Welcome To Vietnam, Boys, You're In For A Helluva Fight

Although Rowdy and I are both perhaps the least scheduled people who ever walked the globe, our evenings with the boys have become nothing less than a ritual. The boys, Daddy included, play on the living room for about an hour as I cook supper. Wrestling and chase are two favorite games, but bucking bulls will always be king. They eat while I load the dishwasher and then I round up the two filthy children and pour steamy water over their soapy heads in the bathtub. As soon as everyone is washed and dried and dressed in pajamas, we pick out our bedtime story and I read to them as Ridge impatiently demands his little brother to stop leaping on the bed like a monkey and listen to Momma.
Of course, in between and during each of these nightly steps, Rowdy and I talk about whatever's on our minds. Or, I talk and he begrudgingly pauses whatever bullshit sporting event he is watching until I'm done. Last night we were discussing tomorrow's inauguration, thank God its finally here, and somehow the conversation turned to Vietnam.
Now, for those of you who don't know this, my grandfather was a Lieutenant Colonel in the United States Marine Corp and served two terms in that war. To some members of my generation, Vietnam is just the part of the movie where Forest Gump gets shot in the ass. But, to me and my sister and my cousins, Vietnam hung very much over our collective childhoods like a cloud. After all, the war had only been over 5 years when I was born and my grandfather, who is know in his 70s, will always be that weathered Marine, even if it is wrapped in a soft grandfather.
Anyways, the boys were running around like the lawless banchies they are as I told Rowdy the details that surrounded my grandfather's Purple Heart. As a helicopter pilot, he was shoot down flying behind enemy lines. With a bullet through his leg, he narrowly escaped capture from the enemy, but he made it back. Even though I'm nearly 30 myself, still a bit younger than he was when he was fighting in the jungles of Southeast Asia, it is hard for me to reconcile the funny old man who took me and my friends on adventurous vacations in my youth in violent combat in that time and that place.
After the brief pause for conversation, I got back on the nighttime ritual track and herded the boys to bed. We woke up this morning and the Vietnam War was far from my mind.
***And then, as I was scrambling eggs, Ridge came limping over to me and declared:
Damn, I've been shot in the leg. I was flyin' my helicopter into town to get new clothes and those Viet Cong got me."

Yeah, that's right, my four-year-old actually said Viet Cong. That's just how we roll (Oh, I think I forgot to tell you guys that I've really been working on my Urban lingo, so be looking out for that. I'm definitely gonna be whipping that shit out from time to time.)

