Okay folks…..I need to vent! I know I’ve mentioned a few times how much I love the time I’m in the car by myself so I can listen to music of my choice, without any pouting or crabbing coming from the passenger seat. Fortunately, my daughter and I like the same radio station; there are some favorite CDs in her collection that I would just as soon throw out, but if we settle on the radio; we can usually get along.

However, there is this song, playing at least once every hour, the dichotomy of which has completely driven me insane! By mentioning it and discussing it I’m probably giving it even more air time than I should but I can’t help myself. It’s called: “I Kissed A Girl” by Katy Parry. I don’t know if you’ve heard it, and it’s official: I’m getting old…sort of. I say “sort of” because when I’m alone, I crank this song! It’s a great song; the music stays with you all day and the lyrics are cleverly written so they stay in your head all day after you hear it the one time. We women may sound strange when we’re walking down the hall singing “I kissed a girl and I like it….the taste of her cherry chap stick.” at work; again, I can’t help myself.

That said, those lyrics are encouraging my little 10-year-old-going-on-30 daughter to ask me questions that I, frankly, don’t know the answers to. Such as: “Mom, if she has a boyfriend why is she kissing somebody else?” And; “Mom, why is she kissing a girl if she likes boys?” She thinks it’s funny when I don’t answer right away and then I scream; “I don’t know!!” So every time the song comes on I cringe and I could change the station but we’ve got this really cool chair dance we do to the song in the car, and it’s more fun to have a good laugh with my daughter and join in than get my big girl panties in a wad over the lyrics to a song. I have to constantly remind myself of what I used to tell my folks: “Just because I listen to a song about it, doesn’t mean I’m going to go out and do it! Jeez, Dad!!!”

I remember when I was a kid and we played the songs our parents hated even louder because we knew the lyrics got to them. The ones they didn’t seem to care about were played at a normal, more quiet level. Let me think: my favorite was to play this song on Sunday mornings when I didn’t necessarily want to be burdened with going to church: “Hell is for Children” by Pat Benatar. Yeah the house got blasted with that one more than once. Remember AC/DC: “Dirty Deeds, Done Dirt Cheap”, “We’re Not Gonna Take It” by Twisted Sister, and “It’s the End of the World” by R.E.M? My brothers had some fun ones blaring from their cars and from their bedrooms, from the depths of the basement: “Pour Some Sugar On Me” by Def Leppard and “She’s My Cherry Pie” by Warrant, come to mind. But more in the same genre as “Kissed A Girl”: “Call Me” by Blondie, “Red Corvette” by Prince, and two of my absolute favorites and still are: “Paradise by the Dashboard Light” by Meat Loaf and “I Need a Lover That Won’t Drive Me Crazy” by John (then Cougar) Mellencamp. I’m sure my folks HATED those songs and couldn’t understand why a 10/11-year-old would like them. It’s because they are great songs and the lyrics stick with you! Don’t get me wrong, I’m in no way comparing Katy Parry’s one-hit-wonder to these Rock Legends, but you get my drift. Every generation has their Jerry Lee Lewis or Elvis, right?

I’m trying not to make tooooo much of this but if anyone can help me out in my effort to explain this song to my girl, let me know. I try to be open minded and accepting of other people’s choices and all of that but the attitude that you-can-have-it-all-as-long-as-it-makes-you-feel-good is kind of sitting awry in my brain.  In my opinion we should all pick a lane and drive between the lines.  I guess I have to admit that I’m getting old in that respect, because I just don’t get it.   At least not enough so that I can explain it to someone who is still depending on me for answers and who still, somewhat, hangs on my every word.

In the meantime: I think it’s okay to dance to it; if it makes you want to dance….just try not to sing out loud when the music isn’t playing, that way you will avoid having to come up with that uncomfortable explanation for yourself.

I experienced one of those strange, welcoming kind of surprises this week. The kind that makes you forget your routine life for a few hours and places a goofy smile on your face as your mind revisits it, for days following. One of my “buddies” from my basic training flight called, out of the blue, and we spent a couple of hours on the phone catching up with one another’s lives and reminiscing about those six weeks we spent together in San Antonio, 20 years ago. I couldn’t believe it when she said it out loud but it has been 20 years and she and I still have so much in common, it’s uncanny.

With the preparation for the Annual American Legion Chicken Barbecue along with the Legion membership renewal season starting up again; I realized that all 146 of our members and every veteran has gone through this similar right of passage. We all, at some point in our young lives, decided to leave our families and Nebraska and travel alone to a Military Training Base in South Carolina, Missouri, or some other Southern state, on the shores of Lake Michigan, or San Antonio, Texas as in my case, in order to begin our chosen service as members of the United States Military.

My personal memory usually brings back that feeling of butterflies in my stomach when I think of that early morning trip, with my folks, to Eppley Air Field. I signed with a delayed enlistment so I anticipated the beginning of the journey for about 6 months before it was my time to actually depart. I remember some of the the advice I received from my Dad and my Uncle Leonard: “Always do what the man in charge tells you to do”; and then, “Work hard and keep your mouth shut.” The other one, doesn’t sound noble nor profound but I applied it often during my entire course of military service and it seemed to work well for me: “Never volunteer for anything.” We live in this society where advice like that might be frowned upon but I can tell you; my TI (Training Instructor) was the type that frowned upon sucking up so I made fast practice of those pearls of wisdom and they served me well. It helped that I was always the shortest in any flight I marched with, which meant I was the farthest back and the farthest to the left, (dress, right, dress…remember?). The important people, those in charge, marched at the front and to the right, which was fine by me.

I was 19; I had moved out and was living in Lincoln for a couple of years on my own, so it wasn’t the first time I had left home but it was my first time on an airplane or in an airport for that matter. The flight was full of turbulence and at one point during the on-flight meal; we were practically thrown from our seats as the plane shook and jerked in the darkness. We all had some food and drink on the fronts of our shirts by the time we landed, so I arrived at the San Antonio Airport scared to death of what was to come, happy to be alive and smelling like chicken cordon blue.

Somehow we, soon-to-be “Airman Basics”, found one another in the terminal and were all herded onto a huge bus with “Texas” printed on the side. It was just like in the movies folks; they started screaming at us in the airport parking lot, right there in front of the rest of the travelers. I sat on that bus wondering what the H-E-double-toothpicks I had gotten myself into. I didn’t think a person could survive their heart racing for that amount of time but eventually the doors closed and the two guys in uniform settled down and it was quiet on the bus as we drove to our destiny through the hot, sticky, Texas night.

