Political signs endorse responses to needs

It’s political season and for the most part I tune it out. To me, political rhetoric is akin to static – distorted and irritating. If I wanted to hear a bunch of empty promises, I’d just ask my kids to clean their rooms. 

When it comes to politicians, I approach them the same way I always have Richard Gere movies: Turn down the volume so what he is saying doesn’t distract me from the visual. Rather than listen to claims and boasts, I watch what politicians do when not campaigning.

That’s why I have not one, but two, yes TWO, political campaign signs in my yard right now. Don’t read into the fact that one endorses a Republican. I’ve been a diehard non-partisan for some time. Mom and Dad taught us to “vote effective, not affiliation,” (wonder if they know I sleep with a Ronald Regan Republican?).

So I have been voluntarily mowing lawn around a “Re-Elect Julie Camp” sign. As my Calhoun County Commissioner, she has kept in regular contact, asked my thoughts on issues and fielded my many annoying inquiries. One conversation with Julie generally answers everything I have wondered about an issue. And what I probably should have wondered. Added value!

Even BEFORE she became a candidate, Julie had long been actively involved in community life, attending not just her own crapload of meetings and events, but lots of others so she could learn more. Commendably scary. Her level of activity and commitment wear me out. If I ever become that rabidly community-minded, please shoot me. Public service sickness!

Too many politicians spend their time climbing onto soap boxes, proclaiming effectiveness. CamPAIN in the butt! I’d mow OVER their campaign signs. I save my votes for legislators who actually do something. Quieter competence demonstrated through real work does it for me. Shut up and roll up your sleeves.

My other yard sign instructs passers-by to vote to renew the Senior Millage. Why? Because aging isn’t optional. It also “ain’t for sissies.” Yeah, yeah, we all know that. But do we really? I don’t know if any of us can truly “get it” until it old age strikes. Or if we are fortunate enough to live or work closely with someone who is going through aging-related changes and challenges. I’ve had the privilege and can attest: Growing old is neither cheap nor easy.

“Why should I care? Seniors have Medicare!” one thirtysomething told me. Well, they do if they are 65 or older. But even then, one of Medicare’s oddities is that it doesn’t cover items like glasses and hearing aids. How ironic (but hugely cost saving to the federal government!), with diminished vision and hearing being two of the most common aging-related medical problems.

And what about the not-yet-eligible for Medicare seniors? The Calhoun County .7452 mil senior millage helps fill in the gaps for those between age 60-64 with access and healthcare services, including transportation, benefits counseling, home care management, home heating and repair assistance, money management, information and referrals, meals, prescription assistance, dental services, adult day care, “lifelines,” vision and hearing assistance, as well as primary health care for the uninsured.

If the idea of helping people in need doesn’t grab you, the economics should. It costs taxpayers a lot less to take care of people in the community than it does to pay for their care in a long-term care facility. I know this from directing an aging services agency in Jackson County and from serving on the Senior Millage Allocations Committee (SMAC) in Calhoun County. 

“It must be nice to work with those nice, sweet old people every day,” I get told. Well, not all seniors are nice and sweet. Only about as many as are nice and sweet in the general population. Someone who was an SOB at 40 is likely to have only picked up a lot of steam by age 80.

While cantankerous seniors may be equally needy, the image I visualize when I go to vote on the senior millage renewal is of the many seniors who told me during a recent customer satisfaction survey, “We have no idea what we would have done without your help.”

Injuries rarely stem from noble actions

 I approach my computer keyboard with trepidation. Not because I lack thoughts, but due to a recent hand injury that’s had me whining and wincing for the better part of a week. No make that for the WORSE part of a week.

Just as I suspected: Typing further exacerbates the throbbing pain in my left pinky. But at least I have the comfort of knowing I was doing something noble when I nearly amputated the end of my little finger. Hardly. I was attempting to one-handedly fold up one of those nylon camp chairs at a baseball game.

The resulting speechless pain could not be quelled without putting down everything I was holding in my right hand and wrestling the newly-dangerous chair to the ground to alleviate the pressure. My finger instantly bled and swelled to twice its normal size. Like most stupid injuries, I couldn’t do it again on a bet. But that careless moment caused excessive pain and nearly crippled me from playing piano for my nephew’s wedding that weekend.

