Morning Sickness in America

All week we spent our evenings away from the heat, sitting in the cool of our basement while watching the Republican convention. Monty and I delighted at the Trump campaign’s inept reaction to Melania’s plagiarized speech and actually, sort -of -liked Ted Cruz after his non-endorsement.  But then came Thursday night’s speech, with TRUMP broadcast in huge letters over the larger-than-life, official nominee for demagogue of the United States of America.

I felt nauseous with fear.

Lots of people liked his speech. They didn’t see any problem with seventy-four minutes of lies, fear and empty promises. Vladimir Putin praised Trump, probably because Trump gave the sort of speech that Putin often makes himself. And David Duke liked Trump’s speech so much, he’s been inspired to run for Senate.

Because after all, if Trump could win as president, then anything is possible.

This morning I was contemplating this, trying not to panic, when Monty’s cousin Robin showed up at our door. She often stops by on her way to work at her studio, and we’ll drink a cup of coffee and share some family gossip. But today she looked sort of green.

“Are you okay?” I asked. “Would you like some coffee?” I pointed toward the fresh pot I had brewing in the kitchen. Robin took one look, put her hand over her mouth, rushed to the bathroom, and promptly threw up.

I waited until her retching sounds were replaced with the flush of the toilet, and then I wandered over to our first floor bathroom. In her haste, Robin had left the door open.

“Can you I get you anything, Robin?”

She had already risen from her crouching position and had closed the lid of the toilet. Now she sat on top of it, taking deep, calming breaths. “My purse?” she asked.

I went to the hallway where she’d dropped her purse, which was actually more like a tote bag, and brought it to her. Robin took her bag from me, stood, fished through it and found a travel tooth brush and some trial-sized tooth paste. I watched as she brushed her teeth. When she was done, she put that stuff back in her purse, fished out a sleeve of saltine crackers and a water bottle, and timidly nibbled and sipped.

“You’re pregnant?” I asked.

Her laugh sounded miserable. “How’d you guess?”

“But that’s wonderful!”

She didn’t smile in response.

“It’s not wonderful?” I asked.

Robin sighed. “To be honest, I’m completely terrified.”

I put a guiding hand against her back. “Come on,” I said, “let’s go down to the basement. It’s cooler down there, and there will be no smells from the kitchen to bother you.”

We descended the stairs and sat on the over-stuffed couch that was opposite our big-screen TV.

“I am actually excited,” she offered, “and it was planned. But the more I think about the fact that in a few months, I’ll be accountable for the life of an infant, the more scared I become.”

“You’ll be fine!” I gave her arm a squeeze. “You’re the bravest, strongest person I know. Compared to everything else you’ve done with your life, motherhood is nothing.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

It was true. After all, Robin had starred in two reality TV shows, she’d faced down ghosts and cyber-stalkers, she’d survived jury duty and she’d lost the first love of her life. But she’d come out of it all with barely a scratch, and if she could do all that, surely she could excel as a mother, especially now that she was happily married, financially secure, and successfully self-employed.

“I don’t know.” Robin took a sip of mineral water and crammed another saltine into her mouth, chewing slowly as she closed her eyes.

“How far along are you?” I asked.

“Only a few weeks. We want to wait a little while, until it’s safe to announce, so you can’t tell anyone yet, okay?”

“Nobody is supposed to know?”

She tilted her head from side to side. “I mean, even if you hadn’t guessed I probably would have told you, but only so you’d understand why I’m constantly queasy and crabby.”

I laughed. “I would’ve just assumed that you’re queasy and crabby for the same reason that I am…” I paused for effect. “…because Donald Trump might get the access codes for our nuclear arsenals.”

“Don’t even joke about that.” Robin opened her eyes and stared into mine. “And I mean it, Lucy. Don’t tell Monty. Don’t tell Jack. If they mentioned anything to Ian or to my dad, there’d be hurt feelings because I didn’t tell them first.”

“I promise I won’t tell.”

Satisfied, Robin closed her eyes again and leaned her head against our couch cushion. I put a hand on her shoulder. “Hey, relax. I know it’s hard, feeling lousy all the time, but it will get better. And you’re going to be a great mom.”

“How do you know?”

“Because your capacity for love is huge.”

She gave me a weak smile. “Nick said the same thing, more or less.”

“Is he excited?”