We arrived after midnight and they lined us up under this dimly-lit, carport-like structure. They shouted instructions that none of us would possibly be able to remember, our arms sore from carrying our bags for what seemed like miles of “marching”, and then we were pushed up the stairs to the open bay barracks which would be our home for the next 6 weeks. Again, just like in the movies: each “barrack” consisted of two rows of 20 beds, each bed with a locker at the head and the walkway separating the two rows at the foot. They told us to grab a cot and warned us that there better not be any noise after “lights out” or heads would roll. We barely started into the room when we were thrown into complete darkness so we each quickly claimed our territory and there was silence until we felt the TI leave the room and a door closed behind him. At that point the weeping started and I remembered thinking to myself; “Well it’s too late now honey…”  I came to a point a few nights later where I could block that particular sound, which was a good thing because it was something I would hear almost every night during my stay.  I shut my eyes and tried to get my heart to slow and within minutes, though it was actually a few hours later, we were startled awake by a baseball bat hitting the inside of a trash can, oh yeah and I’m sure there was a trumpet, playing reveille, in the background as well.

We had to use the bathroom, have our hair up above our collars, and be down in formation in 3 minutes or we’d pay later. I remember thinking; “Formation? I wonder what that is.” and “Thank God I chopped all my hair off.” Some of those girls had it down to their waist line and I didn’t envy them the task of messing around with that every morning on top of everything else; what were they thinking?

That was just the first few hours; the rest of the 6 weeks turned out to be 80% hurry up and wait, and 20% learning how to be logical from a military point of view, which is completely different than the normal person’s logic for sure. I learned a lot about myself in the military training atmosphere: I learned that I can tolerate almost anything for 6 weeks. I learned that a shower is a luxury and should always be regarded as one. Along those lines: I learned that if you all stink equally, it’s as if no one stinks, at least that’s what we told ourselves.  I learned that growing up in a house with 9 children, prepared me more than I could know because I was able to eat very quickly without losing my lunch, a skill that some trainees never did quite get the hang of. I learned that in the military, everything has a hidden purpose, nothing should be taken personally, and eventually someone will tell you why you are doing what you are doing….you just have to believe. I learned that I was stronger than I imagined I could be but that no amount of training can ever prepare you for the jobs you are assigned in the capacity of defending this country. On top of all of that: I learned that when you are placed in a situation of deprivation, lifelong friendships form quickly.

That’s why when I was handed the phone the other night and this oddly familiar woman’s voice on the other end cackled out: “Schmucknik! Is that you?” All of those memories came rushing back like Basic Training had happened last week and not 20 years ago. I recognized her voice immediately and I began a laugh that lasted for the next two hours. She reminded me of the fun we had together, getting through it with our constant banter and jokes under our breath. She and I clicked with our similar senses of humor, our knack for self-deprecation, and our ability to entertain the crowd. We were quite a pair: we both cut our curly hair short for our adventure; myself 4’11” and blonde and she 5’10” with darker locks. She and I landed the coveted jobs of Latrine Queens, and we were damn good at it, plus we got to take longer showers after the herd of 38 got through so we could clean it up for the night. I also learned that every situation in this life is what you make of it, and man did we have a blast cleaning those toilets.

Every year the largest grouping in a single place, of our 146 member Morse Bluff American Legion, gets together to pull off the best chicken bbq in the area. I don’t see most of these guys except when they are standing next to me, performing their regular jobs for those few hours in the heat of August. For those of us who are more involved with the month to month Legion activities, its always a mad rush to get this thing going but in the end, the few and the best people for the jobs show up and we work together like the well-oiled-military-machine that we are. We do our jobs, we get caught up with life events and we have a few laughs as we work. (A personal “OOH-RA” to the the Serving Line committee!!! Great job again Sunday!). That basic training recipe carries through each of our lives even decades later and always turns out, cooked to perfection, anyone who has attended our BBQ will attest to that.

The traveling part of the summer vacation is over, Old Settlers and the 4^th of July are just cotton candy memories. Half of the summer still lies ahead of us and now my 10-year-old is looking for summer work. She had heard, from a cousin who helped Grandpa with some irrigation pipe, that she could make a couple of dollars if she volunteered to go with Grandpa the next time he needed some help. One would think that 10 is young for that sort of monetary consideration but we’re dealing with a farm-kid-slightly-removed, here and the calculation of dollars per hour x number of hours is one of the first math lessons we tend to set to memory, for some reason.

Her eagerness to earn had me reminiscing: as kids we had so many summer jobs, like everyone else here in farm country, and we started just as early, if not earlier. We started young by helping Mom in the garden; weeding and gathering various vegetables, most memorable was that of picking peas and shelling them. We three girls used to sit in the kitchen with the 5-gallon buckets, full of peas from the garden, and we were tasked with shelling them. I’m sure we ate more than ever ended up in the bowl. We picked eggs in the morning, going to war on a regular basis with the hens who weren’t so willing to give up their unborn, then we washed them and helped put them in the cartons for selling. A major summer project happened every year in August when generations came to the farm to help butcher chickens; my first taste of assembly line work. The birds came to our table freshly deceased, ready to be dipped in boiling water and plucked clean by our small, nimble fingers. Once we finished with them, they were waved over the lit plate of alcohol to get the pin feathers, and then my favorite part: the removing of the innards. I used to love to watch over Grandma’s shoulder as she made quick work with her skilled hands and sharpened, butcher knife. One swift cut, her hand went in and came out with the chicken’s innards, the neck, the heart and gizzard (Czech: pupecny or “pupec” for short) went to the side to be returned to the empty cavity in the bird once they were cleaned and the rest into the waste bin. I often think that my choice of livelihood and my fascination with forensics and the human body began at those marathon sessions with family all around, preparing those several hundred birds for sale.

