Who Wants to be President?

Is it possible to already have election burnout? It seems like just weeks ago we sweated through this and have finally become friends again with our buddies voting across enemy lines. Yet, here I am, already getting a migraine and already bored of the mud-slinging and mockery over a job that no one actually wants.

Who really wants to be president anymore anyhow? Once upon a time, the role of Commander in Chief was one of prestige. Now, I almost think the interchangeable terms Commander in Chief and President of the United States should be separated into two different titles for two separate roles. Really, can you place Commander in Chief Abraham Lincoln in close comparison to any “Commander” elected in your lifetime? But, I digress…

Election Burnout:

In my voting years, the title President of the United States seems to win you this:

• Not the greatest paying job in the country (To put it in perspective, Snooki’s paycheck is higher.)
• An invisible bulls-eye planted on your forehead, upon which at least half of the nation's hatred will be focused
• Your very own Saturday Night Live parody sketch
• A disposable amount of unpaid interns at your beck and call, who will only later ruin your life/historic legacy/marriage/future Hollywood career.
• Unwanted fashion ridicule
• Your family’s appearances, actions and beverages of choice under constant scrutiny
• No less than two stomach ulcers and one necessary heart surgery

And, people wish this on their children at the ripe age of three months! You know, when they learn to simultaneously burp and roll over weeks ahead of their peers in playgroup. “He so smart! I already know he’ll be President one day!” (Note: Never Commander in Chief.)

And, why is it that we equate intelligence with presidential potential anyhow? I can go out on that limb and say I’m smarter than many of our past elects. And, without one semester of college under my belt! (Side note: Lack of higher education does not make me dumb, it makes me poor. Haven’t you all seen Good Will Hunting? Sheesh!)

I'm not bragging. Most of you too can rival the intelligence of a former President. Here’s an informal list I found predicting past presidential I.Q. scores (source:

http://archure.net/psychology/IQs.html):

• George Washington: 118
• U. S. Grant: 110
• Andrew Jackson: 123
• Abraham Lincoln: 128
• John F. Kennedy: 117
• George W. Bush: 125
• Bill Clinton: 137

For comparison’s sake:

• Leonardo DaVinci: 220
• Benjamin Franklin: 160
• Bill Gates: 160
• Sharon Stone: 154

Frankly, I prefer my geniuses in the lab curing cancer or in a workshop making my PC more user-friendly.

I’d prefer wisdom over intelligence in a world leader. Meaning, someone able to apply common logic at the appropriate time needed over someone with the ability to do math equations quickly in their mind. A cautious word goes further in a leadership role than being able to quote every name, date and place in the eight-grade history book. (Note to certain female hopefuls: Please stop trying to do this. It is not a job requirement.)

If you’re gauging your vote on intelligence, stop hurting yourself. You only get to choose from the people stupid enough to run.

Hot topics are another thing that have been hammering the inside of my skull. I know many people vote on social convictions and I don’t fault you for that! I have very strong opinions myself, but realistically… Hot Topic to me means nothing more than that dark store in the mall where you can buy black pants with lots of zippers on the legs. (Zippers with stringy things attached!)

I never have nor ever will change my morals based on law. I don’t recall many laws passed or repealed in my lifetime based on political influence. And, I can’t imagine one being passed or repealed that would in any way affect my day-to-day life. Prohibition has never been reinstated, yet I’m not an alcoholic. Abortion is still legal, yet I’ve never killed a fetus. Gay marriage was just passed in the state of New York yet, amazingly, I woke up the next morning still straight! They’re hot buttons! I know I’m supposed to care, that's why I used the exclamation points! But, a lot of it is just irrelevant to my life. If it's relevent to yours, fine, go forth young (wo)man. (That said, there are ten Laws I try desperately to follow. If you curious, you can find them in the book of Exodus.)

I don’t say this to be provocative, offensive or to incite any kind of riotous behavior (Or hate mail! Unfriend me if you must, but please no hate mail!) I’m just saying, don’t expect to check a box or punch a chad and have someone take the moral weight off your shoulders. Be president of your own household. Teach your children of your convictions. Incite social responsibility amongst your own sphere of influence. More can happen out here than in a white mansion on Pennsylvania Avenue. Don’t expect too much of that position. The president is not your spouse, parent, domestic partner, religious leader, local deputy, HR manager or reporting supervisor.

