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.