My fondest, and absolute earliest job memory, plays out in the milk barn at the age of five or so. The “job: entailed carrying the crushed corn from the granary room around the cows’ backsides, past the stanchions that locked their heads in line, and pouring it in front of their cool, prickly yet velvety, soft, wet noses while business was being conducted on the other end. I remember how much easier the cows were to pet, once you fed them. The most interesting job was “the moving of the manure”; although that isn’t quite the term we used at the time. Basically, you took a scraper to the cement and walked along behind it until you got to the end of the slab, then you flicked the feces into the pen. It was linear work, design and imagination were allowed as long as you got the job done. As you can imagine, it wasn’t a social job that had everyone around you talking your ear off; if you weren’t tasked with it, you stayed far away, so there was time to ponder life and I have always appreciated that sort of work.

Eventually, we moved into the new milk barn at the top of the hill and that was cleaner and shinier but way more complicated and high tech, still there was always manure to be moved, and even with a high-pressure hose it smelled as sweet. Milking was a consistent job during our teenage years, all year ’round. There were names on the calendar in schedule-like fashion and you had better been up there by 5 pm on your turn or there were some anxious bovines in the pen mooing and there was no hiding the fact that you were off dawdling somewhere. Those cows taught us that there are certain things in life that just can’t wait.

I’ll bet everyone remembers walking beans the old-fashioned way, with the hoe or the corn knife? It doesn’t seem like that long ago but talking with my younger brothers who experienced things differently; they rode the “bean buggy” instead, it has been a quite a few years since that “Round-up Ready” era came into being. We walked beans with our folks when we were so small that the only way they could find us in the rows was by the white glow coming off of our blond heads. I can’t recall at what point we actually became responsible for our own rows but we walked right alongside them until we could tell the difference between a weed and a bean and we were big enough to get the better of them when we attempted to pull those “plants whose virtues have not yet been discovered” according to Ralph Waldo Emerson. Sure, at times, we were allowed to screw around in the end rows but that usually ended up in fighting and loud screaming about one thing or another between the four of us and we were sentenced to the perpetual walking once again.

When we got older, we worked on “bean crews” with kids from school and that was a blast. We worked hard but we played harder. As you can imagine, with a crew of adolescent, teen-aged boys and girls in tank tops and shorts, left all day on their own to talk and fool around while working a fairly monotonous job…the pranks got pretty imaginative. I learned that a young boy’s obsession with a girl wearing a tube top can be never-ending. We were constantly pulling rocks, seed pods, and my favorite: young, tad-pole-tailed, frogs out of our tube tops because that sort of joke just never lost it’s luster out in the fields. In turn we often “pantsed” the boys and somehow we girls didn’t get the same lasting joy as they seemed to get from the tube top fun.

It was either too hot or bone-chilling, cold and wet. You might have started out in the morning, donning the most stylish of garbage bag wear; worn up-side-down with a large hole for your head and two others for your arms to help keep you dry. Later in the summer, it was hot even at sunrise as you rode to the fields and you knew then, that it was going to be a long day. I remember wishing for clouds to accumulate and throw some lightening. We all knew, just a tiny flicker, was cause for an extra break because you couldn’t be in the field if there was a chance of electrocution….rules are rules after all. Most days though, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky and it was scorching hot and somehow I don’t remember anyone worrying about sunscreen; we were all tanned dark for the summer, back then.

Bean walking was the big money maker but there were other jobs. Most of us had a steady babysitting job, work on our folks’ farms was always available, irrigation assistance was always needed, I even did perms for boys with mullets in the basement of our house. After a quick lesson in perm application I became an expert and am embarrassed to say that I was an instrumental part of perpetuating that ’80s fad in this area. Then, of course the Rawhide in the evenings. I started busing tables there when I was 14, when we were old enough we waited tables. I worked in the kitchen on the salad side, washed dishes, washed floors, and I even cleaned the hood over the stoves a couple of summers. The Rawhide Steakhouse, for me, was a wealth of employment opportunity and I imagine it still is if you are willing to work in the evenings.

A willingness to work: I guess that’s the key to any summer job and I’m trying to pass that on to my daughter as I am starting to see the trademark dollar signs in her eyes when she talks to me so eagerly about going to Grandpa’s to “work”. I explained that she has to put all of her effort into what ever he wants her to do, she has to stay and finish the job, and she has to pay attention and listen because, unless he’s a changed man; “I’m only going to show you this once and then I expect you to do it the same way each time” was always his way, at least since I’ve come to know him. I’m the same way with her and she does a heck of a job putting dishes away, sweeping, vacuuming the rugs, dusting, and folding clothes to help me out, for nothing! Well, so far for nothing. I think she’s ready for Grandpa and I know she’ll make me proud when she’s working along with him just like we used to do, when we were those farm kids, daydreaming about all of the things we would buy with our earnings; like school clothes and gas for the cars we bought on our own.

My brother Chuck and I turn 40 together this year along with the rest of the class of ’86. This is supposed to be some sort of milestone in our lives so I figured I’d better do some pondering and spend adequate, quality time in deep contemplation on the subject. I became so engrossed in my thoughts that I completely forgot to call Chuck on the day of his big “milestone”; funny, it didn’t seem like a big deal to him…I guess that’s the way it should be….no big deal.

I tend to watch a lot of make-over television, I think this draw has something to do with the secret wish we all have of winning that lottery. Wouldn’t it be great for someone to swoop down and hand over a new wardrobe, surgically tuck that tummy, or inject those wrinkles away so you could superficially become that person you might imagine yourself to be….for free? Anyway, with TV personalities showing us that youthful looks are so important and that “50 is the new 40”, I can accept that most people believe that this 40th birthday may very well mark the downward slide of the rest of my life. “It’s all downhill from here” is the most common/quick response I hear when I tell people how old I will be on my upcoming birthday. This completely contradicts the image I have had as I prepare for the final take off from my thirties. I can’t wait to move on and my attitude about aging has generally been this: “I can’t believe I made it this far!” It’s my view that more life is always a gift at any age; it should be celebrated, embraced, and one should stop every now and then, when they are looking at that slightly older but wiser face in the mirror, and say a little thank you…which I try to do regularly. I’d like to think I’m not even half way there. So the idea of a downward slide seems so far out of reach because every day I’m still climbing higher and higher and I can’t even see the peak from where I stand at this particular point. I’m nowhere near ready to head down the other side just yet.