“Yeah. But he’s anxious about setting up a nursery and childproofing the house and making sure everything is perfect, like we don’t have nearly eight months to do all that.”

“Isn’t Nick the sort of guy who likes to focus on concrete details?”

She nodded. “It makes him feel like he’s in control.”

I leaned my back against a cushion and raised my feet from the floor, tucking them under me, feeling the scratchy upholstery against my bare legs. “I wish I had something like that, to make me feel in control.”

“I know, right?! But I’m too busy puking all the time.”

“Hey, I know what will make you feel better. Wait right here.”

I wandered into the storage area of our basement and lugged out a bag of Abby and Noah’s old baby clothes. We went through it, holding up each garment and imagining it on her new baby.

Robin seemed better by the time she left and I felt better too. I’d been distracted for an hour or so, able to forget about the months ahead, ones I knew would be filled with polling data, Nate Silver’s prognostications, and pundits talking as if Donald Trump’s candidacy was more than a sick joke gone completely wrong.

I realized that the roughly 100 days until the election will be like an endless pregnancy with all the typical discomfort, inconvenience, anxiety and pain, but and minus the joyful anticipation of motherhood. Sure, if Hillary wins I’ll be happy, but what if she doesn’t? Donald Trump wants everyone to think he’s the next Ronald Reagan, but this is no morning in America.

After his scary speech last night, he’s given us morning sickness in America instead.

                                                             ****
Hello, Readers! Thanks for visiting November Surprises Blog! Now that the campaign season is in full swing you can expect posts to be much more frequent, but if you just can't wait for more, I've got even more good news.
Promises, Promises - a thrilling new novella that features Robin, is FREE on Amazon. To download it, click here.
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It's less than a week before the Iowa Caucuses, and things just get crazier and crazier in the run-up to primary season. Take a trip down the memory lane of presidential politics, and discover how Lucy and Monty's love story began - this is definitely my most romantic novel. Download it for free by clicking here.

The "C" Words: Conflict, Confrontation, and Caucus

Pretty soon it will all be over. Come February 1st, Iowans will finally get to caucus, and after endless months of speculation, we’ll choose our candidates. Will it be Sanders or Clinton? Trump, Cruz, or somebody else? Who would have thought we wouldn’t know the answers to these questions, let alone that we’d be asking them in the first place.

The way the media tells it, the race is incredibly tight on both sides and anything could happen. So I tuned in for the Democratic debate last Sunday, to see how it all went down. I thought Clinton was self-possessed and focused, while Sanders yelled so much he became hoarse, always cutting Hillary off and acting like a bully. But on Monday the columnists disagreed with me; they said that Bernie had commanded the stage and forced Clinton to play defense. One piece I read even said that she was yelling too much.

“Are you kidding me?” I yelled this to Monty, Monday evening at dinner. “If Hillary had acted like Bernie last night, the headlines would be that she’s strident and...” I searched for an appropriate term, since Abby and Noah were right there. “…and they’d use other words, like irrational or emotional, that are only ever used when criticizing women.”

Monty tilted one side of his mouth, and I thought I detected the slightest of eye rolls. “I don’t think this is about gender. Sanders just had some really good points.”

“Please! Of course it’s about gender. But nobody wants to admit it, so they come up with stupid reasons to criticize her, like her ties to big business or her emails, but if she was a man nobody would care about that stuff.”

“I disagree.”

“Dad,” Abby chimed in, “we’re playing Barbies after dinner, right?”

“I don’t know, Sweetheart. I have to pack.”

“But you promised we’d play before you left for your trip, and you’re leaving tomorrow. It HAS to be tonight.”

I like that our daughter isn’t afraid to assert herself. “She’s right,” I said. “You should play with her.”

He smirked. “You could play with her instead.”

“No,” Abby insisted. “I want you.”

I nodded. “We played together all day. She’s sick of me.” It was Martin Luther King Day, and the kids and I had hung out in the living room all afternoon, playing with toys and avoiding the frigid cold that we would have been with confronted with, had we gone out.

“Okay,” Monty relented. “But I get Eye Doctor Barbie.”

“No, I get Eye Doctor Barbie,” replied Abby. “You can have Gymnastic Coach Barbie.”

