic party by voting for John McCain in the general election. 

The PUMAs rhetoric is tiresome at best, and they have been using the same bullshit that didn't work for Hillary Clinton in the primaries, and won't work for them now.  They whine about "respect", they whine about Clinton not being given the VP nomination, they complain that the party isn't "listening" to them... which means they are angry because the party isn't doing what they say.  These people, who claim to be Democrats, actually think anyone is going to take them seriously when what they really are is a bunch of clapped out, ineffectual, crybabies who need to put on their big girl (or boy) pants and grow up!

Yes, that's right.  Grow up!

Look, there is a word for people that supported Hillary "Sniper Fire" Clinton, but plan to vote for McCain in the general election... and that word is: Republican.  Yes, there are a lot of people that are in the PUMA camp that are longtime republicans who wanted to be able to attempt to elect a woman as President (not that Clinton would have won... she would have gotten her ass kicked).  I understand that feeling... and I certainly respect that. 

What I do not and cannot respect is the fact that there are those who call themselves Democrats who thought that Hillary Clinton's campaign objectives were good, and necessary for the betterment of the country, who would, in a fit of political pique, vote for the person who is he embodiment of everything that goes against those campaign goals.

These political ignoramuses have it in their heads that they can somehow tip the balance of this election to John McCain, setting up Hillary Clinton to be the Democratic  nominee in 2012.

News Flash:  AIN'T.  GONNA.  HAPPEN.

I hope you got that, because I'm not going to repeat it, even for the slow ones. 

Hillary Clinton lost the primary fight...  She wasn't cheated.  She wasn't swindled.  She wasn't the victim of a sexist cabal.  She wasn't marginalized by the media, or the caucus process.  She lost on her own lights... good and bad.  It's time for her supporters to make peace with that truth.

It's time for her supporters to be the Democrats that they claim to be, and support (like Hillary Clinton) our party's nominee.

Failing that, they should come out as the Republicans that many of them are, and go vote for John McCain and be damned.

We are going to win (and win big, you watch) without you.

GF

Guest Blogger - Sonia Sunshine: American Gothic

Imagine how pleased I was to be asked to guest blog for Gunfighter.  I think the only thing his blog is missing is an audio clip that auto plays upon opening that says, “Make my day”.

Can’t remember exactly how we first “met”.

There’s several reasons I like Gunfighter.  He’s a loving husband and father.  He teaches Sunday School (which takes  dedication).  And probably most of all, he’s very passionate about his views and if you happen to have a contrasting view, he doesn’t simply dismiss it by saying, “you’re wrong and I’m right”, he’s one of those people who would rather agree to disagree.

That’s how I am.  You have to respect other people, even if you are totally against what they stand for.  Tolerance is a good thing.  And Gunfighter has plenty of it, he’s very likeable in that way. 

And, not sure, I may be in the minority of  his females readers that has shot a Glock???  There was a Mountain Dew can giving me some trouble…I had to take it down.

But I digress…not sure what has him reading at my blog because I get a little ADD over there.  I talk about a barrage of idiotic topics and throw in something serious every so often just to keep people guessing.  (I have four kids, blogging gets the cobwebs out)

However, you folks out in D.C. like me.  You like me more than any other geographical location in my stats.  The D.C. area has far and away my largest number of readers each month.  Weird, huh?  I’d like to think that, perhaps, politicians far and wide read my post about the Iowa caucuses (where I did some guerilla reporting) and have stuck around for the tattoo party  and blog prom.

Maybe not.

But I do have a story that will prove that the folks in our nation’s capital are some of the nicest you’ll ever find. 

Hubby and I have traveled a fair amount. Mostly the US but some venturing into Canada, Mexico and a tropical island or two if the mood strikes. Hubby has been all over Europe and his time, of course, in Iraq, but anyway…(he said there's a reason there's no timeshares in Iraq, I'll just take his word on that). Now, I’d call us pretty average, every day type people. We’re comfortable with travel. We don’t get hung up with language barriers, we don’t have any major travel nightmares really. So, OK, we’re average. We’re college educated, we have all our teeth, we wear deodorant…but we are not beneath playing the “hick” card when necessary.