Let’s think about it: your 20’s are filled with that struggle of being at the bottom of the totem pole in any job you take, attempting to ace a test several times a week, in subjects you really don’t care about, studying information you know you will never use again, in order to obtain that coveted college degree just so you can get on with life. Don’t get me wrong: you look hot; hotter than you will ever look again in your lifetime, trust me, but relationships tend to be rather superficial. If you happen to marry young; the growing pains of a marriage, for two people in their early 20s, has to be difficult no matter how compatible. I’m just guessing on that one; I know how much I change between the ages of 21 and 30….it’s hard enough growing up during that time, alone… much less having to try to remain dedicated to a partner who is branching out and growing up as well. For the many of you out there who have marriages that survived ….I am personally amazed…the two of you should be proud and you both have even more to celebrate.

The 30’s for a better part of us; were spent, bent over, chasing small children and worrying every minute that they might roll down a set of stairs or fall into a well or something. We found ourselves knee deep in diapers, daycare bills, road trips to sporting events, and complete isolation from our friends because it’s just more gratifying to use that evening time, after the kids are in bed, to sit back and put our feet up rather than squeeze into clothes that used to fit and go “out”. I realize there are those of you out there who have been able to find that balance better than the rest of us, but raising kids is hard work and if you aren’t grateful when they get to that age where they can at least be at home by themselves while you run to the store…well then, you are either a saint or you have masochistic tendencies. Okay, I may be overstating it….slightly…. and don’t get me wrong, I adore parenthood; it’s the most meaningful relationship I will ever experience. That said; I never thought I would cherish being able to just jump in the car and drive across that river to get milk and back again without saying a word to anyone. No whining, no back talk, no one taking over my radio…..just a 3 minute drive to the store and a 3 minute drive back….sometimes I go for milk when we don’t even need milk. It’s bliss I tell you!!! But that’s just me.

I’m so looking forward to my 40s! This is the time where we start to enjoy the fruits of our labor of the last two decades. Lately, I’ve been reading more about facing your 40s; the doom and gloom and the wrinkle-worries but I’m choosing to take a more positive view. We finally have years behind us and a solid standing at our jobs, some of us even own our own businesses, most of us have been there long enough to get that coveted, extra week of vacation. Those among us who chose the life study of “agronomics” might be starting to see the light as a farmer and getting a little ahead (though they would never admit it…just ask one… at any age). We have almost half of our mortgage paid off, maybe more, we’ve started to accumulate some retirement money…we are able to imagine retirement is a possibility. We will feel the disdain of our teenage children and they will push our hearts to the breaking point multiple times but we will also watch proudly as they graduate from high school and college. Our hearts will mend and melt when we marry them off and then, when we recover from that, we will rejoice in the fact that we have the house to ourselves again, and we could become grandparents…possibly….all within this decade of our lives.

So we’ve got a few more wrinkles, it’s becoming more difficult to lose weight…like it was ever easy, I find that I personally, am a little more cranky, I’ve always had that problem but now it’s just more often and on a grander scale. I’m looking forward to experiencing those “power surges” that we lucky females are blessed with at some time and fortunately, this too shall pass. It helps to keep in mind that this is just a means to a wonderful end in my view. On the other hand, I’ve read that the female libido peaks during a woman’s 40s…that’s something anyone should look forward to!

I digress. The really important things in life are all in front of us and I for one, am so ready to take it all in; so no black balloons or “R.I.P” cakes for us please. This is just the beginning….let’s get this decade started!

I am so happy I didn’t miss my daughter’s track meet. Because of my business trip, the week the elementary track meet was originally scheduled, I thought I was going to miss it…

They only have 7 of them in their little lifetimes after all and I’ve already missed one due to a job so I was thrilled to see those dark clouds and feel the cool temperature as I drove back from the airport on that Friday afternoon. I had both hands on the wheel, fingers crossed, the car moving at a rate only slightly above the speed limit….thinking all of this would increase my chances of catching the last of the track events if I could….thankfully the whole thing was rescheduled due to inclement weather.

I’ve always loved the grade school track meet. Just the idea of it. I remember when we all used to come from our prospective country schools to the North Bend Jr/Sr High School gym…you know; back in the good ol’ days. The track meet then, was more like an Olympic event bringing us all together…everyone coming in from their different parts of the small world we knew. It was so exciting because you got to scope out boys that weren’t remotely related to you, see old friends and make new ones from schools that seemed light years away. Plus, kids actually competed and won: white ribbon for third place, red for second, and blue for first. I personally don’t remember any sort of participation award….we may have received something like a pat on the back and a “Better luck next time kid.” , which was nice. Back then, if you didn’t win; you lost and tried harder the next time, plain and simple. Kind of like life: sometimes you win, sometimes you lose, but you all get to play, everyone gets a chance.

From my recollection, we began preparing as soon as the snow melted. We competed amongst ourselves in each event and the teachers decided who had the most prowess in which three events and from then on, we individually focused on our three events. Somehow, at least one of my “specialties” always involved throwing either a softball or a football through a suspended tire or flinging that heavy shot put ball as far as I could. It was my view at the time, being more often than not the smallest of the children…success in any of these events, was a crap shoot at best, no matter how much I practiced. I must have been one lucky kid to have ended up with those events most of the time, yeah, I’m sure it was a case of luck….no “last resort” or “bottom of the barrel” decisions going on at all.

I was never a fast child but I’ve always been very close to the ground. I usually excelled enough at being short, to be placed in the potato race or whatever they called that event which involved having to dash about 50 feet pick up a potato (in our case, an erasure) off of the ground, run it back to the start and repeat that process a few times until all of the chalkboard dusters were on the same side of the finish line. Extremely exciting business for a shy girl.

I remember fondly the days of the potato sack races as well, I think we all had the pleasure of participating in that one at one time or another. Back before Americans became so concerned about the hazards of maiming innocent children’s legs with these burlap, portals of destruction… Wasn’t jumping around in those used, spud sacks the best of times? I’ve purchased a few and I use them for parties and babysitting. It’s my view that we should all slip a gunny sack over our legs and hop around every once in a while…..I promise it will make you laugh…I’m always on the hunt for original stress relievers…this one takes the cake, just imagine yourself doing it. Ladies: I suggest considering a two-bra-minimum before attempting this stunt. We all grew up participating in those races as well as the three legged race….a valiant display of teamwork if I ever saw one…it’s a wonder any one of us can walk. I’ve never heard of anyone having to repair a torn meniscus because of a potato sack injury…yet this innocent fun is not allowed anymore…such a pity.