The next morning Monty left for D.C. and I returned to work after Martin Luther King Day. I listened to the radio on my way in, and the news was dominated with speculation about the Iowa caucus and the New Hampshire primary. What if Hillary lost both Iowa AND New Hampshire? Would Sanders gain enough momentum to score the nomination? And who would he be up against? What would a race between Sanders and Cruz be like?

The very question sent shivers down my spine.

My first class started at 10:30, but Steve, the instructor who uses the classroom before me, ran late again, so that my students and I were waiting out the in hall. This had happened many times before, but I’d never said anything. To do so would require me to confront Steve in front of all my students. They’d probably think I was overreacting, that I was strident, maybe even bitchy.

I leaned against the wall, cold from the outside air that assaulted the hallway. My arms ached from holding my books and my laptop; I was frustrated that I couldn’t set up my notes and my Power Point presentation, and I became enraged at losing more class time while Steve got extra time with his students. Why was his class so much more important than mine, so that he got more and I got less?

I decided that enough was enough. Hillary Clinton wouldn’t put up with this. Heck, my own daughter wouldn’t put up with this. If Abby has the strength to say how things are going to be, I could certainly find that strength too.

Finally, Steve let his class out and I rushed to the front of the room, to confront Steve before he could slip out. Steve smiled when he saw me. “Oh, hi Lucy. Did you enjoy the long weekend?”

I resolved not to return his smile or to answer his friendly question. “Steve,” I said, trying to sound calm but serious, “we have a problem. You’re constantly running your class late, and that’s cutting into my class’s time. This needs to stop.”

He twisted his face like I’d just done something offensive. “Nice to see you too.” He started to walk past me.

“Hey!” I was loud enough to startle Steve into turning around, but I also commanded unwanted attention from my students. “My request is simple. Just end your class on time, and we’ll be good.”

Steve’s eye roll was overt. “Sometimes I can’t fit everything into forty-five minutes. I’m not making you any promises.”

My stomach was clenched and I could feel my pulse race. Conflict always did this to me. “Fine. Then I’ll have to complain to the dean.”

He shrugged, and I wanted to throttle his nonchalance. “You do that, Lucy.”

 ****

“What a jerk,” Monty said that night, when I relayed the conversation to him on the phone. “Can I beat him up for you?” he joked.

I laughed. “Are you suggesting that I can’t handle this on my own?”

Monty didn’t miss a beat. “Of course not. I’m not nearly that stupid.”

I lay back, resting my head against the pillow on my side of the bed. “I hear there’s a blizzard coming to the East Coast. You might not be able to fly back on Friday.”

“Maybe I’ll be delayed past the 1^st. Then I’d miss the caucus.”

“You say that like it would be a good thing.”

“Well, then we wouldn’t be caucusing for separate candidates. We’d get to skip all the conflict.”

I didn’t respond, but Monty could hear my disapproval, nonetheless.

“Or,” he continued, “Maybe the storm won’t be as bad as they’re forecasting.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

Then we talked about the kids and Monty told me about his day. I didn’t say what I really thought -

That lately, all the dire forecasts seemed to be coming true.

Freedom, Ben Carson and Giving Thanks

On Thanksgiving the family sat around our table, toasted our collective health and happiness, and took turns saying what we were thankful for.

“I’m thankful that I can read,” said our six-year old, Abby. She just started Junie B Jones, her first chapter book, and she never rarely misses an opportunity to show off a little.

“I’m thankful for the moon,” said her younger brother, Noah. He’s recently developed an obsessive interest in outer-space.

“Good one,” said Natalie, my mother-in-law. “I’m thankful that none of our freedoms have been taken away, and that we can all sit here today and enjoy this lovely meal together with friends and family.”

Monty and I exchanged a look, a silent agreement to ignore the part about our freedoms “being taken away,” and to simply be gracious. But later, after dinner was over and people were watching television, a Ben Carson ad came on. 

“I have to say,” Natalie said, after Carson’s ad had played. “There’s something very likable about him. I think he makes sense.”

“Mom, no.” Monty’s voice had that overly-patient edge to it, like a dog-owner reprimanding his frisky puppy. So while I totally agreed with Monty philosophically, I couldn’t blame Natalie for her testy response.

“What do you mean, ‘no’? I’m not incompetent. I can pick my own candidate.”

