The Lipstick Brigade

"Beauty hurts," my mother used to say.

Ha! As a barefoot young teen growing up on the beaches of Florida, that concept seemed ridiculous.

My idea of beautiful back then was a new tie-dyed shirt. Flip-flops that had that unforgettable "fresh-rubber" smell. Flourescent nail polish. A bottle of shampoo to take the green out of my chlorine-drenched hair.

But over the years I must admit that my mother's words have occasionally haunted me.

And anyone who has sat for hours with tightly-banded perm rods adhered to their scalp and endured the smelly chemical process that ultimately promised to produce the perfect curl knows just what I mean.

Still, except for a few enhancements to cover the, ahem, occasional gray hair, I have pretty much avoided the beauty-entrapments that lead women to cringe.

I've never had a bikini wax. Never had a tummy tuck. Don't pluck my eyebrows. Haven't gotten my belly button pierced.

I did have a facial years ago, but it was a home-brewed natural concoction made with overly ripe avocadoes from our tree. And it didn't hurt a bit. In fact, with a few tortilla chips, it would have been a tasty snack.

That's not to say that I've let personal grooming fall by the wayside. Especially during the campaign, I've made sure to faithfully wear my pantyhose and keep my high heels ready.

Of all things, it's the lipstick that got me in trouble.

Women understand the lipstick problem. You find the perfect color, you put it on and it looks incredible. Until you have a cup of coffee. By the time the mug is drained, there's more lipstick on the rim of the cup than on the lips.

But modern beauty scientists have fixed all that.

You see, their laboratories have invented a new kind of lipstick that stays on despite a swim in Lake Erie. It's really a stain, and boy does it work. I would paint that "Mocha Ice" color on first thing in the morning, and by golly, at midnight my lips still looked kissable.

But a couple of days ago, while applying the miracle pigment, my lips felt a bit tingly. Hmmm.

But who noticed? We were whizzing from one campaign event to another like the steel ball on a pin ball table.

Then I woke up yesterday morning. My lips were huge, swollen and distorted. They were numb and purple. It looked like bo-tox gone bad.

You know you're in trouble when the pharmacist moans when he sees you. Then chuckles.

For me, it was a day of antihistimines, chapstick and no talking. And for those of you who know me, or have seen me whooping at the Freedom Rallies, you know how tough that was.

Fortunately, my lips are back in service. I'll be right there with our Freedom Fighters at tomorrow's rally, and I'll be wooohoooing it like never before.

But in the end, mothers are usually right.

Beauty does, occasionally, hurt.

Look Out, Annie Oakley

I've got a pretty comprehensive "bucket" list going.

You know, that's the elusive agenda of feats -- daring and otherwise -- that one wishes to do before one, er, kicks the bucket.

And, at the ripe old age of 54, my index of desires continues to grow.

But some items have remained constant for at least two decades now. For example, I want to speak French fluently. Swim the English Channel. Make a felony arrest.

Yes, you read that last one correctly. That fantasy likely began in the 1960s with Jack Lord, who never missed a shot as ace detective Steve McGarrett on Hawaii Five-O. How I loved that television crime drama. Between the strong-jawed McGarrett and the lush scenery of the Aloha State, I was a law-and-order believer.

In the 70s, it was the rumpled, cigar-smoking Columbo that caught my fancy. After Peter Falk's memorable character, my tastes ranged from Magnum, P.I., to the stylish Miami Vice.

Heck, even now, I'm likely to go through Monk-withdrawal.

So it was this weekend that I came one step closer to the whole woman-with-gun fantasy.

No, I didn't get to read a grisly drug dealer his Miranda rights, nor did I slap handcuffs on a wormy miscreant.

But I did fire a 20-gauge shotgun.

Invited to participate in the Central Coast Young Republicans annual skeet shoot, I decided it might be the closest thing to an arrest I'm going to get to make anytime soon. So I donned my cowgirl boots and joined young conservatives -- as well as three San Luis Obispo County Sheriff candidates -- for the competition.

The setting was beautiful, on the hillside of Mike Zimmerman's Arroyo Grande ranch. Zimmerman, the best choice in the race for SLO supervisor, hosted the event and his son, Joseph, loaned me the family rifle.

Thanks to the amazing instruction of my liberty-loving gun guru Thad Fendon, within short order, I was actually hitting those evasive clay pigeons when they flew into the air.


I'll have you know that at one grand moment, I nailed 5 in a row!

We've had a lot of exhilarating days since the campaign began, but this was the best for me. I loaded that wooden rifle, cried "PULL!" and pretended I was Annie Oakley. It just doesn't get much better than that.

Maybe I can't cross "felony arrest" off my bucket list yet, but I'm one step closer. And it was even more satisfying than I imagined.

Book 'em, Danno.

Keeping Both Feet on the Ground

It's important to stay grounded while we're running at warp speed during the campaign.

Along the way, I've been collecting insights like my mother used to collect Delft figurines: some are precious and still others sit on the back of the shelf. And occasionally, the "ordinary" deserves another look.

The first lesson I've learned is so simple you may chuckle. Nonetheless, like the commonplace blue-and-white porcelain Dutch shoe on my mom's display, it's important to dust it off every now and then and re-examine:

People are just people, no matter their stature in life.