Don’t forget the greatest competition of all: The Tug of War! I don’t know what it was about this simple competition, the final game, the meeting of the bulkiest, strongest, scrappiest of the bunch, but wow did it get the crowd’s blood pumping! I can feel the rope burns, the burning in my legs and arms from the straining on the rope, the all-out effort of the team. The “Heave-Ho, Heave-Ho, Heave-Ho” coming from our captain, the anchor: almost always a girl, thanks to nature’s cruel hand we almost always out-weighed the boys in the 5^th and 6^th grades, in the case of the tug of war, it worked to our advantage. The anchor started the chant but then the rest of the school joined in and eventually, the crowd…”HEAVE-HO!!!, HEAVE-HO!!!, HEAVE-HO!!! I loved watching that red handkerchief as it wavered to the right of center then to the left and back and forth and back and forth before one side began inching toward victory. Slowly, just a slight shuffle back of the shoes in unison, gave us the confidence we needed when we didn’t think we had anything else left. Then it happened; the other side started coming up out of there seated positions, up to middle, and then leaning, ever-so-slightly forward. They were still grimacing with everything they could muster, trying so hard but beginning to lose faith that anything but forfeit was possible. I must have been in the front position on a few occasions because I can visualize, to this day, the transformation in their faces as the hope of a win drained from their expressions…and suddenly, dramatically, it was all over. Our opponents finally succumbing to the inevitable as we shouted out the consummating: “HO” and yanked them like so many doomed fish on the end of a fisherman’s line. Over, they all stumbled in a bunch, to our side of the line so they could serve us their pride, up close and personal. Sweet victory was ours as we fell back hard on each of our team mates, the one ahead plopping down in the lap of the one behind until we were all in a heap; a veritable landslide of triumphant school spirit. The cheering of the crowd was deafening.

Now that’s competition, that is the proper way to end a school year and start a fantastic summer vacation!

I’m almost certain the “Slipper Kick” is equally as exciting for our kids today.

Then the ice cream…the best things in life never change.

I ’d like to share a quick story: my daughter and I were forced to go shopping in Omaha; we were on a mission: I needed shoes. I’m not someone who enjoys shopping so when I make a special trip to Omaha, it ’s not to wander around aimlessly looking at everything, for hours, all day……I can’t believe some people look forward to whole days of shopping! I have a list and prefer to make as few stops as possible, I go early with a plan, I get what I need and I’m more than relieved to call it done.

It ’s a Sunday, right at noon and we are at our first stop: the shoe department in JCPenneys. It takes me a few short minutes before I find a couple of acceptable pumps to try on and I turn toward the salesperson for some of her expert assistance. She does not appear overly ambitious, however her eyes are open and she is chewing some sort of peppermint cud therefore consciousness could be confirmed. She ’s young, probably a sophomore in college, dressed nicely with a pair of slacks and top, she ’s cordial and briskly becomes more animated, once I get her attention. She immediately departs to the back to retrieve my initial choices while Justice and I sit in the chairs waiting and joking about something as we often do while attempting to enjoy our shopping trips because my demeanor is generally of the let ’s-get-it-over-with-already variety. Our young salesperson returns, squats down in front of us to set down the boxes of shoes, at the same time boldly and proudly revealing to us her lovely G-string or whatever you call that elastic band thing that seems to be passing for ladies drawers lately. My young, impressionable daughter turns to me with the same comically, open-mouthed expression as my own, each of us stifling a giggle in spite of ourselves. My grandmother used to shop in this store and here we are, forced to be spectators of this makeshift, private, hometown rendition of a Victoria ’s Secret runway show.

When I see girls and women with this version of panties hanging out out of their jeans on purpose, I constantly have to fight an irrepressible urge to reach out and pluck that piece of elastic away from the wearer ’s body and just let it fly, presumably resulting in a crisp, loud snap. When I was in high school and someone ’s underwear was showing….you know what they got….that ’s right: I believe the most common term was “Wedgie”….oops, too late, these girls walk around with one and don’t seem to mind it somehow. Why would anyone even bother anyway, it ’s just some thread and a tiny quilt square? How can that item of “clothing” be anything but a nuisance or an irritant and why should the rest of us want to see that?

While I’m ranting and showing my age by verbally dragging today ’s top (or bottom, depending how you look at it) fashions through the mud; I saw a funny commercial the other day about a girl who was confused when everyone at work was referring to her as “muffin top”, she didn’t get the joke. We’re talking about low-rider jeans and women who either buy them too small or are wearing a top that was made for jeans with a slightly higher waist line, there ’s no way the two could meet in the middle, if you know what I mean. I’m glad we are all embracing our bodies, shying away from that anorexic mold and showing off our womanly curves; but sometimes it can look like it must be painful to wear because it certainly is painful to watch. The natural, something extra, that a lot of us women carry on our waistline wasn’t meant to be strangled down low and forced to spill out over a denim restraint, creating that “muffin top” affect. Actually, when you think about it, that ’s how most men wear their jeans, is that the look we’re going for? Some sort of strange androgyny? Though your belly button ring is lovely and the artwork on the base of your backside is worthy of the Louvre….the men out there may disagree, but the rest of us truly do not wish to be exposed to it.

One more thing; this is just my view, but pajama pants and slippers are meant to be worn in the home. When did it become acceptable to wear our Pj ’s and fuzzy, filthy house shoes to the mall, or school or even to the Mini Mart? Put on a pair of jeans and lace up some tennis shoes….make an effort of some sort. Jammies are for sleeping…try not to appear as though you are sleepwalking through your life. You may argue that the pants are comfortable, but the rest of us see a person who is too lazy to even change their clothes once they roll out of bed. If you really love the draw string, the roominess of the pajama pant, and the convenience of the slip on/clog-type shoe; change your career to that of one in the medical field. That way you can call your look your uniform and have a perfectly legitimate excuse to wear them at all times and just say: “I didn’t have time to change, I just got off work.” It sounds so much more noble than having to say: “I didn’t have time to change, I just woke up.” Trust me.