That being said, what should we look for in a president? It’s pretty much a PR position these days, isn’t it? So maybe (bullet-points are huge this season):

• The self-control to not pass gas in front of foreign dignitaries.
• The strength to keep one’s foot from between one’s teeth.
• The good-natured ability to smile politely for the better part of a 4-8 year time span.
• If I might coin a term: “Schmoozability” seems to go a long way. (Oh, my spell-checker is at full tilt right now!)
• The common sense to hire those who will provide the best support and to give the proper authority to those who can best keep those nasty terrorists at bay.

That seems pretty reasonable.

So, when your child comes to you and states they’d like to become an auto mechanic one day, don’t dissuade him or her. Don’t ask them “Wouldn’t you rather be president, honey?” I’m more worried about auto shop programs being cut in many public schools (meaning, once my mechanic retires, I’ll be hard-pressed to find a new one) than I am about who will be the president of this nation 20 years from now.

Don’t tell your child that an auto mechanic wouldn’t make a decent enough living, because you’re probably that same parent I hear at the local garage griping about how much you’re being charged. My Trailblazer won’t last forever without proper maintenance! I don’t know if the education system expected us to all be commuting by anti-gravity boots by now, but we still need mechanics (and retail managers, and janitors, and someone to raise the food, and kill the food, and sell the food, and cook the food, and serve the food…)

Let your children thrive wherever their talents lie. Because, I still haven’t figured out why anyone would want to be president.

Maybe for the library?

Quit Trying to Fix Me Up!

An Open Letter to All Who Know Me:

Growing up in the Christian church, there was an unusual phrase I’d often hear tossed around. It was “the gift of singleness.”

When a pastor would use this term, it referred to people like the apostle Paul whose purpose in life and relationship with God was so fulfilling that he didn’t need to marry and have a family to complete himself. But, when people in the congregation would use that term, it was more in this tense:

• “What’s the story with the guy who always wears the Star Wars ties on Sundays?” “Oh, him? He has the ‘gift of singleness’.”
• “That woman with the cat hair all over her dress, who’s her husband?” “Oh no dear, you see, she has the ‘gift of singleness’,” “Oh my, I’ll bring her a tape roller next week, poor thing.”

Yes, the majority of the world was designed to be half of a couple, to be fathers and mothers. We don’t need the human race to dry up, this is a good thing! And, yes, many single people do feel incomplete during that timeframe where God’s still working on their other half, preparing them to be “just right” at the just right time. The waiting can be frustrating, I comprehend this and sympathize for these people. I just can’t relate.

When the movie Jerry Maguire came out, at the moment the women (and some men) in the audience heard the line “You. Complete. Me.“ tears broke out throughout the theater. I may have squeezed out a little saline too, but I think mine had more to do with being in the midst of a mass crying jag. (Certain movies do that to you and you get caught up in the bond of crying with a group of strangers.)

The little sign language bit of [point, circle motion with hands, point at self] became the trend of the season and a box office hit was made. I understood this intellectually. I comprehend what “you complete me” means. But, again, can’t relate. How sad that people are walking through life feeling incomplete. People rode away from that movie on the great swell of the story of love. I walked out with my main mission in life being to track down Jonathan Lipnicki and giving just one pinch to those adorable cheeks!

No ring, no problems! Oh oh oh! ♫

It’s a wonderful feeling of elation the day a person becomes content with the way God made them. I can vividly remember the time I was loosed of my boy-crazy chains.

For background, it’s been awhile but, yes, I dated in my late teens and twenties like everybody else. Although I hated being set up, even back then, and wouldn’t allow it. My whole life, I have always felt a closer bond with my male friends. I love the male species (and, yes, am very attracted to them) and always had them around, so it took me awhile to understand that some girls were dying to have a boyfriend just to have a boy around. It was a mystery, they wanted to spend time with one of these elusive creatures.

I, in turn, always had guys around… so it would take a very special one to perk my interest enough to cross that comfortable line of friendship into that uncomfortable territory of dating. Anyone I’ve tried this with had already been a friend of mine for a decent amount of time, and I would already have to be a little bit in love with them to be willing to take that scary step. These generally weren’t what the world calls “committed” relationships and never lasted long-term. It was always sad when they ended but, on my end, it was almost equally relieving to go back to being just friends. I’m not an ideal girlfriend. God didn’t give me that talent. I make a better girl-next-door. A buddy. In fact, I think I excel at buddy-dom.