The other morning we were in Santa Barbara meeting participants of a high-powered business symposium. Trying hard to look chipper in my red suit after just a few hours of sleep, I greeted perhaps hundreds of men and women, each of whom are community pillars in their own right.

At one point, a nearby construction worker approached me. "Do you know who that was," he asked, referring to a woman who had just taken our campaign card.

"No," I responded. "Who?"

"That was the mayor of Santa Barbara!" he replied. "The mayor!"

Maybe I should have been ga-ga. After all, Helene Schneider recently won a tough fight in the political arena herself. But I wasn't. Instead, her tireless mayoral campaign made me somehow connected, even if she does have different political views.

We've met so many people since January that I've lost count. But I haven't lost track of their human-ness. I've learned that if you have just a minute to connect, it is easy to find common ground. Maybe it's kids. Or sports. Or, heaven forbid, politics.

I find that reassuring, whether the person in front of me is chairman of a huge bank or a father just looking for work.

It wasn't always that way for me. Once, in my early 20s, I had a chance to meet movie star Robert Redford. I was casual, almost cocky, in my preparation for the encounter. Then, when the Big Moment came, I was utterly speechless. I faltered around, groping for a few pithy words, but nothing came out.

I was horrified, and still recall the meeting with a shudder.

Fortunately, that was a long time ago.

Now, I no longer have stars in my eyes. And the best way to remain on the ground is to come home after a day of campaigning and hug my kids.

There's simply nothing in the universe that can replace their "yipeee" when we walk in the front door. They don't ask how many voters we talked to, who we sat with at dinner or what the news media is writing.

Rather, they're ready to color or practice baseball or read a book.


The other night, I pulled one of our family favorites off the shelf. To the boys, Horton, the portly elephant protecting the tiny citizens of Who-ville in Dr. Seuss' "Horton Hears A Who," is just a funny character with a giant heart. But the deeper meaning, so eloquently stated by the Mayor of Who-ville, is not to be missed:

"This," cried the Mayor, "is your town's darkest hour!
The time for all Whos who have blood that is red
To come to the aid of their country," he said.
"We've GOT to make noises in greater amount!
So open your mouth, lad! For every voice counts!"

Sometimes, it truly is the least among us who make the biggest impact.

10 Tiny Fingers, 10 Tiny Toes

The campaign came to a screaming halt yesterday.

And it should have.

Our granddaughter was born at 12:39 p.m.

She is precious. With a shock of dark hair and chubby little cheeks, she is our littlest campaigner!

And while we're on the subject of politics, they say all babies bear resemblance to Winston Churchill.

They're wrong. Not this one. She is just, well, beautiful.

New life. Welcome, granddaughter.

We will love you forever.

Swim, Bike, Run ...

I started this campaign determined to continue my workout schedule.

It hasn't been easy. And I haven't been perfect. But one inspiration was our Santa Maria YMCA's annual triathlon. Once entered, I knew I couldn't stop swimming or running lest I completely embarass myself in the competition.

So it was last Saturday that I rolled out of bed, ate a banana and a bowl of oatmeal and competed in my second-ever triathlon.

And I'm happy to report that I finished!

Waiting for me at the finish line were my boys, all four of 'em. Dave took time from campaigning to snap a few photos, John helped dress the little boys in their baseball uniforms, and they all cheered me on.

Better than any medal was the sight of my family waiting.

Oh yes, and the free massage -- thanks to volunteers from the Santa Barbara Business College -- didn't hurt, either!

The Truth About My Car

In some ways, the world can be divided into two different types of people: those who have immaculate vehicles and, well, the rest of us.

And while I desperately want to be considered in the first category, the sad truth is the interior of my car borders on the chaotic.

To put it another way, if I were caught in a freak blizzard on the Central Coast and had to remain in a snowdrift for a week while authorities frantically launched rescue operations, I'd probably emerge from my car five pounds heavier.

And, judging from the books and magazines inside the car, better-read, too.

I've taken some time to think about why my sedan doesn't look pristene. And I've come up with a few -- shall we say -- excuses. Here they are for your perusal:

A large percentage of the time, when I pull into the driveway, someone inside the vehicle is desparate to hit the potty. It doesn't take much imagination to picture the ensuing madness. I jump out, unlatch seat belts, race to the door, unlock hastily and help with the scramble to the bathroom. In no short order, phones are ringing, kids are clamoring and the last thing I remember are the gum wrappers on the floor of the car.

If there's no bathroom crisis, chances are our Yorkshire Terrier will dash out of the house when the front door opens. Although the fiendish little fella has the pretense of greeting us, Nigel is smart enough to execute a quick about-face and run like the wind down the street. Did I mention the middle of the street? Of course, we all run after him like parade misfits, yelling, flailing our arms and even stopping traffic when necessary. By the time we catch him, we're all so flustered that no one even thinks about the car.

While that summarizes the emergency operations from our driveway, I have a few more reasons, too.

How about one child who refuses to keep shoes and socks on for more than several minutes at a time? In the interest of preparedness, I always have extras floating about the back seat.