Jack, Monty’s brother, busied himself by starting a tickle war with all the kids. I began straightening up. But Monty, who is never afraid of conflict, turned toward his mother and stared her down. “Ben Carson may seem rational, but he’s not. He’s compared Obamacare to slavery, and gun control to Nazi Germany. He thinks Muslims shouldn’t be allowed to be president, and that we ought to have separate, transgender bathrooms.”

Since Natalie is actually the one who taught Monty to embrace conflict, she scoffed and spoke over the frantic giggles of the children. “That’s ridiculous.”

“I know!” Monty grinned, obviously happy that his mother agreed with him.

“Women already have to stand in line far too long to use the toilet. If we’re going to build more bathrooms, we should just double the amount for females. Creating separate ones for these transgenders is a waste of resources.”

“Yeah, that’s a good point,” I interjected. “I mean… the part about more public restrooms for women.”

Monty shot me a squinty, exasperated look. After years of marriage, I knew exactly what it meant. Now was the time I was supposed to speak up and support him. I should convince his mother that she should absolutely not support Ben Carson.

But I went through this three years ago, when Natalie stayed with us during the 2012 election and Monty was working half a world away. During that time, she and I argued about Mitt Romney, and you know what it got me? A massive headache and mild digestive trouble.

“Thank you,” Natalie said to me, as if I’d just endorsed her own candidacy in the Iowa caucus. She turned back to her son. “You can’t take a few quotes out of context and let that define the man.”

“And you can’t take a 30 second campaign ad about ‘thinking outside the box’ and decide that he knows what he’s talking about.”

“I’m not! But the caucus is coming up soon, and so far, none of the candidates have impressed me. I might just pick the least offensive one.”

This leads me to what I’m thankful for. Of course there’s a long list: my family, my health, the ability to learn, the opportunity to teach, sunsets, Oreo cookies and lemon zinger tea while watching Scandal, and the fact that in a little over two months, the Iowa caucus will be over.

A lot of people envy Iowa for our unfair advantage in picking presidential candidates. Well, don’t. Even though I teach a class called 20th Century American Politics, I still get tired from all the competing voices. And then there’s the prospect of guilt. What if we choose the wrong guy? The whole country could blame us for setting that bandwagon in motion.

As for me, the democratic side of things seems pretty much sewn up (despite Monty's Bernie Sanders bumper sticker) But the republicans are still up in the air, with a lot of people undecided.

Natalie is one of those people.

Monty remains convinced that he can get her to vote Democrat, but when Natalie was his age she voted for Reagan. He was her first republican, and since then, she’s declared herself an independent.

“Who wants pie?” I asked.

Everyone but Monty and Natalie clambered upstairs, to pick between caramel apple and pumpkin, and by the time we returned to the TV room, their argument was over. Soon it was dark outside, people went home, and we all fell into a food coma.

The next day we did our Black Friday shopping, ate turkey sandwiches for lunch, and found ourselves speechless at the news reports of yet another Colorado shooting, this one at a Planned Parenthood.

“And mom thinks her freedom hasn’t been taken away,” Monty said later, when the kids weren’t in ear shot. “I think we need to redefine what freedom is, since we live in a country where shootings have become the new normal.”

“Yeah,” I said. “But if we can't do that, maybe we just need to rethink what we're thankful for.”

Bernie Sanders and Angry Sex

How well do you know the person you’re married to?

Last week, if someone had me this question, I would have said that I know Monty well. Sure, we have our ups and downs, but for the most part I can predict him. I can trust him.

But I forgot how subversive he can be. I’d forgotten that his passionate idealism, which is the very quality that made me fall in love, can manifest as a stubborn, petulant insistence to take the road less traveled. Even if that road is leading toward a dead end.

So I shouldn’t have been surprised when I came home the other day and saw it. A sky-blue rectangle with large white block letters, Bernie, 2015, was plastered against the rear bumper of our Subaru.

It was the middle of the day. After a morning of teaching I had decided to pop home before heading over to my parent’s house. I spend every Thursday afternoon with my dad, who never fully recovered from his stroke, so my mom can run errands or just take a break. But when I saw the Bernie Sanders bumper sticker on our family vehicle I could think of nothing else. I rushed inside to find Monty standing at our kitchen counter, making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, which had to be for him because Noah and Abby were at school.

He turned when he heard me come in, and a smile lit up his face. “Hey,” he said warmly. “You decided to stop home for lunch? Want me to make you a sandwich?”