An even less glamorous injury occurred to my right ring finger the week prior, when I blindly shoved my hand into the side pocket of my purse, forgetting the pair of earrings I keep there. A sharp earring back penetrated a half-inch into the nail bed (wince), nearly sending me into shock. Again, I had nothing to show for that sacrifice except ongoing pain.

Overall, I don’t think of myself as much of a risk-taking individual, outside of occasionally leaving the iron on all day (a problem solved through boycotting ironing in favor of the much safer dryer fluffing technique of wrinkle removal). And I rarely repeat the same risks twice, provided marriage isn’t counted among potentially hazardous actions. Surely that counts for something.

At work we have a Risk Management Team (RMT) that collects, reviews and analyzes accident data, then makes recommendations on how to behave more safely. It’s comprised of some of my more careful colleagues, who don’t find themselves nursing freak folding chair injuries. For some reason, I’ve not been asked to sit on the committee.

I don’t need the extra guidance at work, where I take relatively few risks outside of occasionally shoving my hand into a red-hot copier to remove a jam or baiting our industrial-sized paper shredder with my dangling work badge. Home is where I could use the committee’s services, as that’s where I more regularly tempt fate.

Wouldn’t RMT have had a field day with the self-administered concussion I suffered when a glass blender fell on my head from on high as I attempted to re-shelve its plastic counterpart that I’d used to make frozen margaritas? Subsequent investigation would have determined alcohol use was a factor. But at least it prevented it from hurting as much.

RMT would want to know why I had violated the laws of ergonomics by reaching above my head with chairs and stools nearby that could have put me closer to my goal. I would have countered I knew better than to go climbing while tipsy. RMT would have found me guilty, anyway, and provided additional consequences to the natural one of having to part my hair painfully around the goose egg bump documentation of my foolishness.

My most frequent injury is getting my butt in a sling. But that’s decidedly different. Less metaphorically, an acquaintance of mine is walking around with his arm in a sling, having tripped while cleaning his garage. That’s on par with my grandpa breaking his leg dancing with a blonde (Grandma was a brunette!), and a friend’s mother cracking her kneecap slipping in dog poop. At least I don’t have THAT on my medical record. No, I am just the person who non-heroically pulled a calf muscle toppling backward off the organ bench as a teenager.

Just once, I want a less ignoble injury, caused by doing something brave or daring. I’d settle for rescuing a small child from drowning, saving an elderly person from a burning building, or thwarting a bank robbery. Should I die heroically, please place a memorial plaque in the local emergency room lobby, stating “Her last and only worthwhile risk.”

Underwear and flesh flashing start early

Has anyone else seen the Huggies print or TV ads for the new “Little Movers” Jeans Diapers? They feature a toddler with a James Dean hairdo standing with his butt to the camera at an entertainment premiere. The child’s diapers are designed to look like the rear end of a pair of jeans. All eyes upon him, the tagline goes, “Make a little fashion statement.”

Pardon me, but (or “butt”) what the heck is THAT about?! When I last checked, weren’t diapers supposed to be worn UNDER clothing, not as a substitute for clothing? Junior exhibitionism tickets are going on sale ever earlier. Just why did Huggies come up with the concept of a denim-looking diaper complete with pockets and brand label? They know Americans are stupid enough to buy them.

Being merely fortunate enough to enjoy the availability of disposable diapers isn’t enough. Nope, we need to go one better in our quest to one-up the Joneses: Designer disposable diapers. Even though economic times are tight, there must still be enough  people with enough disposable income to invest in cutesy disposable diapers. Have we disposed of our minds?

I’ve got news for the purchasers: The Little Movers diapers are going to fill up just as rapidly as the plain white ones. They’re just likely to empty your wallet more quickly.

The Little Movers ad also illustrates the disturbing trend of America’s ever-increasing pride in self-revelation. Former “unmentionables” have become something everyone seems to want others to see and hear. Apparently, we can’t start early enough when it comes to instilling this value in our young.

I do not plan to jump on this bandwagon. For starts, it would require a massive underwear upgrade on my part, an expense I’m not prepared to undertake. As the owner of mostly past their prime, non-exotic undergarments, I have a civic duty to shield others from them.