What do I mean by that?

In other words, we’ve found that in a lot of major metro areas, there are people who never leave given metro area. Why should they, they feel, everything cool is there! Therefore, they know nothing about “flyover” territory. They’ve never been. Traipsing across this great country of ours, we’ve really found that urbanites are really more ignorant than their suburban counterparts because they assume they already know it all, sight unseen.

Example: I won’t name the city (I told Dr. S about this once on his blog, HE KNOWS), but while there on a trip during high school, we (Kim and myself) were shopping and the saleslady could tell that we were “not from there” because we did not have an accent.

Saleslady: Where y’all from?
Me: Iowa
Saleslady: Isn’t it always cold there?

Me: *blink blink* (inner monologue commences) Did I say Iowa or did Ross Ice Shelf escape my lips? Pretty darn sure I said Iowa. She must be hearing impaired. Or, wait a tic, she only got schoolin’ ‘til 6th grade so she could go work in her dad’s scrap metal shop! (end inner monologue, because I am meaner and more sarcastic in my own mind, I try to use my “edit” button when stuff actually comes flying out of my mouth).

Kim: Uh, we actually had a drought this summer. (This was 1988, mind you)
Saleslady: (vacant expression) Oh. What do y’all do there?
Me: Some people farm.
Saleslady: Like what kind of animals?
Me: Oh, cows or hogs.
Saleslady: Hogs???? Is that like pigs?

We were rendered speechless. A deep and abiding sense of pity settles in and we wonder if the poor dear had smacked her head on a parking meter attempting to enter the mall that morning or perhaps she was the origin of the phrase “not the sharpest tool in the shed”. Come to think of it, I had never heard that phrase before 1988, it could very well be because of her. I fear, right now, someone, somewhere, is spoon-feeding her tapioca. She was really too dumb to be left to her own devices for long.

Anyhoo, back to traveling and pulling out the hick card.

Hubby and I were going on a business trip (for him) to Halifax, Nova Scotia. We flew into Binghamton, NY a few days early to leave the boys with my dad and stepmom who were going to watch them for us during our trip. The night before our flight on to Halifax, a huge storm blows thru and our travel day is messed up from the get go. Our flight into Washington DC to connect on to Nova Scotia is delayed. So by the time we get to DC, its noon and our new flight to Nova Scotia will not leave for 6 hours. That’s a long ass time to do nothing in Dulles airport. So, we leave. We hop a cab and head, not too awfully far, to a shopping area complete with multiplex theater. We make arrangements with our cabbie as to the exact time to pick us up again in the same spot. He gives us the nifty little card with his information and tells us the spot to stand in so he sees us, yadda yadda.

We have a lovely lunch. We wander a bit and window shop. Then we think, heck, we still have tons of time, let’s see a movie. We settle on What Lies Beneath, that sounded pretty entertaining. I was doing movie reviews at the time and hadn’t seen it but had everything else, if I recall, so that was it.

We come out of the movie and find we have about half an hour until our cab is supposed to get us. So we wander to our assigned pick up spot. Half an hour comes and goes. No biggie. We were having him get us plenty early.

Then we wait.

And wait.

Why did we leave the airport?

The movie kind of sucked, if MICHELLE PFIEFFER MAKES ME MISS MY PLANE, WHY I OUGHTA…

We get out the handy dandy cabbie card. And call it telling them cabbie dude is way late. They don’t know what we’re talking about, they’ll send another cab which will be there in half an hour. That would be cutting it too close but we tell them to go ahead and do it, we must get to the airport somehow, whether we make our flight or not.

I’m not the kind of gal who likes to miss her plane.  So I’m like, “OK, hubby, we’re going to find some stranger to take us to the airport. There’s a lot of people coming out of these shops, surely SOMEBODY will help us out!”  Hubby was all, “Be my guest, I’m going to watch for the cab.”  As with the Y chromosome issue about not stopping to ask for directions, he is also has the “don’t ask strangers for help” thing.  Yeah, dudes, I’m throwing you collectively under the bus.