And what of those long Little League practices where we must spend an hour or more watching from the vehicle? To pass the time, there's books, snacks, and the occasional crochet project.

When planning my daughter's wedding last summer, I drove around with samples of everything from fabric to rose petals. Just the other day, I found a few Jordan almonds in the crevice of the back seat. Just in case you wondered, those candies never really taste stale, and their pastel shade doesn't fade, regardless of how long they sit in the sun.

I was tempted to put a photo of the inside of my car with my blog. But remember the game "Truth or Dare" we used to play as teenagers at slumber parties? Let's put it this way: I choose dare. Even if the dare meant bungee jumping from L.A.'s Bridge to Nowhere. At night.

But even without a photo, my car should be pretty easy to spot these days. It's the one outside any number of Republican functions with the "Stockdale for Congress" bumper sticker on the rear.

Just look for the crayons and granola bar wrappers in the back seat.

Zhu-Zhus to You ...

So, I’ve succumbed.

No, I haven’t changed my mind about ObamaCare, or committed voter fraud. I haven’t even said anything unkind about Dave’s opponents.

But I have given in to Zhu-Zhu mania.

For anyone who might have been out of the country since last Christmas, Zhu-Zhus are those little furry pet hamsters that swept the toy scene and became the subject of more than one mom vs. mom brawl at Toys R Us. Imagine a fuzzy ball with a nose and a microchip, and you’ve pretty much described the biggest toy fad since the Pet Rock. (Oops, did I just date myself?)

I wasn’t paying much attention to the phenomenon until, of course, they became virtually impossible to find. Then -- like every other parent utterly determined to give the perfect gift -- I joined the Zhu-Zhu frenzy.

Yes, I called every retailer within a 50 mile radius everyday, hopefully awaiting Zhu-Zhu deliveries, only to be disappointed. I stood in lines that turned up empty when it was my turn. I even read internet blogs written by fellow shoppers who claimed to have a certain sixth sense when it came to finding Zhu-Zhus.

But I drew the line at Zhu-Zhu scalpers -- those, ahem, entrepreneurs lucky enough to find the little hamsters and then list them on E-Bay. God Bless America, but I’ll be darned if I’m going to pay $139 for something that retails for around $10.

Happily, there’s a new generation of Zhu-Zhus now. With names like Winkle, Scoodles and Num Nums, who can resist? They scoot around the floor, make tiny hamster chirps, and even reverse when they run into an object, like our Great Dane Arnold.

The best news, perhaps, is that they never poop. They don’t stink, either.

And the next best news is that I actually found two of them!

Now, you’re probably thinking that after all that effort, the boys weren’t terribly impressed. Like so many coveted toys, the thrill is often in the hunt, and once found, the gift is anti-climatic.

But not at our house. Those little hamsters have been all over the place. They’ve run down our hallway, skirted a maze of wooden blocks and puzzled our giant, 21-pound cat. Anthony even takes his to bed so that many mornings we are greeted with tiny hamster gurgles.

I wish I’d thought of Zhu-Zhus. But even more, I’m simply amazed that technology has come so far that for just one ten-dollar bill, one can own such a riot of motion and sounds.

Now, if they could just unload the dishwasher.

Not Your Ordinary Spring Vacation

My daughter, Emma, just completed a most unusual spring break.

While thousands of college students flock to the beaches to catch up on their tans or, worse, imbibe far too much alcohol, Emma flew home to Santa Maria.

She spent her week-long vacation campaigning for her father.

What a week! She had barely laid her head on the pillow after a middle-of-the-night reunion when we roused her, gave her a steaming cup of coffee and loaded her in the car for her first Freedom Rally.

Then we turned her loose -- solo -- at a campaign luncheon where she represented her father while he zipped off to a fundraiser.

And that was just the first 24 hours.


Her week raced from protest rallies to luncheons to Republican committee dinners. She dressed up for evening affairs, and dressed down for street marches; she met candidates pitching for votes and chatted with sitting politicians. Sadly, she ate more than one pre-fab chicken dinner.

But she was dazzling. And I'm not just saying that because I'm her mother.

The funny part was that we still squeezed in some good, old fashioned, girl-bonding. No, this vacation didn't give us time to watch reruns of goofy reality shows while we did our nails. But while we were driving from one function to the next, we talked. She told me about the bone-chilling Ohio winter, waist-high snow and endless grey skies. She fretted about her mid-terms and her steady diet of Top Ramen and boxed cereal.

I realized we've been so busy campaigning that I hadn't even sent her a care package. No ginger cookies, fuzzy socks, multi-packs of pens or smelly soap. Not even a Starbucks gift card.

But it's funny how your children, when they are away, seem to grow in leaps in bounds. There's a new maturity in her, a sense of self and purpose that gives me comfort. Yes, she would have enjoyed a box stuffed full of goodies from home, but she didn't require it.

I have a single regret now that she's back in Ohio, and it's pretty big. Before her break, Emma asked for just one thing: my special grilled salmon dinner. After months of dormitory food, she craved our favorite family meal.

Alas, life along the campaign trail prevented me from fixing it. As my culinary penance, we will now wait until Emma returns.

But what a reunion that will be! The campaign will be racing toward the primary finish line, the bitter Ohio winter part of weather history and all my children home.

