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.