For finishers, I would need a whole new wardrobe of low-rise waistband jeans and pants, as well as plunging neckline and thin-strapped shirts for display purposes. If I’m going to start a mobile flesh gallery, I want to be sure I do it right. My skin is also noticeably absent of tattoos, another pre-requisite for showcasing wayward flesh.

There was a time, in the more recent good old days, when not only decency, but one’s level of physical fitness presented a barrier to underwear and flesh revelation. Love handles remained tucked safely inside clothing, out of reach. Like turning a pan’s handle inward on a stovetop, it was done for safety purposes.

Unfortunately, this is no longer the case. These days, we’re bumping into a lot more of everything. Whether or not we want to. Everywhere we look. You can’t just look away, because turning from the left only reveals another revealing outfit to your right, on someone who is hanging out of it even worse.

A few years ago, I unwittingly contributed to the “let it all hang out” problem. I was working in downtown Kalamazoo as a probation officer, a half-mile’s walking distance from public safety headquarters and the courthouse. Dressed in a conservative skirt and blouse, briefcase in hand, I stopped by public safety on my way to court.

A truckload of construction workers drove by me as I exited public safety. “Whoo hoo! Check it out! Hot mama!” they catcalled and whistled. I looked around for the lustful object of their affection, but I was the only one in the immediate vicinity.

“What perverts!” I said to myself, glancing over my right shoulder at them. It was then that I saw it. The hem of my longish skirt riding atop my briefcase, my slip keeping it company. My right butt cheek was completely exposed. I yanked my skirt back down, but within a few steps it was back up. The friction of the fabric against the leather was causing it. I’d been half-mooning people my entire walk. Yikes.

Mine was the last-known case of fashion shame and the next-to-last case of documented slip wearing among women under the age of 85. I’ve started wearing jeans-looking adult diapers called “Big MOOvers.” In case I get the urge to make another fashion statement.

Family bike ride exposes leadership issues

What could be more family-oriented and relaxing than a nice, quiet bicycle ride together after dinner?  Having tried it, I’d have to say “just about anything else!” However, if your goal with bike riding is to get your blood pumping and your blood pressure elevated (whether you get any actual exercise), the family plan will do the trick.

It’s always the same: Predictably awful in various ways. First there are the kids teasing to go before they complete the tasks I use bike riding to leverage them to do. What better way to assure Connor picks up his Army play gear and Kate cleans the cat box?

Instead of action, I receive verbal IOUs the chores will get done as soon as we get back. They promise. Scouts honor. Only neither is a scout. And I’ve heard this all before. Nightly. I take out my driver’s license and verify I was indeed born in 1963, not yesterday. Get over it, kids. Do the chores NOW.  I busy myself with doing the dishes. They continue to carp over their assignments.

Second, there’s the fight that ensues as they go to liberate their bicycles from captivity. Whose turn is it to unlock the cable that binds them? Who gets to carry the key? Who has to run it back to the house? Whose bike comes out first? Who really cares?! It’s anything but carefree.

Uh oh. Soft tire. Where did they put the air pump after the last use? It’s not where it’s supposed to be on the porch behind the bottle bin. Ah, seems they used it last week to make hissing noises to scare the cat. That explains why it’s now outside, in the under-the- hedge playhouse, next to the hose reel that also shouldn’t be there.

What if I’d been home alone, unable to find it without their guidance, thwarted from a much-needed bike ride due to an unfixable flat? “But that DIDN’T happen, did it?” Connor points out, bursting my overly-dramatic, hypothetical bubble, suggesting I get over it.

Third comes the helmet battle. I resist the urge to whap Kate in the head for not wanting to wear her expensive head protection. I decide to wait until she dons the helmet, which, curiously, somehow got returned to the hook on which it’s supposed to reside. She must have wanted some special privilege she could leverage only through obedience.

“But it will mess up my hair,” Kate protests next. I state the bathtub is the only place she will be going following the ride. No audience there, so get over it. She changes tactics and claims the strap hurts her ears. I counter that she rarely uses them for listening, so that’s negligible. Why don’t we just shave her head like Connor’s? She shuts up.