Salmon, anyone?

Batter Up!

Ahhhh, baseball.

How we love the game that is America's national pastime. So many Stockdale memories are wrapped around the sport that it is hard to find just one, or two, or three stories to share. Like a respectable batting average, there must be hundreds of happy moments that we've had, thanks to baseball.

For me, baseball signals the end of winter, when the days are short and the weather chilly. With baseball comes spring and new life. Like the daffodils in our back yard, the new season means a fresh start, regardless of how disappointing last year's finish.

Frankly, it doesn't matter whether I'm watching the pros at the World Series or the neighborhood youngsters at Little League. It is the game that breeds excitement and all-American grit. I have had more than one ESPN moment sitting on the cold aluminum bleachers at our Santa Maria fields. There, I've whistled and prayed and paced, watching 10-year-olds play their hearts out. Tell any mother that Kurt Gibson's spectacular 1988 homerun was more special than her son (or daughter's) game-winning little league hit, and you may be pummeled with sunflower seeds.

In my family this year, the passion begins with tee-ball, but it doesn't end there.

Our Anthony is up to bat! At 5, he is the littlest player on his team. But he can hit a whiffle ball over the back fence and throw with amazing accuracy. Never mind he doesn't talk much. As you can see from the photo, his smile is major league.

James, at 12, has been promoted to farm team again this year. For the uninitiated, that means the games really count. You might have heard me yelling just last Saturday, when he scored the first run for his team at the opening day game.

Baseball. You gotta love it.

It's generational bonding, where fathers and grandfathers take their sons and daughters to watch the game. Nobody argues politics at baseball, though I've heard some pretty nasty comments exchanged when the Yankees play the Angels. We sing "God Bless America" and cheer for the troops at baseball games. Indeed, my kids probably learned the words to "Take Me Out to the Ball Game" before the "Star Spangled Banner," and they never met a Dodger Dog they didn't like.

Baseball means romance in my family, too. Dave and I met over baseball. Kathryn and Jared had an early getting-to-know-you date at a Dodger game.

Just this Saturday, as I stood on the Little League field and recited the Pledge of Allegiance at the boy's opening day ceremonies, I got goose bumps.

I didn't look, but I'm pretty sure they were red, white and blue.

And the Winners Are ...

Lately I've been helping out at the Republican booth at the San Luis Obispo Farmers' Market.

It's a great example of politics and pleasure overlapping. And sometimes, you just never know what might come of the conversation.

A few weeks ago I discovered that one of the volunteers, a handsome young Cuesta College student, is actually a self-described "closet chef." Our conversation quickly turned from politics to food prep. And before long, he admitted that he makes a pretty mean cheesecake.

Game on.

You see, I make a pretty tasty cheesecake myself.

So by the end of the night, the contest was set. Jayson would create his delectable blueberry-topped cheesecake, and I would submit my famous Irish Creme pie. The judges would be anyone who happened to stop by the booth the following week.

The results were delicious, even worth breaking my Lenten "no-dessert" rule! Jason's dessert was creamy and smooth and the blueberry topping was a real crowd-pleaser. Those who like liqueur-laced desserts swooned over my Irish Creme cheesecake.

The results? Even San Luis Obispo County Sheriff Candidate Mike Teixeira couldn't decide. Both, he declared in true non-partisan fashion, are worthy of eating.


So I'm going to let you decide for yourselves. Jayson was kind enough to pass along his recipe, a longtime family favorite, and mine is posted as well. When you've got some extra time -- plus a few pounds of cream cheese -- I recommend you make them both.

And for those who love liqueur-laced goodies as much as I do, I'm adding a bonus recipe. This one comes from Melody Brown, whose Grand Marniere Stuffed Dates were the hit of last Saturday's Republican fundraiser in Santa Maria.

Enjoy. Then pass along your own votes.

JAYSON'S BLUEBERRY-TOPPED CHEESECAKE

Jayson writes his cake has more complex flavors because he's scaled back on refined sugars. And while the blueberry topping can be omitted, it really sets the dish off. I couldn't agree more.

CRUST:
1 - Packet of Graham Crackers + a few more (12 whole crackers)
Crush in plastic bag or what ever you want to crush the crackers with.
1 - Cube melted butter.
2 - Tbsp. Sugar

Combine above ingredients in a small bowl, put in pyrex dish (I
use a dish that is a large pie dish, about 9 1/2 by 1 3/4 in.) Spray
dish with pam or butter to prevent crust from sticking. Pat
crumbs until even on the bottom and up on the sides of the dish, about
1 inch. Jayson says a rounded spoon works best.

FILLING:
1 - 8 oz. pkg. cream cheese, room temperature
3/4 - cup Sugar
2 - Eggs
1 Tsp. Vanilla

Beat cream cheese well; add sugar, eggs, flavoring, and continue beating until smooth. Pour into unbaked crust and bake 25 min. at 350-degrees. Remove cake from oven and reset
temperature to 425-degrees.

TOPPING:
1/2 - Pint Sour Cream (1 cup)
1 - Tsp. Vanilla
2 - Tbsp. Sugar

Mix well and spread over cake. Return to oven for 4 minutes at 425
degrees. Remove from oven and place directly from oven to coldest
part of refrigerator. Let the cake set up for a minimum of 4 hours,
preferably overnight.