Monty works from home a lot of the time. He’s a very social person and I know he craves interaction, so I felt a twinge of regret, bursting his bubble, meeting his enthusiasm with irritation.

But I was upset.

“Why is there a Bernie Sanders bumper sticker on our car?” My voice was hard and my arms were crossed resolutely over my chest.

He wrinkled his forehead and then turned his back to me, ostensibly to finish making his sandwich. “I got that the other day. They sent it to me for donating money to his campaign.”

“Monty!” I stepped over so I could invade his personal space. He finished spreading the jelly and pressed the two pieces of bread together. “How could you do that, without talking about it to me first?”

“I need your permission to put a bumper sticker on my car?” He rolled his eyes, put his sandwich on a plate, and busied himself with putting the jelly and bread back in the refrigerator, the peanut butter in the cabinet, and the dirty knife in the sink.

“It’s our car! I drive it too. And you knew very well that I wouldn’t be okay with this!”

“It’s just a bumper sticker, Luce!”

“No, it’s not!” I took a deep breath, trying to stay calm. “You know I support Hillary, and you know I’m worried about her chances. So it’s not ‘just a bumper sticker’ – it’s a passive aggressive attempt to piss me off!”

He sighed and clenched his jaw simultaneously; I hate it when he does that. “This isn’t about you. I happen to support Sanders. Okay?”

“No, not okay! You liked Hillary in ’08, back when she was the underdog against Obama. And my God, you voted for Nader in 2000. You just want to be subversive!”

“So what if I do? It’s not like society is so great that we can’t use a little bit of subversion!” He closed the refrigerator door with his foot, and turned toward me, shoulders squared. “Besides, Sanders stands for what I actually believe in!”

“Oh, grow up, Monty! You know he has NO chance of getting elected! Supporting him is like handing Rubio, Bush, or God forbid, Trump, the presidency on a silver platter!”

Monty shook his head ruefully. “Do you even have any ideals anymore, Lucy? Or is it just all about winning? You tell me to grow up? Well that’s too bad, because you’ve gotten OLD!”

My jaw dropped. “I can’t believe you’d say something so mean!” I ran one hand through my hair and the other my stomach.

He stammered. “I didn’t mean old as in unattractive. I meant old, as in too conservative…”

“Never mind!”

I spun on my heel but he jumped forward and blocked my path out of the kitchen. “You’re not leaving until we resolve this!”

“You don’t get to decide that!” I pushed against his chest, but he was unyielding.

“You know I think you’re hot.”

“I don’t care about that. I want the Sanders sticker off our car.”

“How about I buy an even bigger Hillary bumper sticker and put it on other car?”

I shook my head. “No. We put it next to the Sanders one, so they’re side by side.”

“Fine.” He narrowed his eyes and lowered his voice to a sultry rasp. “But then we’re doing the same thing on both cars.”

I exhaled loudly. “Fine.”

I was very aware of the rise and fall of my chest, and how if I moved forward a fraction of an inch, my chest would be pressed against his. And then, because arguing can get us both riled up, and because I do actually care about whether or not Monty thinks I’m hot, but mostly because we were alone and awake, I let Monty kiss me. I knew what was coming when his lips parted, when he tilted down his dark head, when he reached out both arms to hold me.

I did not step away.

Instead I met his embrace with enthusiasm, though I was still angry. Soon we were tugging off each other’s clothes and taking out our aggression in the most fun, if not the most healthy, sort of way.

When we were done we laid together on the kitchen floor, sharing the peanut butter sandwich Monty had made earlier.

“I’m still idealistic,” I said. “I care about way more than winning.”

“I know.” Monty kissed me softly on the mouth and I could taste his peanut butter breath.

But I wasn’t so sure myself. It’s easy to make claims. It’s not always easy to believe them.

How well do I know my husband? About as well as I know myself.

Five Reasons to Fear Camping and Donald Trump

It was a Thursday evening. We were driving home from eating out, and we couldn’t find a radio station that didn’t have talk about the presidential campaign. In Iowa we are bombarded with it early, and even a political junkie like me can feel overloaded.

Monty switched the radio off. “Hey,” he said casually. “We should take the kids camping.”

I shuddered. “Why?” I demanded, as if he’d just suggested that we sell our kidneys on the black market.

He raised one eyebrow and glanced my way. “Because it would be fun! Because we could get away and have some family time. I thought you loved camping.”