So, moving on, at one point when I was in my mid-twenties I was part of a small-group Bible study where me and my girlfriends had all read this book on Christian dating and we somehow, to my chagrin, decided to make a joint dating pact. We decided to take a “dating fast” for six months and spend that time getting to know ourselves without manly distraction. I was the oldest of the group and probably the most resistant.

You see, my biological clock had turned into a biological time bomb at that age. I couldn’t sniff a baby with knowing that was true. No kidding, anytime I would hold a newborn infant, whatever pheromones they’d release from the top of their soft spot, would be inhaled through my nostrils and directed swiftly to my ovaries. I understood wholly the concept of a “panging womb” in those moments. Any woman can tell you, there's no better word for it than “pang”.

Immediately prior to me signing the dreaded dating fast pact (yes, we actually signed a dotted line) I had been secretly trying to figure out which of my guy friends to try to date next. I needed a baby in the panging womb, but none of my remaining male friends seemed like a perfect fit.

Well, to me, an oath is an oath. And, I soon enough delved into dating myself. I came to find out that I really liked dating myself! I’m a lot of fun! My tunnel vision kicked in and, being free from the distraction of men, my creativity sky-rocketed and I began painting again and writing again and being crafty and communing with nature. My life had never before felt more on-track!

When the six-months was up, I announced that I was going to extend my fast to nine months because I had begun writing a book and wanted to finish it. The nine months turned into a year, because I was trying to find a publisher (Thank you Lord that I never found a publisher! I enjoy writing, but wouldn’t want to make a career out of it. The book I had written at the time was on the same subject matter and would have been humiliating, in retrospect, to have been released to the public.)

Side note: I also discovered during this time that there is nothing more attractive than an unavailable woman. I had never been asked out more in my life and actually started to find it really annoying.

Well, it’s now at least a decade later, I’ve never officially ended my fast. Writing that embarrassing book (where I’d even included diary entries for the love of Pete! What was I thinking?!) had one amazing purpose. It forced me to scour the Scriptures and solidify my faith.

Oh, more background needed? I’m a born-again Christian since the age of four. I’m not one of those Christians they parody in TV and movies. Y'know, the gay-hating, judgmental, abortion-clinic-bombing type. I'm the good kind. I simply believe in God and that Jesus was the Messiah. I love reading the Bible and praying. I really get a sense of truth resonating when I do these things and, to me, that's proof of God's existence. I won't thump you on the head with my Bible. I won't try to change you if you don't feel the same way. If you ever change your mind, I‘m happy to answer questions. I’m a recovering gossip, who knows it's wrong, but it's my biggest temptation. I'm embarrassed that this is a trait that falls under the “Christian stereo-type” and I don‘t want to be a stereo-type.

In my faith, dating is a means of finding a spouse. I realized I don’t really want a spouse at the moment. I really feel complete and whole. I’ve never been happier than being romantically independent. I’m not a lonely person. I don’t feel like half of a non-existent couple. This past decade has been the happiest and most fulfilling of my life!

So, how did I cure the baby pangs? In a way only God could align the stars for. While I was dating myself, the most life-changing thing happened... I became an aunt!

To be honest with myself, in my twenties, I only wanted to get married for the intent of having kids (of course, and to have someone to fool around with now and then.) I never really was one to dream about my wedding day. I never had the ideal type of man I wanted to end up with. When I thought of the future, in the family sense, it was always just a picture of me running around and laughing with kids in my life who thought I was awesome. Marriage itself always seemed like a chore.

Well, the ultimate cure for the baby pangs was overnight niece/nephew visits. I remember distinctly the night I found my biological snooze button. One of my nephews, age of one (or it might have even been negative-one at the time) was spending the weekend with us. Our family was going through the terrible trial of his brother facing life-threatening surgery. So, my parents and I would take in this nephew whenever his brother would have to stay in a hospital out of state. (By the way, that tragedy is over and nephew #2 is healthy and happy today.)

I always knew sleep was important to me. Missing one night of it, one can always run on adrenaline until the next evening. Missing two or more, I found, was definitely my limit. I had realized that being an aunt was cool, but I am much too lazy to be a mom. When I would mention this discovery to friends, they would always say the same thing, “Oh Kim. You’d be wonderful mom! It’s different when it’s your own kid. You’ll see!” They never got it. The snooze button had been pressed! The pang had left my womb and had jumped into the nearest twenty-something female’s body. I was free!

Happy aunt!