BLUEBERRY TOPPING:
16 oz blueberries (frozen works fine)
1 tsp vanilla
1/3 cup white sugar

Defrost blueberries. Reserve 1/3 of the fruit, take other 2/3 and
combine in sauce pan with vanilla and sugar. Cook on medium-high heat
for 7-9 minutes or until the sauce thickens, stirring occasionally.
Remove from heat and puree. Return pureed mix to the sauce pan and
mix in reserved fruit. Simmer for a minute to two minutes while
stirring.

(It should be noted that you can use this process with any fruit-
peaches, strawberries, blackberries, etc.)

JENNIFER'S IRISH CREAM CHEESECAKE

1 pkg. Ameretti cookies, crushed
1/4 cup melted butter
1/3 cup white choc. chips

Mix cookies and butter and press into bottom and 1" up sides of large spring form pan. Bake at 325 degrees, 7-10 min. Sprinkle choc. chips inside pan.

Filling:
2 1/4 packages cream cheese
6 eggs
1 1/2 cups sugar
1 Tbsp.
1 cup Bailey's Irish Cream
1/4 cup semi-sweet choc.

Whip all ingredients until smooth, being careful not to over smooth. Pour into crust and bake at 250 degrees in water bath for 90 min. until set.
Put in cool place and let sit 3 hrs. before releasing. Melt chocolate and garnish.

MELODY'S REPUBLICAN DATES

Medjool dates, pitted
White Stilton Cheese with dates and orange (found at Trader Joes)
Bacon cooked till crisp and crumbly
Grand Marniere Liqueur

Cut dates lengthwise. Open and lay them flat in enough Grand Marnier to cover the bottom of baking tin.
Blend the cheese and crumbled bacon in a mixer till mixed thoroughly. I use about a pkg and a half for each pound of dates and about 8-10 pieces of bacon.
Once the dates have marinated in the Grand Marniere for about 4 hours, fill them with the cheese and bacon mixture. Refrigerate till about 30 minutes before serving. Be sure to refrigerate left overs, although chances are you won't have any.

Don't Look, Kate Spade

Lately I've been wondering why my left shoulder hurt.

Funny, it's not a piercing pain, just one of those annoying aches that seems to come and go. It's not something I remember until it starts up again, then it's there, like a new blister with high-heeled shoes.

Someone suggested I take a look at my purse.

Purse? Or did you say suitcase?

Now most mothers know that it is simply impossible to carry everything one needs inside those darling little clutches you see at all the fashionable boutiques. For that matter, my wallet is probably bigger than one of those, since it is stuffed with everything from insurance cards to my eyeglass prescription.

But the other day I decided I probably should take a look at what's inside my, ahem, handbag.

For some, the results may be surprising. For others, like those who are traveling on safari, it's no secret I am completely prepared.

But I thought it fun to share a portion of the inventory. As you can see from the picture, my purse might not even meet airline carry-on requirements, but that wouldn't stop me from trying. And lest you think I also carry around my 21-pound cat, don't worry, he just wouldn't get out of the photograph.

So in no important order, here are the contents of my handbag. For organizational purposes, I've divided them into categories:

--First Aid. One package bandaids, several missing. Two bottles hand sanitizer (because you never want to run out). One travel bottle Tylenol. One 80-capsule bottle Advil Gel-Caps (because we all know which pain reliever really works). One damp purse-pack of tissues.

--Vision: Three pair reading glasses, two pair sunglasses. It's true, I can't read a darn thing without those glasses, but I'm always losing them and never want to be without a pair. Oh yes, and one package extra contact lenses.

--Beauty: Four tubes of Chapstick, two tubes lipstick -- one mocha and one Stockdale-for-Congress red. One stick concealer. One emery board. One bottle Revlon snowflake pink nail polish. One 1.5 oz. bottle green tea body mist. Two boxes tic-tacs. Fourteen pieces Trident. One roll Breath-Savers. No jokes, please.

--Child Emergencies: Two Capri Sun drinks, one straw missing. One High School Musical flashlight. One Disney fake plastic cellphone. One package Sponge-Bob bandaids. (They're worth at least 10 minutes of quiet time in a pinch.) Two packages Vienna Creme cookies.

--Campaign: Six Stockdale for Congress buttons, seven pens, one notebook, several dozen campaign cards.

--Misc: I won't divulge how many receipts from Costco, Albertsons and Vons, but suffice to say they salute when I come in. One extra set car keys. Oh, and one more bottle of hand sanitizer, because I never met a germ I really liked.

I'd like to pare down. But surely the very item I remove will be the one I need the most next time I'm desperate. So recently I came up with a new solution, and I think it rather brilliant.

I now carry this amazing little black sling bag into every campaign event. It's sexy, it's slim and it just screams fashionista. It also has practically nothing in it.

But just outside, waiting in the front seat of the car, is my ever-lovin' purse, chock full of all my must-have goodies.

Now that's creative campaigning, don't you think?

Goodbye, Chocolate

Today is Ash Wednesday.