Girls…you know when you want something done, you have to do it yourself, right?
I like to think I can assess a situation fairly quickly if need be. A college age looking girl comes out of a store. I scurry her direction.  “Excuse me, we (I motion toward hubby who looks mortified) got ditched by our cab and need to get to Dulles airport, can you give us a ride?” and she sort of looks me over to make sure I don’t seem like a axe wielding serial killer.

“It’s OK.”

Wait for it. The manipulative hick maneuver.

“We’re from Iowa.”

Then she gets this look of relief, just like the doorman at Emerald City wondering why Dorothy didn’t just tell him in the first place she was wearing the ruby slippers Glinda gave her!!!

“And, if you wouldn’t mind speeding just a little bit, I’ll give you fifty bucks.”

So we squeeze into her “college girl” vehicle, what with one functioning door and folded down backseat that won’t go back up. But we weren’t bitching, we maybe, just maybe, were going to catch our plane. In the ten minute ride we find out that, yes, she is a college student and her parents weren’t from Iowa but some neighboring state I can’t recall but Wisconsin is ringing a bell. And not only that, but she wouldn’t take our money, so I think hubby snuck it inside her running shoes laying in the back seat. Anyway, we wanted to adopt her and she took a huge chance giving us a ride. But, you know, that hick card comes in handy when you need it. We were the last people to board our flight, they closed the doors immediately behind us and informed us that another five minutes and we’d have been on a flight the following morning.

Lessons Learned:

• Don’t leave the airport
• Not even for Michelle Pfieffer
• If necessary, play the hick card so you don’t spend the night in an airport
• I hope my daughters aren’t as trusting as this girl was when they’re in college

Guest Blogger - Charming Driver

Please welcome Guest Blogger Charming Driver.  Ms Charming is a woman after my own heart.  She is smart, alert, and very deep.  

You have to go read her blog.

No.  Really.  Even if reading her blog means that you stop reading mine, go do it.

Hi, Readers of Gunfighter. Our lovely host Bill has kindly allowed me to shack up in here while he is enjoying the wonders of Florida and I would like to take this opportunity to first thank Bill for being so gracious as to share his lair with me.

I have been drawn to Bill since first reading him because he was one of the few men who reached out to my husband Deels who sometimes shares writing space on my (um, our?) blog. Along with shared politics, Bill and I also have similar marriages in that both of our unions are inter-racial. Those are good commonalities to have, without a doubt.

Sadly, we have another cross over in the Venn Diagram representing life experiences in that we both have addict sisters. Unfortunately, Bill lost his sister when she lost her battle with addiction. My sister is, again, going down that same horrifying road. At this time after going to in-patient treatment three times in a year and a consistent inability of she and her husband to get their shit together simultaneously, my aforementioned husband and  myself have custody of their three children.

Right now, on all fronts pertaining to my sister, things look pretty bleak. I try my best to not focus on that so much anymore because I have finally relented in knowing there is nothing I can do to make her stop until she's ready and certainly not a thing I can do to effect her husband's behavior. All of our collective energy must now be channeled into those sweet kids, to make their lives as safe, happy and secure as possible.

Having now spent more time than I intended in talking about the negative concerning my sister, I want to change the pace and end this on a high note, on a love note actually. What follows is a love-letter of sorts to my sister, the one I used to know, the one that used to care about her kids, her family and herself. I want that sister back. Maybe putting that out in the universe will do more than my begging, pleading, cajoling and nagging have accomplished. All I can do is try, right.

To My Sister:

I've never not known you or had you in my life. You are the oldest, the guinea pig, the first child who absorbed most of the teaching moments in our parents first excursion into parenthood. You have been there literally every single day of my life in spirit if not in presence.

Do you remember when we were little, tiny girls and we shared a room? I remember that like it was yesterday, keeping you up at night belching on purpose, making you laugh and cringe all at once. I remember when we had bunk beds and I fell down from the top bunk, you were playing with dolls and tried to catch me, break my fall. We both ended up hurt but laughing about it later. I remember when you would come lay with me, even when I was so hot from fever just to hold my hand and tell me it was okay, you wouldn't leave me.