Even Dooce is Getting Poltical, so I Guess I Should, Too

Every little subculture has their god, their holy being for which the entire group revolves. You know, like the way all the chest-beating UFC fans (love ya, Dad) swoon over that bald-haired beauty Chuch Lidell. Or, the way aspiring Susie Homemakers get all tingly in their panties when Martha Stewart rolls out her full assault strategy for the perfect Mexican Fiesta Birthday Celebration, approaching the party as though they are mounting a military a coup. The glass will be tinted purple and full 3/4 to the brim with cactus-shaped ice cubes, the sombrero pinata will be stuffed with chocolate grown in the Yucatan and then air-expressed via Air Mexico (love you, Mollie.)
In the ever-expanding world of female bloggers, snidely coined "mommy bloggers" by the geniuses at The New York Times (you know, the same assholes who ran daily prewar stories about Iraq's hand in 9/11, which turned out to be, I don't know, false), we worship at the alter of Dooce. She can write witty ass jokes and lay out cleaver bribes she pulls on her kid and we suck it all up like adoring lap dogs. Even those of us who aren't totally hypnotised by her brilliance are intrigued by her unchallenged reign of Blogger Extraordinaire. From jotting down the silly bullshit her husband and daughter do, which is freakin' child's play in comparison to my man and his two hellcat spawns, Dooce's blog supports her family. I am awestruck and jealous all at the same time.
I have to admit, I check her blog daily, often many times. Normally I giggle a little and then think to myself how much I want to be Dooce.
Dear Jesus, why didn't you make me Dooce? I don't want to be me, I want to be the awesome, rockin' Dooce.
But, like Chuck Lidell isn't the only badass who can defeat a wiry opponent by forcing their face to his crotch or like Martha Stewart isn't the lone domestic goddess to over-coordinate a 2-year-old's birthday party, Dooce isn't the only female blogger to make me giddily squeel, "Oh no she di'nt." They all bring something different to the table. From Anna, I get all knowed-up on the necessity of high-end eyebrow waxers, quite beneficial to a lady like me who buzzes hers off with her man's shaver and calls that bitch good. Cathy inspires me to cook outside the box, to turn my shabby kitchen into a gourmet masterpiece. She's a little Martha herself, I suppose. While Suzanne and I share many political views, I really love her site because, like me, she believes there are some places no razor belongs. Listen fellas, I just don't care what Jenna Jameson did.
But, as a political junkie, I normally get the best fix at PunditMom. Through the last week, I've been there multiple times a day, my head all drunk with the notion of a mayor running the vice presidency.
There are about 25 other blogs I visit on a daily basis and they all have a unique flair they bring to my otherwise bland life, but I would never get to the meat of this bloggy sandwich if I didn't get to it. So, here goes. Step aside, rambling, my readers want a point, any point. Focus.
When I went through my daily stalking, I mean reading, of Dooce yesterday, I giggled a little when she wrote about the universe humping her face. That shit happens to me all the time. Then I read the rest of the post, the part about her anger over McCain's choice of the unqualified Sarah Palin. Dooce doesn't normally write about politics, so it kinda took me back for a second. Then, of course, my infatuation grew into unfettered love and I wondered to myself if she would leave her man to be my first lesbian lover.
At the risk of firing up my conservative friends and family, I agree with Dooce. Now, I know I have already disclosed that I worship her Holy Blogginess at least three times a day, you know, like Muslim people turning to the East in prayer, so you probably think that my opinion is comprised. During Sarah Palin's speech on Wednesday evening, I cussed and spit, shouting at Rowdy how distorted I thought many of her statements were. He just agreed, not because he really agreed (He's a nutty Republican. Can you believe I married one?), but because he knows with even a smigen of encouragement, I will ramble on 'til his ears bleed. For a calmer, fact-founded, non F word flinging article from the Associate Press over the misrepresentations of Palin, click here. This was also in Dooce's post. Seriously, read it.
As far as Republicans go, I have always loved John McCain. Just ask my husband. I haven't always agreed with him and I certainly won't vote for him, but he hasn't come close to making my head spin around like that little girl in Poltergeist. Now, George Bush, that's a whole other story. But, no matter who John would've picked, short of Chuck Hagel, I am an Obama Momma.
That said, like Dooce, I am fired up about his selection of Sarah Palin. Not because she is a mother to all those kids or because her 17-year-old daughter is pregnant (abstinence-only education, bay-bay). Just like I don't give a shit about who Bill Clinton or John Edwards are screwing, I don't care that Bristol Palin is getting down with that hot hockey player or that Sarah Palin is reproducing like Catholics on a Mardi Gras binge. I take that back, I do care about that hockey hottie. Bristol, my email address is shondy26@hotmail.com. Be a good girl and email a desperate, old housewife some steamy details about that hot piece of Alaskan ass. I totally love you, Levi Johnston.
Anyways, I've got to stop daydreaming about Palin's superfly future son-in-law or I won't get a thing done. I don't want Sarah Palin as my vice president because I've already lived through 8 years of Cheney. I don't want a vice president who has made statements that the War in Iraq is a mission from God. Hitler told the Germans that invading Poland was exactly that, a mission from God, but that didn't make it so. I don't want a vice president who asks her church to pray for completion of pipelines. I don't want a vice president who doesn't believe in global warming, or at least that it is being caused by man. I don't want a vice president whose spouse belonged to the Alaskan Independence Party, a group dedicated to leaving the USA and starting their own country. Country First, what? And, I don't want a vice president who has run a town smaller than Elk City and been a governor for 20 months. I know Alaska is the largest in size, but it is the smallest in population.
As John McCain gave his acceptance speech last night, my entire family cuddled in our bed, Rowdy and I absorbed each word while Ridge and Rolan bounced over one another. As my darling boys played hide-and-seek under the covers, I touched my husband's hand. Even though this wasn't my party's convention, it was a very "American Dream" moment. We felt very much like our dreams were coming true as a young couple with our two small and healthy children and I know it will be one of those Wonder Years memories that stays with me always. Plus, I discovered that John McCain used to keep company with strippers and I fell a little in love with him. You know I love a dirty dog.
John McCain made some pledges in his speech I hope he keeps, like the one where he vows to re-educate workers whose jobs have been shipped overseas in the last eight years or the resources he promised to our educational systems. He vowed to make college more available for upcoming Americans and I sincerely pray he follows through. Like John McCain, I am a Christian and, like John McCain has said on many occasions, I believe religion doesn't have a place in government. When our country bombs another, and there will be times we do, I don't want a president that tells me God told him to do this. I want a president that tells me he weighed all the options and this was all he had left. I've always felt that when a leader puts that decision on God, they also give him the deaths of the innocent people who perish because of it. Although I knew I probably wouldn't vote for John, I have found comfort that, when faced with that kind of violent and tragic decision, that he knew all the subsequent fall-out from that sort of warfare would be held at the hands who made it. I think it makes a leader think a little more about the choice they are making if they don't convince themselves that they aren't responsible for the innocent casualties. I've respected John's persistence, especially when he has gone up against his own party, like when he voted against the Constitutional amendment to define marriage between a man and a woman. With his pick from the religious right, I hope his belief wields his potential administration's policy on that, not the other way around.
Of America's 43 presidents, nine of them have to office by the death of resignation of their predecessor. Some crazy religious zealots are praying through their blogs that McCain be elected and them smited by God (I guess that's nut talk for killed) so, I don't know, the country can be one big church. As I type that, I am seriously shrugging because the thought of praying for one man to be elected and then off'd is something I cannot wrap my mind around. Can you?
As a war protester held up a sign that said, "You Cannot Win an Occupation," and chanted something I could not make out, John McCain said that American wants us to stop yelling at each other.
Well, in between that and your former love of strippers, you almost have my vote, John. (To me, promiscuity is a sign of real leadership skills. Stop laughing, I am being serious. You know I love Bill Clinton). I think you've been a great servant to the nation, John, I do. If those fruit loops weren't putting some voodoo hex on you as I type this, maybe I could. If their vengeful prayers are answered, you'll be swallowed by the Earth or turned to stone or some other Biblical nightmare and I just can't get behind your girl.
Okay, now I have to go. I bet Dooce has posted something new and I'm having separation anxiety.