Should you need a reminder, you may see a few people with dirty foreheads as you are out and about. No, we're not behind in our hygiene; it's the ashes we get from the priest to remind us from where we've come and where we're going.

Some Catholics give something up during the 46 days of Lent. Before I became Catholic, I thought the whole ordeal ridiculous.

Now I get it.

Lent is a time of both self-denial and self-examination. Sometimes, people take stock of their lives and try to improve. I know, it's easy to say we should do that 365 days a year, and of course we should. But there's something to be said about setting aside a period of time for a personal report card.

For me, I ask how I can be a better mother. Wife. Daughter. Friend. And when I really think about it, I soon discover that I fall far short in every category. Lent becomes a time to gather myself and make positive changes.

To help prompt me this Lenten season, I'm going to give up sweets. You should know that I have a nasty addiction to chocolate, cookies and Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Everyday I will miss the quiet moments with my Hershey bar and cup of coffee. But I will instead try to think about how I can do a little bit better. Maybe read an extra book to Anthony. Or complain less about the dishes in the sink.

What have I got to lose?

One of my favorite priests always tried to quit smoking during Lent. Sadly, he never quite got there. But rather than gloat at his failure, I always felt inspired. After all, he represented our human condition. We try. We fail. We dust ourselves off. Then we try again.

Goodbye, chocolate. I will miss you.

Move Over, Ronald MacDonald

Don't you just hate it when food and politics overlap?

But here we go again, and this time our dietary advice is coming straight from the top. This week First Lady Michelle Obama pretty much said that most of us are just too stupid to figure out what's best for our kids when it comes to food choices.

“So many parents desperately want to do the right thing, but they feel like the deck is stacked against them,” she said. “They know their kids’ health is their responsibility but they feel like it’s out of their control.”

Huh?

Now I don't know about you, but I'm pretty sure that a MacDonald's Happy Meal isn't quite as healthy as a slice of roast chicken and a side of green beans. I don't need a poster in a restaurant or a community service ad on television to tell me what is just common sense. I also don't need a Harvard degree to understand that apples are better than chocolate cake.

But I'm equally sure I know what my kids would pick. And who can blame them? I'm sorry, a Hershey's Kiss IS better than a celery stick.

The point is, parents don't need nudging by the federal government when it comes to caring for our kids. And we especially don't need the feds to tell us what to eat ... or what not to eat. Mrs. Obama insults everyone when she suggests that parents who are busy need extra education when it comes to food choices.

But there's something else the first lady said that just didn't sit right. Mrs. Obama admits that she "occasionally" fed her own children fast food or microwave meals. Apparently, it took her pediatrician to point out her food fault.

Hang on. I think someone slipped aspartame in my milkshake.

The truth is, no one gets fat from an "occasional" stop at Taco Bell or a quickie microwave dinner. So either Mrs. Obama has a bigger fast food problem than she wants to admit, or she needs to change pediatricians.

Every now and then, between baseball practice, piano lessons and swim team, a Whopper is about all that's going to get to the table. I'm not going to apologize. In fact, when I was young, I got fast food so rarely that when I hit the college cafeteria my freshman year I went hog-wild. Literally. I'm convinced that had I been allowed the occasional Filet-O-Fish as a youngster, I would have had less need to binge at the all-you-can-eat macaroni bar.

Are Americans too fat? Probably. But no one forces us to make poor food choices. For that, I blame no one but myself. Likewise, it's my responsibility as a mother to feed my family as best I can. And sometimes, that includes a double cheeseburger.

Pass the catsup, please.

No Polish Jokes Here

This morning my son John came downstairs to find me busy at the laptop.

"Good morning, Mom," he said, bleary-eyed. "Whatcha doing?"

"I'm trying to get hold of Lech Walesa," I answered. "The former president of Poland."
Oh, where is the digital camera when you need it? Because the look I got from him was nothing short of priceless. The word "incredulous" comes to mind.

I guess he expected me to tell him I was checking my e-mail, or looking up the Kohl's ad online. But I'm positive he didn't figure I'd be trying to contact a former Nobel Prize winner and friend to one of my modern day heroes, Pope John Paul II.

But, hey, you have to dream big, I told him.

And my efforts to contact Walesa aren't completely off base. The 67-year-old Medal of Freedom winner just endorsed Illinois gubanatorial candidate Adam Andrzejewski. I think Walesa ought to talk to Dave, since my husband and Andrzejewski have some pretty similar ideas: less government, sound fiscal policies, protection of life and individual liberties. And both Dave and Andrzejewski are political outsiders who are fighting career politicians who have lost touch with American values.

Walesa should know something about government corruption, too. After all, he and the Solidarity movement he founded in the early 1980s gave courage to an entire nation suffering under the heavy hand of Soviet communism. Though I didn't agree with, or even understand, everything Walesa did in his long career from machinist to president, there's no doubt he knows oppression and corruption when he sees it.

Twenty-five years ago, when Walesa's name was in the headlines nearly everyday, I was just cutting my political teeth. Still, I remember finding my own kind of courage as I watched the moustached Pole galvanize millions of workers.