As we got older we decided two bedrooms were better than a shared bedroom and a playroom. We never lasted long in separate bedrooms. We were, until we were much older, drawn to staying together, sleeping together many night though we had our own beds. Have you ever looked back at the pictures of us together at holidays? No matter if we were at home or at Mama and Papa's in Birmingham, no matter how many cousins were around, we were always together, usually holding hands like wee little Irish twins. We were each other's favorite person and made no effort to hide our affection.

Of course as we grew older, we grew apart little by little but always, always you were my sister, my friend. It was not doubted that anyone who looked at either of us cross-eyed they  would have both of us to answer to because together we were unstoppable. Impenetrable.  Inseparable. Even as changes in our adult lives pulled us to separate paths, the bond was there and unbreakable. Through marriages, through kids, till death do us part, we were connected.

Now that is gone and I don't know how to find my sister. A crack fiend unable and unwilling to break that chain in now in her place. My sister, my love, wouldn't sell her ass piece meal style for poison rocks that would keep her from her children, her family and her life. But this person, this slave to a pipe will do all that and more for just another hit. Please, please while you're out doing what it is you do, please try to find my sister. Her parents, her sister, her beautiful kids, miss her and want her back. I want only to meet my sister again before she meets Bill sister on the other side, wherever that may be.

Love -

Shannon

Guest Blogger - Brillig: Cheez-whiz, Anyone?

Hey, all!  I'm Brillig and I write over at Twas Brillig.  Gunfighter and I have been bloggy-buddies since the beginning of my blogging career over a year and a half ago.  I'm honored to have the chance to corrupt his interesting blog with my silly stories.

Once upon a time I was in college and my bestest friend was my dear Matt.  Matt was openly gay, and therefore ostracized by much of our extremely conservative community.  But Matt adored me, as I adored him.   He thought I was so beautiful (why didn't any of the straight boys think so?) and he loved to dress me up and show me off.   We had been friends almost our whole lives, minus a couple of awkward years in high school.  But when college came, we were completely inseparable.

Matt also had some strange power over me.  He would come up with these absolutely ridiculous plans and somehow I would always go along with them.
One night, in the middle of the night, Matt came to my dorm to get me.  I was in my pajamas, and could I please change first?  No. There was no time for that.  Sigh.  So I threw on some flip-flops and followed him out the door.

He had a very important mission for us, but he would explain it when we got there.

And, where was there?

Our local grocery store.

And the mission?

To buy crackers and cheez-whiz, set up a table right there in the grocery store, and invite strangers to come and join us for cheese and crackers and get their pictures taken with us.

Look at me. Don't I look like a nice girl? NOT like the kind of girl that would be sitting in the grocery store in her pajamas, inviting strangers to come and eat cheez-whiz with me? Do you see the pain etched on my face? The pain screaming out to you, begging you to find a way to make the crazy gay man let me go back to my dorm and go to bed?



But really. The craziest part about this whole thing is that people actually sat down to eat cheez whiz and get their pictures taken with us!!!!

Here's to you, Matt, and all the crazy things you made me do.  I'm sure it made me... a better person... or something.  Yeah...

***...and here is to you, Brillig.  Thank you so much, my friend.  Look kids, if you have read Ms. Brillig's blog, you should go read her now. 

Really.

Brillig is an intelligent and VERY funny young woman.  She is passionate about her family, her church, and her friends.  I count her as a great bloggy-buddy, and I encourage you to give her a go (besides, I have been at this longer than her, and she gets 10 times the traffic that I do).

Guest Blogger - The Zaftig Redhead: Jilted By John Edwards

Please welcome today's guest blogger:  Her name is, well, that is something I'm not even sure of, but she is a DC-area resident that blogs under the moniker "The Zaftig Redhead".  ZR, as I call her, blogs about politics and other things at The Zaftig Redhead.  Go and give her a read when you get a chance... you'll be glad you did.