I used to. But middle age has made me cynical. Or maybe it’s the 2016 presidential race that’s done it. Or maybe it’s all Donald Trump’s fault. Because though we did “get away” over a few days at a nearby state park, I couldn’t help but make comparisons between camping and The Donald.

1. No Flush Toilets/ Nothing to Lose

At first it wasn’t so bad. The “waste” had been removed shortly before we got there, and the potties were filled with clean-smelling chemicals. But after days of use by dozens of campers, well… stench happens. You can hold your nose, you can use hand sanitizer, but pit toilets are still kind of scary.

Of course, we use them because we don’t have a choice. Is there anyone out there who wouldn’t rather flush their waste away? Flushing and camping can be mutually exclusive, and meanwhile, we can’t hold it in indefinitely

But in the campground of life, Donald Trump has his own private potty. It no doubt smells wonderful because it’s been flown in and freshly cleaned every hour. Trump has options so he doesn’t need pit toilets just like he doesn’t need the presidency. This means he can poop all over any issue, whether it’s immigration or Megyn Kelly, and he still comes out smelling clean.

2. S’more Expectations

Somehow children always know about s’mores, and if you’re camping, they’re going to expect roasted marshmallows between two graham crackers with a bar of chocolate thrown in.  This happens at night, naturally, when the potential damage from their inevitable sugar rush is at its highest, and when you won’t really notice the dirt-coated marshmallow that is stuck to your child’s face, hands, and clothing, until morning.

But I have to admit, s’mores are yummy. That’s why they’ve endured. The tastiness factor outweighs the sticky mess that they cause. Just like Donald Trump.

Well no, not exactly. All summer, pundits have projected that Trump will burn out, like a marshmallow shoved into the fire too quickly, erupting into flames and falling into the ashes in a goopy, charred glob. That obviously hasn’t happened, but it’s not because Trump stays away from the sticky, messy issues. He’ll say whatever he wants, and that’s too delicious for many voters to ignore.

3. Big Tent Politics

If it’s hot, it’s roasting inside your tent. If it’s cold outside, somehow the air inside your tent is even colder. There’s never enough room for everyone to sleep comfortably, and if it happens to rain, forget about it. I don’t care how waterproof your tent claims to be, you’re going to get wet.

And then there’s the security issue. Tents don’t have locks but they do have zipable doors. You’d better hope that there are no axe-wielding crazies running the campground. Because let’s face it, if you’re sleeping in a tent, you’re a little bit crazy too.

But people love crazy.

And here’s the thing: Republicans have been struggling for years with how to make their party the party of “big tent politics”. In other words, they want everyone to feel welcome even though their stance on the issues only serves rich, white men. Donald Trump has found a way to fix that.  With Trump, issues are irrelevant because his crazy factor is so entertaining, just like the horror movies you know will give you nightmares.

Trump is the equivalent of the axe-wielding maniac you imagine as you’re trying to fall asleep underneath that canvas ceiling, but he’s actually forming the perfect, killer soundbite. He’s an expert at adapting complex issues into five-second slogans that will make sense to the masses, even though, if you really stop to think about it, they sound crazy. Just like, if you really stop to think about it, sleeping in a tent is crazy too.

4. Bugs

Nobody wants a mosquito bite, especially since they carry the threat of Lyme disease. This is why, when you hear a mosquito buzzing around, you swat it away, you spray on more insect repellent, and you definitely pay attention.

Meanwhile, ants and spiders, while annoying and occasionally dangerous, are much less illusive and easier to ignore.

The comparison here is pretty obvious. Donald Trump is the mosquito. We keep thinking he’ll go away, but it’s been a wet summer and he’s still around. Jeb Bush, Scott Walker, Rand Paul and all the others are the ants and spiders. Their bites may ultimately carry more venom, but they’re also boring, predictable, and easily forgettable.

That is, until one of them bites you. But that hasn’t happened yet.

5. Just Redeeming Enough

Despite everything, I actually enjoyed our camping trip. We gazed at the stars and told stories instead of watching TV; we swam in a lake and hiked in the woods. Somehow food always tastes better when cooked over a campfire, and most importantly, I could forget about the rest of the world and enjoy quality time with my family.

Would I do it again? Maybe, if no other vacation options are available.