Today, Walesa is largely forgotten among young Americans. When his picture flashed on my television screen last night, even I thought for a second Captain Kangaroo was in the news. His wild popularity that once gained him the presidency had seriously fizzled when he garnered just one percent of the vote in a comeback attempt a decade ago.

But his political tenacity is something I want my children to study. Dream big. Think outside the box. Have the courage to stand up for what is right.

John and I talked about my hopes to reach Walesa. "Maybe, Mom," he offered, "you shouldn't shoot so high."

"If you don't shoot high, you'll never reach the stars," I replied.

"But to get to the stars, you have to take off first," he said.

I'm pedaling as fast as I can.

About That Boy Scout Motto

The other day, I learned the importance of being prepared. Of course, if you are a mother, this is a lesson you must learn over and over again. It doesn’t really matter how many children you have or how many mini-crises you survive, there’s always another chapter to be written.

And so it was last weekend.

Always rushing to get out of the house, we piled the family into the car, wiping noses and combing hair while enroute to a Freedom Rally. The kids love those street-corner displays of patriotism, and I do, too. They wave their flags earnestly from the sidewalk and clap excitedly when a motorist honks in affirmation.

For me, it’s a chance to meet new people and talk about what’s on their mind. Sometimes, as you can see from the photo, I even get to have my picture taken on a Harley-Davidson.

Ever mindful that I am the candidate’s wife, I dress carefully. First impressions are important, and heaven forbid I should look like a wild-eyed, frazzled mother.

I thought I looked pretty good, until halfway through the rally I looked at my shoes. I had my favorite walking boots on. I love those boots so much that I bought two pair, brown and black.

You probably know where this is going.

Sure enough, the black boot was on my right foot and the brown on my left. And there was absolutely nothing I could do about it!

Once, when we were at a dear friend’s wedding, I wore a shimmery bronze dress with a short bolero jacket. Just before the reception, while catching up with out-of-town friends, Emma tried to signal me. I paid absolutely no attention. Then Kathryn gave me the “death stare” and pointed at the front seam of my dress. Sure enough, there was a 24-inch rip right down the middle. (So much for dieting.)

I learned from that to never leave home without safety pins and a sewing kit. Now, I can see I’m going to have to make sure there’s always a pair of matching shoes in the trunk as well!

Massachusetts Truck vs. California Bubble-Top

There's a lot of people talking about Scott Brown, the new Senator-elect from Massachusetts.

His truck is pretty popular, too.

Brown drove his vehicle (with 200,000 miles) to an epic victory over Democrat Martha Coakley. The truck became a focal point of the campaign when President Obama ridiculed it while stumping for Coakley a few days ago.

Well, move over, Mr. Brown: My 1990 Ford bubble-top van can take your GM pickup anyday!

Just as Brown's vehicle has a story, so does my bubble-top, and it's a doozy. It's become one of those family possessions that's right up there with our "favorite dog" memories.

We bought the van just after I'd had James, in 1998. My sister was valiantly fighting ovarian cancer and we made frequent family trips to Ventura to see her. While she was hospitalized, Dave and the kids would wait in the van while I visited her in ICU. When James was hungry, I'd run out to the parking lot, sit in the van and nurse him. Then I'd trundle back up to be with my sister.

The kids loved that vehicle, and still do. It's got a tiny television, a VCR player, and best of all, cup holders. Yessiree, cup holders.

But that's not all.

When my niece came to stay with us for a few months, I'm pretty sure the van became the site of an after-concert party with a heavy metal band from Los Angeles. She never told us the whole story, and I think I'm grateful.

I did, however, briefly consider asking our priest for an exorcism.

Our oldest daughter, Kathryn, nearly had to take her driver's exam using the van, but we were worried it wouldn't clear the overhang at DMV, so we quickly arranged for another vehicle. She learned to drive in that old bubble top, and now can get behind the wheel of practically anything.

We love that car.

Once, while camping with our guide-dog-in-training in San Rafael, James woke up in the middle of the night, scared and sick. We climbed over the dog, snuck into the van, and made ourselves a bed in the back.

To this day, I think it was the best sleep I've ever had.

Now we've put the old workhorse on standby status. Occasionally, we all pile in and drive to Shell Beach to see the sunset. Or we take it to the drive-in, where I curl up in the back and snooze during the second movie.

During the cash-for-clunkers program, a neighbor suggested we turn it in. After all, he said, it was worth $4,000 towards a new, more efficient, vehicle.

We pondered it. But in the end, we just couldn't do it. Like Scott Brown's truck, it's hard to put a price tag on an old friend.

Lessons From the Run

I'm a runner. Actually, that's overstating it. Given my speed, I'm probably more of a jogger.

But whichever, I do so faithfully, covering familiar neighborhood streets and sometimes venturing into new territory.

Although I'm new to this campaign life, I think there's some parallels between the sport of running and seeking political office.

In no important order, here's the lessons I've learned so far:

--Put one foot in front of the other. You can't leap to the finish line without taking one step after another. It's okay, perhaps vital, to visualize the end of the race, but you get there incrementally.

--Pace is important. Bursting out of the starting gate like gang-busters may give you an early lead, but the fizzle comes pretty quickly. This is a long haul. The primaries aren't until June; the election in November. What's done now is just the beginning.