I've been stewing about the John Edwards fiasco. Stewing, fuming, bitching. Many of you know I was an Edwards Girl. I fell for his shtick -- hook, line and sinker. And this blog may seem oddly timed, given the fact that the country seems to be on collective pins and needles waiting for news about Barack Obama's running mate. But really, it's those circumstances combined with the looming Denver convention that crystallized things for me. While I didn't really think Edwards was up for another VP dash, I did think he might have an opportunity to play a meaningful role in an Obama Administration. Yeah, not so much.

John Edwards has been revealed to be like so many other powerful men -- he couldn't or wouldn't keep it zipped when temptation crossed his path. Yeah, yeah, there are no choir boys in politics -- and there's clearly no shortage of powerful men of all political stripes who are congenitally unable to resist a pretty face.

As I've said before, it almost seems like some kind of rite of passage -- a macho power trip to prove to themselves they're such hot shit that the regular rules no longer apply. Edwards himself confirmed this hubris, saying part of the reason for his horrible, disappointing lapse was -- well, cuz he could. Because running for president put him on such a nifty ego trip, it warped his perspective. Wow. That's great. Wonderful. And he was a serious candidate for president? I feel betrayed, and I'm not even his wife.

It's amazing to me that Edwards apparently had not figured out the fundamental axiom of modern politics: once you run, you can't hide. Despite all the clear lessons that had come before him -- Edwards thought he was different, that he wouldn't get caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Hypocrites just plain piss me off. Especially self-righteous hypocrites. But with Edwards, it goes one step further -- I feel jilted.

Why, you might ask? It's not simply that I was an Edwards fan. Or that I have enormous respect for his wife, his terminally-ill wife, who sure as hell deserves better. It's that the real John Edwards has been at last been revealed -- and shown to be a man who didn't just cheat on his wife, but who also has proven himself more than willing to throw us all to the wolves.

Imagine this scenario if you will: say Edwards had won the nomination. Clearly he ran for the presidency again, knowing he had this kind of campaign-choking skeleton in his closet. Edwards didn't come clean to start his second campaign with a clean slate -- nope, he decided to hide his bad behavior and lack of judgment. And in making that conscious decision to keep living a lie rather than make his mea culpa, Edwards was willing to take a serious risk -- not just with his own political ambitions but with the future of the entire country -- on the fact that the emperor's new clothes would not be revealed until after he was in the White House. At that point, I guess he thought he would simply work to rehabilitate himself -- a la Bill Clinton.

What a breathtaking gamble. If Edwards had come out on top in this extraordinary primary year, and things had played out on the same time line, Democrats would have had the earth fall from under their feet just a few weeks before their convention. Edwards was willing to risk four or even eight more years of Republican destruction in order to pursue his own single-minded goal.

The scope of his hubris is amazing. With all that was at stake -- with an economy on the brink, an ill-conceived war draining our coffers and our spirits, with decades of progress on civil and women's rights at risk, with an environment literally gasping for help -- Edwards was willing to sacrifice us all on the alter of his vanity. Aside from the clear moral deficiencies Edwards exhibited in terms of his personal relationships, it is this grand selfishness and lack of vision that I find most disappointing -- and most unsettling in someone I had wanted to see in the White House.

So as the excitement swirls around the Obama Veep-stakes, for me, there is definitely a bittersweet tinge of what might have been -- and what's been irrevocably lost in a man who used to be a hero to so many.


****Thanks so much, ZR!  I know that you are a busy lady, and I appreciate you taking your time to help me out while I am in vacation!

Guest Blogger - Janet: Pink Is The Color of....

...MY BASEBALL MITT?! Seriously?!?!

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I should back up a bit. The question is, how far?

A week or more ago, the glorious, gregarious, adorable Gunfighter asked us, his loyal groupies, if we would be interested in guest blogging whilst he's off sunning in Fay-soaked Florida. Having absolutely nothing better to do with myself and having an abundance of material for my own blogs--plural, not singular--I said yes.*

And the moment I agreed to share my wit and wisdom,** I immediately ended up with a severe case of blogger's block.