Black Cat Down

On Monday as I drove into Elk City, the back way as always, an advertisement of Black Cats caught my eye. This is the first one I've seen this year. Son of a bitch, it's that time again, ALREADY, son of a bitch! Now, don't get me wrong, I like the Fourth of July for many reasons. First and most important, there's the beer. You can drink as much beer as you want on the Fourth of July and not a soul will even bat an eye at you. You can pass out at 11 am and all your friends will hail you the Supreme Patriot in the group. I love it ! Now, is this wise, in light of all the semi-explosives other drunken patriots will be blasting off at random, often without warning or reason? I doubt it. Is it awesome? You betcha it is. So, just so you don't completely skip over this, I do like most fireworks.
Okay, reason number two, the Fourth of July is my mom's birthday, which has always made it an extra special holiday to me. Plus, that only solidifies reason number one. Mom's down, for shiz!
And reason number three, the Fourth of July is a day set aside solely to recognize the freedoms insured to us through the United States Constitution and the men and women who've labored selflessly for that. I'm the granddaughter of a veteran, a man who served nearly 30 years in the United States Marine Corps, including two tour in one of the most tumultuous conflict in our country's history and retiring as a Lt. Colonel. Semper Fi, word! I'm also the granddaughter of farmers and ranchers, those who work endlessly often for little profit to maintain our domestic food source. If you know anything about the vitality of countries, you know that resources are a big damn part of that. So, yeah, I love observing the luck I had in the location of my birth.
With that said, what the m-f does Black Cats have with freedom? Holy shit, are we trying to send some poor veteran who already has Post Traumatic Stress Disorder into a full-own flashback? I mean, is that seriously how we want to thank the men and women who put their lives on the line for the longevity of our nation.
"Yeah, come on out, guys. We are gonna have a day just for YOU and, of course, Uncle Sam. Grab a beer, there's gonna be parade and then watermelon. OH, and I think Aunt Sue is making that homemade banana ice cream love so much. Just take a seat in the lawn chair, relax and let us have an extravaganza in your honor!"
And just as the poor vet starts to relax, cue the 11-year-old punk to whip out a roll of Black Cats half the link of a driveway. I've never been in a combat zone, but I'm shaking and my nerves are shot. I feel like I've been put through a 30-hour "interrogation" in the Eastern Bloc. You can definitely see how this would send some old warrior back to Korea, Vietnam, Iraq or whatever other hell hole they were sent for us.
So this summer when you rush out to the firework stand, loading up on the legalized explosion you are about to ignite, freakin' pass on the Black Cats. I know many veterans and I can tell you that forcing them to relive the Tet Offensive is no way to celebrate their service and our nation.