--Smell the lavender. There's a certain corner along my path where dozens of violet-tipped lavender bushes grow. I never fail to inhale the aroma. It's a comfort and makes the run enjoyable. (It's also why I don't do treadmills.) I intend to embrace those moments during the campaign that both touch and bless me.

--Remember the purpose. I run because it's healthy and it keeps my weight under control. We're running for Congress because it's time to take America back.

--Never give up. I'm a fighter. When my stomach cramps, I keep running. When it's below freezing, I run. If I have to get up after just a few hours sleep, I still run. Campaigning is like that, too. Sometimes, I wake up in the middle of the night and think we're crazy. But then, I'm not a quitter. I think that's probably worse than being crazy.

And so, crazy or not, I'm determined to stay with it.

Won't you run along with me?

Anthony's Campaign Contributions

The other morning was typical.

Anthony, 5, really has no concept that his father is running for U.S. Congress. And frankly, he really doesn't care.

What does Anthony care about?

Right now, I'd say he just loves trouble.

Here's a snippet of our day that probably lasted no longer than 10 minutes, although the cleanup took considerably longer.

While I was busy cooking eggs for breakfast, Anthony grabbed a black permanent marker and scribbled all over the family room coffee table. "No, no," I cried, grabbing the pen and dashing over with Windex and paper towels in a vain attempt to wipe up. Just after I finished removing some (but not all) of the marker, I realized that Anthony was scribbling all over the kitchen wall with dark crayon. (It was, after all, just below the whiteboard where we keep our daily agenda posted.) So I quickly took the crayon away, got a wad of paper towels and tried -- this time completely in vain -- to remove the crayon jottings from the wall.

Had enough?

Not Anthony. While I worked to get the crayon off, the little guy had stealthily opened a case of 8-oz. water bottles, carried them upstairs and began launching them over the railing, where they burst like tiny bombs all over the hallway. By the time I reached the top of the steps, he had sent at least a half-dozen water chubs over and was giggling hysterically.

It didn't take me long to shake my head and join the laughter; walls can be painted and floors can be wiped clean. And, after all, he hadn't eaten the crayons or done any damage that couldn't be repaired.

It's important to keep a sense of humor, don't you think?

Godspeed, Ma Fille-fille

My daughter, Emma, has returned to college.

After taking the last 6 months to ponder her future, she made the command decision to go back to Franciscan University, where she is a communications major. She flew back yesterday to start classes today.

Parting is bittersweet. I am happy that she is returning to an environment that is rich spiritually, stimulating intellectually and teeming with good friends.

But we will miss her. While home, she devoted herself to teaching James to read. Worked tirelessly on Dave's campaign. She cooked. Cleaned. Learned to play the guitar. Served as jill-of-all-trades for her friend’s wedding. And laughed a lot.

Did I mention Franciscan is in Ohio? When I last peeked, the temperature was 3-degrees. The first text message I received from her was in picture form. It was all white. (I’m pretty sure that was snow.)

There’s a little hole in my heart. Mothers the world over understand it, I’m sure: the universe just isn’t aligned until everyone is home, safe, once again.

Be safe, sweetie. We love you.

Epiphany

"They were overjoyed at seeing the star, and on entering the house they saw the child with Mary his mother. They prostrated themselves and did him homage. Then they opened their treasures and offered him gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh." Matthew 2:10-11

My epiphany treasures are my two youngest sons. The elder, James, was born 12 years ago on Epiphany Sunday. We had no idea he had Down Syndrome.

I read once it was a little like getting on a plane to France and finding out you've landed in Holland. How true. There's no Eiffel Tower. No crepes. Not a glimpse of Notre Dame. But instead, there are tulips and windmills and water everywhere. Different, yes. But every bit as beautiful.

Six years after James was born, we adopted Anthony, who also has Down Syndrome. I often feel like I won the lottery. Twice.

Epiphany is special to me. James and Anthony may be mentally retarded, but they often have the wisdom of kings. And always they lead me closer to the "child with Mary his mother."

A Busy Week

The first week of the New Year promises to be a busy one.

In no particular order of importance, I've got to get the family ready for our photo session on Wednesday, help John register for a college class, get a website up and running, make a cheesecake for my friend's anniversary (strawberry, of course), and attend our first "Freedom Rally."

And did I mention that tomorrow is James's 12th birthday?

He's ordered hot dogs and french fries for dinner, a chocolate cake for dessert and a family movie night. I'm thinking "Dennis the Menace" because we've watched the National Treasure movies so many times I think we know them by heart. Ditto on Parent Trap.

But back to the Freedom Rally: I wonder if I should order buttons for the kids that say "My Dad is Running for Congress." Maybe that's a little schmaltzy, but I'm going to look into it.

Right after I finish frosting the cake.

A New Year

Just finished fixing Hoppin' John, a New Year's staple. I cannot stand the way black eyed peas mush in my mouth, but my grandmother used to make me eat it every January 1st for good luck in the coming year.

And so, to commemorate my beloved Gram, I fix it every year. I still don't like it, but who wants to mess up the prospect of good luck, especially this year?

Here's to health, family, and God's blessings in 2010. A primary victory in June wouldn't hurt any, either.