I know what you’re saying; “Robin, you’re just jealous because you can’t wear those fashions.” Yes, that might have something to do with it, however, just taking a quick glance around; I don’t see that women of my size exclude themselves from the group that wear the above-mentioned fashions. I could lower my jeans, hike up my elastic waistband and buy my t-shirt two sizes too short if I chose to do so but you needn’t fear, my personal rolls of “something extra” will not be on display any time in the near future. As for the belly button piercing and the body art….I’ll just leave that one open for discussion. I’ve been known to try some trendy things at least once and I commend those who choose to express their artistic side that way, but if it were me; viewings would be by invitation only.

There is a spark of irony here, if you will allow me to point it out about myself….I remember the disapproving looks and astonished gasps when I used to take the scissors, unmercifully though creatively, to my perfectly decent sweatshirts during my “Flash dance” phase back in the ’80s. I strongly suspect that this is probably just a bit of cosmic payback. It ’s okay, I deserve it….”totally dude”.

I’ve come across this “theory” over and over again in my life. Not always, necessarily, in reference to me, though at times the person educating me about life was trying to make some sort of point in my direction. As I understand it; there are two different types of people in in this world: renters and owners.

Now…. don’t get all bristled depending on which type you happen to be. This train of thought has absolutely nothing to do with how you choose to reside from month to month; it goes way deeper than that. I’ve been fortunate enough to have a plethora of “life coaches” giving me complimentary advice throughout my life. No, I’m not talking about the professional “life coaches” (whatever that means, I’m sure they charge by the hour) I’m talking about my friends and family who happen to be maybe a plumber during the day, or a farmer by trade, or a construction worker. The ones who come out to help fix something on their time off because you are friends or they are a part of your family. During more than one of my personal “emergencies”, I have been the recipient of this “renter vs. owner” lecture, free of charge and I have to say, with the exception of a few examples, the content doesn’t change much.

According to the theory; there is a mentality that goes with each type: the renter goes through life expecting every light to turn on at the flip of a switch, every car engine to turn over every time, and every garage door to open every morning and evening as if by magic with the push of a button. When the lights don’t go on one morning, it’s because the house is a piece of junk or the electrician didn’t do his job right….ten years ago, during his time off, after he finished his day job. They are easily identified because there is anger and desperation in their voices when they call to have someone come out and make life right again so they can finish drying their hair for work. They are completely unable to fathom how anything in the life of the person they have called could be more important or pressing.

The owner, on the other hand, anticipates these set backs and puts into place some annual maintenance policies; yeah it takes a little more work along the way but when the car engine doesn’t start, he can say: “I did this, this, and this…what do you think it could be?”, as opposed to; “The darn thing won’t start and now I can’t get to work, fix it now….I knew I should have bought an American car!” See the difference…in my view; the whole theory has something to do with controlling the situation thereby controlling the level of anxiety.

Being a first-time home owner and having heard this life lesson more than a few times, once following a nervous breakdown with a wet head, before I got the message loud and clear…I have tried to become more of an owner and less of a renter over the last 10 years. I have purchased a couple of “Do-It-Yourself” books and have attempted some projects on my own so as to not bother my friends and family. Success is an illusive goal generally and I’ve accepted that, but even if I don’t do it right, I learn from the experience.

For instance; I was living with this nightmare of my toilet falling through my first floor bathroom because I could see some water staining starting around the base. I can openly admit that the functions of a toilet intimidated me, I think mainly because of the ramifications should the thing back up. I’ve seen the “Dirty Jobs” episode where the poor woman had the entire neighborhoods’ toilets back up through her stool in her basement. Still, I kind of cleaned and re-oiled the floor in my bathroom for a while and convinced myself that it was nothing but then the water damage started to spread so I got out my book and decided that if there are only 4 steps to a process…..how hard can it be? I was determined to handle this one on my own; Genny gave me a boost of confidence when I went to town to buy the necessary item for the job. In the end, I followed her advice and I enlisted some help to lift the thing; this job in particular goes so much quicker with two people, so I didn’t feel badly about having help. Just lift the toilet, remove the wax ring, position the new one, replace the toilet. No nasty odors from the bowels of hell beneath my house, no sewer soup gushing onto my wood floors, no drama what-so-ever. Who knew the workings of that commode, which we all take for granted several times during each and every day, were so simple? Why was I so intimidated? I feel so confident I’m going to attempt to replace the working parts on the inside of the tank on my own.

The toilet is one thing; an electrical situation or one that involves a supporting wall in your house are on a completely different level; another attribute of an “owner” is being responsible enough to know your limits. On the other hand, there are many problems around the house that can be fixed by taking the time to read about it, assembling the proper tools, and focusing on what the real problem is. It’s my view that there are several times in life where that bit of advice rings true, not just with the mechanical problems a person may be experiencing. You may find that it isn’t terribly complicated nor a problem requiring diagnostic equipment and an expensive appointment. The problem may be something or someone in need of a little more attention, or a hinge in need of some oil, a bolt in need of a quarter turn, or a toilet in need of a fresh wax ring. A little do-it-yourself problem solving goes a long way, not only saving you money but building your confidence as well.

I was recently asked what my expectations were surrounding Valentine’s Day.

Though I answered humbly that I hadn’t really thought about it and it wasn’t important; it’s my view that all women have some sort of expectation that is most likely completely incongruent as to what the man in their lives thinks is “good enough”, or “that should do it”. Some men might argue that they deserve a Valentine’s gift as well…get over it guys….this is our holiday and our chance to fantasize about the possibilities of romance. You just had the Super Bowl party and game of your dreams, plus I understand that car racing season just started again so a constant preoccupation with how you are going to get away to a television each weekend to watch the race is now monopolizing your thoughts…the woman in your life deserves at least this one day.

Roses are great, I personally would never turn down flowers and it’s always secretly exciting to have all of the envious eyes on you if perchance the aromatic sentiment is delivered to you at your place of work. It does kind of depend on where a person happens to be employed…some working environments detract from the moment, no matter how beautiful the flower or thoughtful and emotional the card attached. On that note…if he’s going to do it right, it can get expensive and as with most cut flowers, they do tend to die eventually. Some of us have to stretch our imaginations slightly to keep the romance alive when we see the drooping, wilted, molding flowers in the vase five days later. That said, nothing beats that unfettered skip in your heart when you first see the perfect bouquet of large-bud, long-stemmed, velvety red roses meant only for you.