But, my snooze button story is longer than that. Many parents of grown children will tell you that they’re glad they’d had the experience of teething, learning to walk, potty training, watching their kids grow up, but they would never want to go back and do it again! That I can relate to as well.

More back-story? About a year or two after my snooze button had been activated, I became a full-time aunt.

Without delving too much into my siblings’ personal business, I’ll just say that one of my siblings had become a victim of the economy and their whole family of five moved in with us for several years. I had the incredible honor of helping raise their kids, just out of happenstance and the sole fact of having shared a roof. I’ve been through the teething, first steps, potty training, homework, bath times, meal times, etc. that come with parenthood, by default. They are some of my most precious memories and I wouldn’t trade them for anything in the world.

I’m still incredibly close with the children even though we no longer share a street address and we sometimes joke about how I’m an honorary bonus parent. Having that experience was enormously fulfilling to me, but like an empty-nester, I can’t say I want to start over and do it all again with children of my own. (Especially the potty-training!) I'm in no hurry to have kids. So, I'm in no hurry to find a husband. I may never find the need for one! Don't be offended, I'm not pushing this lifestyle on you.

So, when you see someone without a ring on their left-hand, do some research before you start trying to “help”. People who want help finding a mate, usually will ask you for it. Not every unmarried individual is lonely, depressed, incredibly shy, a closeted gay, incomplete, asexual, frigid or cuckoo.

Some of us chose this lifestyle. Most people will tell their loved ones that they just want them to be happy. When you say this, please realize that we all have different things that make us happy. None of us are hard-wired the same way, God didn’t create us all to have the same path in life. The gift of singleness is a real thing, don't get it twisted just because you don't have it. If you try to force someone to be happy in the way you think they should be happy, you just may be robbing them of their own bliss!

As, for me, put those phone numbers away. I’ve already found my bliss and I’m the happiest person I know! Aunthood: Nature’s snooze button.

An Essay a Day Keeps the Writer's Block Away!

How about "An Essay Title a Day Keeps the Writer's Block Away"?  I got as far as that just now and... humph. That orange "Publish Post" button is staring me in the face.

In exchange, I found an appropriate document while rifling through the Word folder on my PC that I had written December 2010. I guess we can call it "Ode to Facebook" (I called it "Blocked" at the time):

I am addicted to Facebook. If there is a support group of fellow addictees, point me in its direction because I am in desperate need.

I check my Facebook every day, the moment I get home from work and at regular intervals until I lay me down to sleep. Sometimes at lunch. Always during dinner. (Yes, during. I almost always eat dinner at my home desk.)

Why? I’m published. On Facebook, I am published. I have an audience, presently of 303 “friends”, that think I’m funny. That’s addictive too.  There’s nothing more satisfying to me than a “LOL”.  And, if I can garner a “ROFL”?  Well, then heaven is mine.

I used to want to be a writer. A paid writer who could stay home all day and tap away at the keyboard at any hour I pleased. A paid writer who could do my work anywhere on planet Earth and still get paid while doing so. A writer so paid that I could afford a desktop and a laptop. I could tap away under any tree or beside any body of water and still get PAID!

I tried in vain for about six months in my mid-twenties.  Children's books, a grown-up book, articles... I even tried greeting cards. Then I ran out of money and got myself a white-collar job. Proof-reading. Proof-reading boring insurance documents and letters that is. I come home drained of all creative energy. Too tired to type, let alone proof-read anything more than my day has already required. 

The dream eventually died.  I was still blocked ten years later. Then came Facebook.

Although my creative energies are sapped the greater five days of the week. I can usually bring myself to muster up a clever sentence, observation or repetition of a out-of-place occurrence from my day. After I post, I wait anxiously in vain for that red notification alert, signaling a “LOL”, a comment, or even a “like” would be welcome.

On Facebook, I don’t sound as bland and formal as I do now. I write in my talking voice. People can practically hear the ridiculous things I say, because I am not formal in speech. I am not formal on Facebook. So, why am I formal and bland now? That’s the challenge.  And, I’m proposing that challenge to Facebook. So Facebook, I’m talking to you, make me a better writer!

(Pause. I see a notification at the bottom of my screen. Okay, just a Frontierville request. Not quite as gratifying as typed laughter.)

I’m not a people-person either. The people I allow myself to be comfortable around know I’m fun. I won’t hide it. It’s true. I’m just not the type to go out seeking more people to entertain. It’s exhausting. People drain me. Enter Facebook, once again.