Until this evening, that is.

This evening featured me meeting an adorable little girl in my neighborhood named Lucy and a pair of pink crocs.

And that's when I found my voice again.

You see, pink has me seeing red!

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I want to like Crocs. Really, I do. But truthfully, I have a hard time taking anyone seriously who's wearing them. Especially people who wear them with socks. But I'm digressing.

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I should probably state out the gate that I don't have kids. I'm one of those childless people. Mostly by choice. But I love kids and little girls are "sugar and spice and very thing nice" and little boys are just heart stealers.There are trade-offs with not having kids. You grow selfish and soft sans kids. Other people's kids who aren't being sugary and spicy and making you swoon are petulant and annoying and you just want them to go away. On the other hand, if I had kids, I'd know all the joys my friends and fellow bloggers describe about watching their wee ones grow and develop and become their own little personalities.

Having said all that, it's probably a damn good thing I'm not a parent and especially not of little girls, because this ramped-up business of objectifying the sexes based on a color palette sets my jaw askew and finds me rolling my eyes and sighing.

Surely by now we've outgrown the whole "pink is for girls, blue is for boys" nonsense. And yet, alas and alack, I fear not.

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Pink beach toys?! Seriously?!

What's wrong with a little yellow bucket? Little yellow buckets are synonymous with the beach and sun and fun.  But pink? Pink implies squealing, delicate children who squirm at the feel of sand and run from those little crabs that make tent-pole-sized holes all over the Outer Banks.
Pink at the beach: wrong, wrong, wrong.

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Imagine this scene.

Target--the hippest, bestest big box retailer EVER.

I'm walking down a main aisle zipping past the Xboxes, digital cameras, scented candles, Post-it notes, box fans, luggage sets, and made-in-China shelving units when suddenly, I am visually assaulted by a sea of pink.

Pink bike helmets... Meh.

Pink swim goggles... Oy.

Pink tennis racquets and tennis balls... No!

Pink baseball mitts and softballs...

And that's the straw that breaks this camel's back.

This is wrong on so many levels, I can barely speak. Gaping like a fish out of water and pointing like a prehistoric, pre-verbal woman, my partner, in an effort to explain and comfort me, says, "Oh yeah. It's a marketing gimmick. I read about it in Runner's World several years ago. Some marketing genius decided to take men's products and 'pink it and shrink it' to boost sales."

As I continue gaping like the aforementioned fish unable to sufficiently express my horror, she concludes, "Yeah, it offends me, too."

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I can't even begin to articulate how wrong I find this. Even wronger/more wrong that the pink beach kit or the pink crocs or just pink as a delimiter of gender identity in general. This pinkification? This is more than I can bear.

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If I had girls, I would officially be a bad mother because I would absolutely refuse to give my daughter a PINK baseball mitt.

Mine was rawhide brown and that's how it should be, regardless of gender. Pink embodies softness and crying and, as the famous line goes, "There's no crying in baseball."

Baseball is not a sport for softness. Baseball--and its kin-sport, softball--are tough, dirty, aggressive sports. Pink is not tough, not dirty, and not aggressive. Pink is silly. And as girls we have enough hurdles to overcome without staying stuck in silly.

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Which would you rather? Brum? Or the Pink Free Style Speedster? Okay, okay. I'll concede on this one. That pink speedster is pretty darn cute. I'd get that for a girl. But I still draw the line: NO PINK BASEBALL MITTS!

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I'm not totally opposed to pink as a color. It's a lovely color. In moderation.

One of my favorite Brooks Brothers shirts is a pink window pane with French cuffs. It's very feminine in a rather dashing sort of way. It's a core component in my dapper dyke look. But it's one of only three pink shirts in my entire repertoire of Brooks Brothers shirts. Blue is the main staple in my collection, because it makes my eyes pop, garnering me lots of compliments.

More importantly, pink is a very significant and meaningful color for Breast Cancer Awareness--a cause dear to me because I've had several friends now who have battled this disease and because I believe in breast checks and regular exams. In this case, pink is very, very good.