Candy, yes another option, but come on guys. Didn’t you read my last article? We are still trying to stick to our New Year’s resolutions and of course, the lenten season has begun lest we forget. But it’s simple, easy and the heart-shaped boxes are pretty….I guess you could pick that up and then say to yourself: “There, that should do it.” Plus you could buy it on Monday and with the weather being what it is, the candy would keep in the truck until Thursday when you might run across something during your day that will remind you to give it to “that someone special” in your life.

I’ve heard some men feel that lingerie is a highly romantic and appropriate gift for this time of year. Let me clue you in on a little something guys, if you weren’t already aware: we’re on to you, we know that sort of thing is truly a gift to yourselves. Ladies, if that’s the sort of gift you receive, you should be thankful that it isn’t a purse or some other item of clothing. He went to the trouble of buying it for you, you might feel obligated to actually use it or wear it even though it’s probably totally wrong for you and therefore hideous….at least with lingerie, no one else would have to see it. One should always stop to count their blessings.

Gifts, in my view, needn’t cost anything. There is no price on an impromptu neck/shoulder rub or a foot massage at the end of the day. We women carry all of our stress in our shoulders and all of our weight, for 14 or more hours a day, on our feet. Most of us are too busy to pay attention to ourselves so a little unassuming pampering focused on those areas from someone else without asking, might be the best gift. For some, a romantic note, even if it’s a poem copied from a book, the unexpected always fosters a sense of curiosity and allure. You could always offer to make dinner for the family, but only if you are able to pull it off and only if you are also willing to clean up afterwards, including washing the dishes. Oh and the best for last…offer to pick up the kids or to take them to one of their practices so she doesn’t have to drop everything in the afternoon; allowing her the rare luxury of actually finishing a project she’s started, for a change. Trust me, this sort of thing is a secret desire of most women on a daily basis; to have someone to step in as the family escort service…just for a day.

Most importantly, give her some thought. If you know her and you think about it for a time, you will know what she wants, what small gesture from you melts her heart…but it takes time and thought. I don’t think any woman would ask for much more. If you simply have no clue and you have to ask…you might be over thinking…keep it simple and just take her into consideration…and that is guaranteed to be “good enough”.

Raise your rhetorical hand if, once again, on December 31st, you were one of those people that has made that ridiculous vow to lose 20 pounds or more. Has anyone else out there, like me, had a rough couple of weeks filled with cheating, self doubt and self condemnation? Are you feeling guilty knowing you’ve used up your total points for the day and it’s only 0830 in the morning? Have you told yourself, at least once, that tomorrow I’ll be good….I’ll definitely start that diet for real…on Monday?

I remember my first diet, I think I was 12 years old and there has been a whole laundry list of them since then: starvation, water, Adkins, South Beach, tuna fish and diet mountain dew, weight watchers, curves, basic training, not to mention the several purchases of exercise equipment/laundry dryers that have found their way back out of my house and into happier homes where their owner pays closer attention to them. You name it, I’ve tried it. Out of all of them; the only one that worked, really worked, was being constantly reminded that I would lose my job and be asked to leave the military with a dishonorable discharge. For being too fat!!! Can you imagine the shame? That is the extent or extreme motivation required for me to actually follow through with this New Year’s resolution!

I’m finally realizing, as I go through this same scenario over and over and over again, that I don’t see my dieting as a commitment but rather as a sort of “hobby”. Therein lies the problem quite possibly. Not something I do every day or even very often at all, and not something that I take so much pleasure in that I can’t live without it. However it is something that I’ve appreciated in the past. I’ve invested so much money, time, and effort toward this hobby, over the years, so it’s not something that I can just drop completely. I have to admit that I have enjoyed the outcome of my efforts at least twice, though only for short periods of time. I pick it up again every now and then, relearn all of the steps, work with it for awhile, leave it laying out in the living room for a few weeks with the intention of taking a stab at it a little every day, ignore it for days at a time and, eventually, I just put it all back in the closet until I get the urge to begin again….like that quilt I’ve been stitching away at for the past 5 years.

I have to say, I recently quit a nationally popular weight program after three grueling years…week after week… facing that woman with that horrifying scale and paying her $12 to chastise me about my inadequacies in a subtle effort to somehow motivate me! My excuses each week were starting to sound repetitive and so much less creative than I am capable of….my heart just wasn’t in it. A new friend of mine, I’ll call her Helen, told me that at her last weigh in…and a HUGE gain of two tenths of a pound showed up on the tiny window of one of the “scales-from-hell in her life…her counselor asked her if she was writing everything down and she told her; “Well, no…you wouldn’t want me to get writer’s cramp would you…it’s the holiday season?” I got a chuckle from that and I’ve put that little gem away to be used later, because I’m sure I’ll join up again and subject myself to that superior, judgmental gaze, putting my wares on display at some public weigh-in, somewhere in my future. That particular comment will be killer!

Don’t get me wrong…those poor folks are simply doing their job. Of course you have to have reached and maintained your goal weight to be able to obtain their career positions so I’m sure their perspective is completely opposite of say…mine. Think of the uphill battle though, it’s hard enough to lose your own weight…but to measure your success and be responsible for someone else’s weight? I would feel a bit more empathetic if I believed that the diet industry actually measured their success by their clients’ weight loss. Yes… “ouch!”

As for my own personal journey; I’d love to be able to say genetics has had something to do with it but unfortunately I have two skinny sisters so that excuse works only up until they come into the picture. I’d like to say it’s because I’m busy but I see so many other people who have so much more on their plate than I, and they are thin and healthy. I’d like to blame America…why not? Tempting me with all of that fantastic junk food at every turn. We’ve managed to foster a system whereby the stuff that’s fattening and salty and full of sugar is cheaper and you don’t even have to haul your carcass out of the car to get to it…what a deal?!?! Over the past few years I’ve been blaming Mexico as well, partly because I tote myself as an equal opportunity type gal, but also, having been exposed to the cuisine at work, first Texas then Schuyler; I have found that I absolutely love spicy, hot, cheesy enchiladas, pupusas, quesadillas, and nachos! Since I mentioned work: having discounted access to the best quality red meat of any variety, hasn’t helped curb my carnal desire for a perfectly grilled, medium-rare, end cut either. Let’s not forget the cuisine of my mother land. I could never pass on roast pork and duck, sour kraut with caraway, stick-to-the-roof-of-your-mouth, old-fashioned dumplings, horn rolls, and don’t forget the kolaches.