Speaking of options, while there’s an abundance of Republican candidates, none of them are exotic destinations. Would you rather vote for Ted Cruz or Donald Trump? Would you rather visit your in-laws in Cedar Rapids, or go camping?

I have to say that camping sounds like more fun.

*****
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Carly Fiorina and Choice Feminism

So last month I went to Cedar Rapids for the Iowa Women’s Leadership conference, where the key note speaker was Carly Fiorina. Like many politicians, Fiorina has been spending a lot of time in Iowa lately, and even though at that point she hadn’t yet officially announced her presidential bid, she wasn’t going to waste a speaking opportunity in this coveted state.

But I didn’t go to the conference because of her. I went because my cousin-in-law Robin, who is a two time reality TV star and small business owner, was also scheduled to be speaking about personal journeys, which was the conference’s theme.

“You have to help me,” Robin had demanded, when was first asked to speak.

“What are you talking about?” I replied. “You’re the superstar. I’m sure you’re a much better speaker than I am.”

“Nope. All I do is let cameras follow me around. I don’t plan what I’m going to say and I don’t have to say it front a group of people who are waiting for some deep, life changing message to come out of my mouth. That’s your territory.”

Even though I doubt that my community college students expect life changing messages from my lectures (and they’re disappointed if they are), I still agreed to help her and I also signed up to attend the conference so I could be there to cheer her on. It was fun. We drove down together and we went around to the various speakers, where we also got to know some of the other women who attended.

One woman, named Rachel, cuts hair at a national chain store but she dreams of moving up the ladder and managing her own salon. “I got no maternity leave when I had my kids, and they won’t give me a set schedule, so childcare is hard to arrange, and they pay me basically minimum wage. As a single mother that’s really hard.”

So Rachel was excited to hear Carly Fiorina’s key note address, where she talked about how she went from secretary to the first female executive of a Fortune 500 company. I’ve heard lots of “choice feminists” support Carly Fiorina, and the idea that feminism has changed with the times. After all, everybody is free to choose their own path, and having a choice is always empowering.  It’s not the system that needs to be changed; it’s how we work within it.

“Anyone who wants to harness the full power of human potential, of both men and women, needs to focus on building a meritocracy,” Fiorina said in her speech. “…a true meritocracy where people are recognized, paid and promoted, not on how long they’ve been there, but what they produced – women will rise to the top – not because women are better than men, but because they have half the human potential.”

This is how she explains away our need to establish rules for equal pay. If we just focus solely on performance, there will be no need for employee protection.

But here’s how I see it:  In the eighties, some feminists took offense when men would open the door for them or pull out their chair. Women worried about the implication, that they were incapable of opening the door on their own.

But now, politicians are equating that idea with the idea that some women, like Rachel, actually need real help. We’re not turning Rachel into a victim by giving her equal pay, or maternity leave, or the opportunity to advance in her career, and the insult isn’t the offer of help, it’s our refusal to see that because we still work in a patriarchal system, some women need it.

So yeah, I wasn’t the louder applauder at Fiorina’s speech. The same can’t be said at Robin’s speech, though. She was so nervous before she went on; she kept biting her lip and rubbing her hands against her dress, which was light blue, sleeveless with a gathered skirt, and painted with a pastel map of the world.

“The dress is cheesy, isn’t it?” Robin glared at her reflection back stage, and she looked panicky and pale.

“Not at all. It represents what you do and who you are.” I placed calming hands on her shoulders. “Don’t worry. Just go out there and be yourself. You’ll be great.”

Then I left her so I could take my place in the audience. Soon Robin came out and stood at her podium, and while she started out shaky, her confidence only grew and by the end she had commanded the room.

“I am not shy about admitting to my mistakes,” she said. “I’ve made a lot of them. But when you mess up on national television, the world responds in one of two ways. They either love you or hate you for it. I’ve experienced both. And now, it is my goal to let my missteps empower me, to love myself for all my flaws and foibles. Life is difficult enough anyway, why not forgive ourselves? It could be the first step toward forgiving each other, and then maybe, we can give and receive the help that everyone, at some point, needs.”

****

Attention, Fans!

The Next Breath is in the running for a RONE award from Ind’tale Magazine, but I need readers to vote for it. Click  here you’ll need to subscribe to vote, but that’s free to do, and you can opt out of receiving any emails. I’m under Chick Lit/ Women's Fiction in week four for voting, so hurry, because week four ends tomorrow!

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