There’s no way I could physically keep up with 303 human friends. Mind you, everyone on my “friends” list is an actual friend, family member or childhood acquaintance. I don’t “friend” strangers, that’s just creepy. (Although, I’ll admit to having “friended” a couple of the Real Housewives of New Jersey. Those ladies crack. me. up. ) I’m not a phone person. I’m not a “let’s do lunch” person. I’m a Facebook person.

As 2010 nears its close I’ve had the chance to use an application called “My Year in Status”. Here is a sample of this year’s posts:

“Somebody better get NKOTB round the clock security because all of my teen crushes seem to be dying!” (Corey Haim had just passed. Seemed funny at the time.)

[Kim] “finds it strange that I’m collecting horsehair on Farmville...” (Yes, I’m also a game app addict.) “…What do farmers do with horsehair? Oh well, it could be worse. At least when I click on my horses it doesn’t say ‘collecting glue.’”

“If I type LOL in the next hour, I only mean it figuratively. I’m sitting in the library. Shhhh…”

(Pause for notification at the bottom of the screen. Okay, just a Cityville request.)

“PHEW! Power’s finally back on. We had a wicked thunderstorm last night. Lightening struck our neighbors yard, woke us all up and stole our electricity! I couldn’t even update my FB status! I missed out on the chance to write, “Gee. Having no power sucks.”, “I had to toast my Eggo on the stovetop” and “Why are the birds chirping? Don’t they know we don’t have power?”

[Kim] “just got my annual Social Security Statement in the mail. If I can retire in 1982, I’ll be set for life!” (I’m still depressed about that one.)

[Kim] “wonders why the Zoo World app has me feeding my animals ice cream for dinner. PETA would have this zoo shut down in a heartbeat! If I know ice cream is not a sensible supper for myself, how can you expect me to feed it to my unicorns?”

That’s just a taste. So I ran the app (switched out a few boring statuses about family surgeries and requests for prayer in favor of more humorous ones) and posted it proudly. The only comment I’ve received told me, in no uncertain words, said that copulating statuses is just taking Facebook too far. That’s just one person’s opinion, right? I chuckled it off and waited for the red message alert signaled by my real target audience.

Two days later, I’m still waiting. Well, they LOL-ed the first time around! I’m covered!

So now, in closing, I’ve decided I don’t want you to find me that support group. Facebook is good.  It’s found me people I can call “friends” (even though I don’t necessarily want their physical companionship.) It’s made me published. It’s established me as a successful farmer, restaurant owner, zoo-keeper, frontier woman and city founder. And hopefully, eventually, it might make me a better writer.

It's an Aunt's Life

When starting a blog on a whim, my first concern was having a snappy blog name. As most writers can attest, it's easier to write a paragraph than a sentence. It's easier to write an essay than a greeting card. And, in keeping with "a writer is wordy" tradition, I find it easier to blog than to name one.

A title should describe something's content to a tee. Anyone who knows me will tell you, I would probably first describe myself as an aunt. It's not the title that earns my income, it's not the title that describes my heritage or personality... but it's my favorite title. So, it's going in my blog title.

The word "aunt" isn't snappy enough on it's own, so I've been wracking my brain for a whole 15 minutes trying to find a clever twist on the the words "aunt" and "ant".  Given the amount of time invested, these were my most clever combos (and their reasons for failing the blog title test):

• Aunt Farm - Would have been so cute if I lived on a farm. Urghhh! Too bad I'm from the burbs.
• Fire Aunt - Too sexy
• Aunt Bite - Sounds mean!
• Aunt Bully - See Aunt Bite
• Aunt Eater - Sounds a little pervy
• Aunt Hill - Seems political for some reason
• Aunt's Nest - Sounds like I have messier hair than I'd care to admit to
• Queen Aunt - A mite egotistical
• Aunt Trap - ummmm... no.

So then the 90's movie "An Ant's Life" popped into my head. Then, the realization that the movie is actually called "A Bug's Life" immediately followed. But, Ant's Life/Aunt's Life is stuck in there now and I had to pick a title before I could hit the "Continue" button (Dang it! Can't I just pretend I live on a farm?)... so here we are!

There are enough mommy blogs, wife blogs, pet blogs, farm blogs in the world. This one's for the aunties! For today. Tomorrow might bring you a book review, opinion piece, reality show rant or essay that woke me up in the middle of the night.

Who knows what this blog will bring but, for today, it's just the aunt's life.