But saturating the market with pink as a marketing ploy? The pinkification of consumer products for girls?

Well, that's just demeaning and patronizing. At this rate, the next trend will be issuing tools for our professional trades in pink. I'm not sure how seriously I'd take a woman behind a pink computer or a cop with pink pistol or a doctor with a pink stethoscope (unless she was my kids pediatrician but even then...) No, no, no.

Who knows. Maybe I'll get over it. Maybe I'm making more out of this than should be made. Maybe.

But I'm standing my ground on the baseball mitt.

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Check 'em early and check 'em often, ladies.  But please, please, please, for the love of all that is holy, chuck that pink baseball mitt!

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*   For those who don't know me, that's a healthy dose of sarcasm going on there.
** Ibid.

This scintillating and opinionated post-in-pink has been brought to you by J.M. Tewkesbury, a nom de plume for a real person. You can read more of Janet's writing at "The Chronicles of Tewkesbury" or you can see her photography at "D.C. Confidential". She's also known for her resume writing. When Janet isn't ranting about pink, she can be found putzing around the yard of the home she shares with her partner and a cat affectionately known as Dirty Bastard.

****For the record, Janet is indeed quite dapper in her French-cuffed, Brooks Brothers shirts!

Now, go read her stuff!  Janet is a smart lady, with lots to say, and as my family can attest to, she (and her partner) puts on a mean Taco feed!

GF

Guest Blogger - Cool Zebras: This Post Is NOT About Politics

Please welcome one of my earliest blog pals, Heather.  When Heather isn't super-busy with her growing family, she regularly blogs at Cool Zebras.

I was innocently Tweeting about my goal to finish writing two blog posts the other night when our friend GF asked if one of those posts was for his blog. 

After I picked myself up from the floor from the shock of being asked to guest post I went immediately into panic mode. What am I going to write for Gunfighter’s blog? I don’t write political stuff and I know nothing about guns. GF was open, but not all that helpful on topics: Whatever you like, my friend. (Awww. See? That’s why I said yes.) 

But I’m still lacking a topic. 

So. 

Ahem. 

{tapping fingers on chair} 

Did I mention that I don’t write political stuff? Yeah, I don’t so this post is most definitely NOT about politics. 

I don’t write about politics because by its very nature the topic is polarizing. I’ll be honest, I’m from Minnesota and we’re nice people. Have you seen Fargo? There’s a scene in the movie of a customer in William H. Macy’s character’s office (who is a car salesman) who didn’t order the Trucoat but agrees to pay for it anyway. The customer is angry, but the most he can muster is a mumbled expletive that seems to pain him to say. I think it’s the weather. When we’re freezing our butts off we have to conserve our energy so we stay alive. 

Here in Minnesota we’re being subjected to a Senate race between incumbent Norm Coleman and former SNL star Al Franken. The ads that are running? Let’s just say the first time I saw some of them I thought they were actually on SNL. Then I realized it was a Tuesday, and 9 o’clock in the morning.  

Let me give you an example for all of you who are fortunate enough to not live in Minnesota (hi everyone!). 

All of Norm Coleman’s “attack” ads feature two men with Scandinavian accents. Yes, I know we Minnesotans talk funny but it’s one thing to poke fun at us in a movie (i.e. Fargo …which I love, by the way) but another to portray us as the idiots that these ads seem to do. These two men ramble on about Franken’s supposed poor morals for being a comedian and the poor taste he showed in telling jokes. Then, the finale (right before Norm’s voice-over approval message) is the men smiling vacantly into the camera and saying in unison: “And we’re better bowlers!” 

Wha? 

Really, it’s the kind of stuff that makes me want to stick a fork in my eye. And that’s why I don’t write posts about politics.

Thanks, Heather.  Just so we are clear, here, I don't have any negative opinions of Minnesotans (except maybe for Jesse Ventura, but that's because he is a doofus, not because he is a Minnesotan), so please, don't stick any forks in your eyes.

GF