So there you have it. Gluttony personified, that’s me. Yet, annually, I sit here and wonder why these darn diets never work for me. It’s my view that a lot of us do. We tend to experience and enjoy life by tasting it, and then we suffer the consequences. We hear it all the time: “Everything in moderation” . I guess that’s the simple key. In addition to my annual self evaluation of my reckless food intake over the past couple of months, I had a surprise visit from a friend of mine. Someone who has known me for a couple of decades and even he asked me if I was “at least walking”. I’ll take that as a hint that I may be crossing over the line of “fat and happy” on into “you’d-better-do-something-quick-or-you-soon-won’t-fit-through-the-door”. In response to his inquiry, I’ve signed up for, yet another, nutrition/diet type seminar….who knows, maybe this will be the one! I hope they don’t make me give it all up….should I be forced to imagine a life without poppyseed kolaches… seriously folks, what would be the point?

Good luck with your resolutions, whatever they may be and if you ever find yourself in need of a walking partner, give me a call. Until then…keep your chin up; it gives you an air of confidence and it also makes one of those extra chins magically disappear.

I’d like to share a few things that I have found humorous or noteworthy during my holiday season thus far. I invite you to laugh along with me.

This past weekend, the contractor who has been working on a tiny construction project at my house…well, it seemed to be tiny in the beginning, came over in the afternoon around 2pm to update me on a few things because we don’t see one another much during the week. Unfortunately, my daughter and I were still in our pajamas.

Initially, one would imagine that I had been lounging around my place in my fuzzy slippers, partaking of the plate of Oreo/cream cheese/almond bark Christmas cookies that a neighbor brought over and watching TV, too lazy to even dress for the day. That was not the case, I assure you. Did you ever have one of those mornings where you start cleaning something…not just cleaning…but CLEANING!? Especially now, before all of the relatives and other company is expected to come over, enjoy some holiday cheer and at the same time, inspect your housekeeping skills. We all do it, be honest. Anyway, it was one of those days where one feels compelled to remove everything out from under the beds and dressers, shove it all over, vacuum and sweep and dust, then proceed to organizing the closet that hasn’t been touched in years, then on to the cupboard under the sink and so on. Well, I was having that kind of Sunday and I just kept on going without stopping to change clothes because, as we all know, I would have lost my momentum. I ended up in the kitchen with my daughter, baking several different types of cookies, simultaneously, when the doorbell rang rather unexpectedly. My first and last-born: Justice, runs and opens the door with not so much as a “Who is it?”, nor a “Just a minute…” Everyone is welcome to walk right in at the Simanek’s house as far as Justice is concerned. Oddly, Gene didn’t appear shocked as I came out of the kitchen in my lounge wear sprinkled generously with flour from the baking which went nicely with the dry wall dust covering my shins from the old-fashioned floor washing that took place before the baking extravaganza began. We had a “normal “ conversation and then for some reason, after he left, I went upstairs and changed into my jeans and a regular-sized t-shirt, and I even combed my hair. I’m not sure why, by that time I could have just continued as I was. As you would guess, I lost that original drive and the pepper nut dough sits in the fridge, awaiting the cookie sheets and the oven, to this day.

Then on Monday night, I was innocently on my way to our annual Legion Christmas Party, I went to step down onto the first stair of my deck and I slipped on a small patch of ice. I must have hit my gluteus maximus as my foot went out from under me because I had to have bounced to land the way I did. If you’ve seen my derrière, it wouldn’t require much stretch of the imagination to visualize the whole scenario happening. Somehow, I ended up face down, five steps later, on my sidewalk with my legs twisted under the last stair. I actually yelled: “Son of a Nutcracker!” (We’ve been watching a lot of “Elf” these past few weeks.)

It was that kind of fall where you lay there, motionless after the cascade of motion ceases. I was static there in a heap for a few minutes, taking a head-to-toe inventory to make sure nothing felt broken before I attempted to rise up to a standing position and give the legs another go. I was lucky; I came out of it with just a large bruise over my right shin, a scratch to my right forearm, and another large bruise on my springy, elastic, bouncy….well….”pride”….we’ll call it. I’ve talked to so many people in the last couple of weeks with broken bones and dislocated rotator cuffs resulting from their spontaneous adventures on ice, so I’d say I was pretty fortunate. Again, serendipity was on my side in that Carol Wilson’s Armadillo Punch at the Legion Party was just what the doctor would have ordered and I was soon feeling no pain. Thank you Carol! Seriously everyone, please be extra careful out there.

Last thing, I promise. My work has required me to drive to our plant in Nebraska City once a week or so for the last month to help out and I was unsure about it when they first asked me to do it…okay, I’ll be honest, I was kind of whining about it. It’s my view that most of us can be that way when someone forces us out of our comfort zone and routine, plus with the weather being what it is here in Nebraska, I had my concerns.

I say it over and over again, but I have to be the most fortuitous person I know. I’ve been paying closer attention to the weather, with it being different every day; I try to plan my week with this four hours of driving across Nebraska highways smack in the middle of it. There were many times last week, I wondered if I was even going to venture an attempt. Somehow every time I have had to take that long drive, the sky opens up, the sun comes out in full force and the day is clear, crisp and beautiful. Thursday was extra amazing, I don’t know how else to describe it! The unending, rolling hills on the drive south were seamlessly covered with this brilliantly white, perfectly untouched, glimmering immaculate snow. Every once in a while I would see a heard of Angus grazing in the stalks, flawlessly spaced, just begging to strike a pose for a wintery, Christmas-card-like shot against the knoll behind them. The result of the ice storms lingered longer south of Lincoln and every blade of grass, every tiny branch of every tree, every old, crooked fence post and it’s joining lines of barbed wire were laced with a lovely, clear, glass-like coating. The morning sun added to their magical sparkle and back lit the glistening trees with such drama I don’t even remember driving. I was there before I knew it, singing along to the Christmas carols on the radio with shameless abandon the entire way. Later in the afternoon, things warmed up nicely to make it a truly pleasant December day. Who on this earth can say they have such luck to be anonymously presented with such a gift on a routine, mundane drive to work? I almost stopped the car on the side of Highway 2 to count my blessings. With presents like that, who needs Gordmans or Sears?

Have a Happy Holiday everyone and don’t forget to laugh at yourselves every now and then.

Be safe, be warm, be together and enjoy the season!