At last we’re ready to go. Except for the water bottles Connor insists we can’t leave home without. “We’re only riding a couple of miles,” I remind. But his self-imposed military readiness training will not let him leave without adequate provisions. I cajole him into just one water bottle, the one that rests in the holder on my bicycle.

Now Kate wants to carry her own small water bottle in her shiny pink bicycle handlebar zipper pack. I tell her we’re not going to waste any more time getting it. We instead waste time addressing Connor’s unfairness concerns that no handlebar pack came with his bike. I tell him to get over it because his bicycle cost me $20 more than Kate’s, so he actually got the better deal. Better deal? Hrmph! This sets off Kate again with accusations that I like him better. In unison, Connor and I tell her to get over it.

Daylight is fading when we finally hit the road. Connor shoots out ahead with a burst of speed. Kate shrieks it should be her turn to lead. I bring up the rear, shouting “car” each time I hear one approach from behind. Five minutes in, it starts to sprinkle, so we head back home. “Who’s the leader?” I shout into the rising wind. Clearly not me. If only I could get over it.

One love, one roof finally materializes

Just six weeks short of two years of marriage, my husband and I are finally living under one roof. Well, at least five of the seven days per week. Operation “OLOR” or One Love (under) One Roof, as he refers to it, is nearly complete. While not absolute cohabitation, this beats the pants off seeing each other only two days per week.

Why did this take so long? We wanted to do things “right,” which always takes four times as long (and costs twice as much). But it’s worth it, or at least that’s how you self-justify the extra hassle as you’re wading through it. Unlike in childhood, when doing the right thing was reinforced by parental feet on your seat, adult doing the right thing is something you kick yourself over.

My husband and I agreed early in the relationship on the importance of doing things right by everyone to the extent possible, in a way honoring existing commitments and the important others in our lives.

In retrospect, had we fully realized four years ago what we were signing up for on our first “non-date” (I wouldn’t date Kerry at first because I was friends with his ex-wife), we might not have chosen each other as life traveling companions, let alone taken the high road. Sure we’ll feel good about it in old age, but we’ve got to make it there alive.

Nothing prepares one for the sacrifice required of the high road. While the air is clean and traffic minimal along that narrow path, you’re traveling substantially uncharted territory. No map in the glove box of a vehicle unequipped with a GPS. You never know exactly where you are. The seats are uncomfortable and lack safety belts. Faith is the only provision you get to take along.

After I consented to going out, Kerry and I dated for a year and then were engaged for a year before embarking upon the madness of a separate household marriage. I suppose we could have held off on marriage, as many people have pointed out to us. But we were certain nothing short of full commitment would do. That still holds true today, but check back with me after we finish consolidating households. It may have changed.

There have been tolls to pay along the high road and an abundance of potholes. My chief complaint is the absence of rest stops. You just have to keep driving forward. Like a traffic jam, life is a series of “hurry up and wait” sequences. For us, it’s been wait, wait, wait, then HURRY UP!

Kerry’s youngest child graduated at the end of May. Kerry listed his house June 8^th. The graduation open house was June 12. Kerry began packing June 13 and moving in June 19. OLOR cometh at last, just as he’d guaranteed. It’s nice to be married to someone who delivers on his promise. Just wish it came without boxes.

As the boxes started rolling in, I felt a rising sense of panic and displacement. And I’m not the one moving. I don’t do well with things out of place. And I liked ruling MY household. Two sets of lifetime habits converge. Getting along was easy with separate houses to retreat to. So I gut the closet in my (I mean “our”) bedroom and make it his, a symbolically submissive gesture: Making room for our lives together.

Kerry is coming from central air, three bathrooms, a large laundry room, double refrigerator with ice-maker, dishwasher and a garage. But it wasn’t home. I pencil him in on our hot water-rationing shower schedule and demonstrate ice cube tray emptying. This must feel like camping to him. We consolidate grocery lists. His must-haves include 2% milk (we’re skim people), more red meat, fruit-on-the-bottom yogurt, fresh ground coffee, and large quantities of refrigerator hogging, under-ripe fruit. I’ll comply.

As I am fond of saying, “The warm sensation you feel in the pit of your stomach from doing the right thing is actually just the start of an ulcer.” I should have packed some antacids for the high road trip. I write “Rolaids” on the joint grocery list. Hopefully a small bottle will do.