LifePundit

How a Passion for Global Warming will Help My Child Make the Right Decisions in High School

Here comes a rant. But first, a little background. Lily starts high school a week from today. She's going to be slammed with difficult courses (and some easy ones), a monstrously big new school, the need to make new friends since none from her middle school are going to this school, and the difficult choices that face our teenagers.

Already she's feeling the pressure to join a high school sorority. They have lots of parties and underage drinking. (The answer is "no" on the sororities until I find out better things than I have already heard.) Whether she joins a sorority or not, she'll have many opportunities to make good and bad choices.

She was supposed to go on a Presbyterian-sponsored high school retreat for all of last week, but came down with a stomach bug and couldn't go. The kids that went had a great time and I'm sorry she missed out.

Or I was sorry, until I got an e-mail about the retreat encouraging us parents to follow up on the things that they learned about at this "World on Fire" retreat, such as global warming.

No matter what you think about global warming, is this the biggest danger facing my teenager? Will it keep her from getting pregnant or contracting an STD? Will it help her evaluate her choices in light of what she believes and the potential consequences of those choices? Will knowledge of global warming, which is now the spiritual center of our secular society, draw her closer to the real God who created her?

I am a global warming skeptic who believes that it is our Christian duty to be good stewards of the earth. But even if I thought global warming was something other than iffy science that makes Al Gore rich, I'd still be dumbfounded that with all the challenges our teenagers face that they are asking us parents to help our children decide how they are going to change their lives based on what they learned about global warming at the church conference.

I chose became a member of the Presbyterian denomination because it has an intellectual tradition and tries to educate its members on how to think for themselves. I love it that I can ask my minister a question and get told six possible ways of looking at multiple answers without getting told what "the answer" is. I do hope we haven't fallen into group-think.

So the retreat prepared the kids for high school by trying to get them motivated to do something about global warming. Last week Lily was home throwing up. After hearing this, I think I'll do the same.

But maybe Lily will find her knowledge of global warming useful. "No thank you. No ecstasy for me. It's too hot in here. Global warming, you know."

Or, "I'd love to sit out here in the car and have sex with you, but we need to watch our carbon footprint and it's too hot to turn the air conditioning off. Global warming, you know"

Or, "No, I won't text you the answers. Uses too much energy. We have to be careful of global warming, you know."

Better go before I throw off enough steam to raise the atmosphere by several degrees.

Duty to Die

I've said it myself walking the halls of my parents' nursing home: shoot me before I get like this.

I've told Lily that when I turn 92 to get me a green Thoroughbred colt to ride -- a 2-year-old who hasn't yet been raced -- and I'll ride him in a lightning storm. She noted that the this plan wasn't fair to the horse, who would also die from the lightning strike. I figure I wouldn't get that far before I would be up in the clouds myself. My doctor has already recommended I switch from Thoroughbreds to Quarter Horses. A 2-year-old Thoroughbred ought to work very nicely, thank you.

My father has told me that something bad happens to you between age 92 and 94. Yes, getting old isn't for sissies. But that doesn't mean that those of us who make it that far have a duty to die.

I normally like to be comfortably informed about what I write about here, but since Obama has lowered that standard by speaking about the Gates' affair ("I don't know all the facts BUT...."), I can say it right here:

We are all going to die, and it is not a duty to our country to do so.

My mother has Alzheimer's and has had it for 11 years. Now she doesn't know us and sleeps most of the time. When she leaves this earth, she will surely go to a better place than the hell she has been in for 11 years. But she doesn't have a duty to die, and I sure as hell have no right to play God and make sure she does.

She is serene and pain-free. She is well cared for. And when God decides her time is up, her spirit will be released. But that's God's job. Not some bureaucrat's. Not Obama's.

Fred Thompson has an interview here with one of the few people in America who has read the healthcare bill, Betsy McCaughey. Listen to it here.

Aren't There Any Grown Ups Left? (Shut Up, Mark Sanford!)

This could be a long and thoughtful post about love, soul-mates and the precious shortness of life. But it's not going to be.I'm too busy gagging.

I got a text alert on my cell phone that Governor Sanford told the AP that his Argentinian mistress is his soul-mate and that he's going to try to fall back in love with his wife.

Isn't that just the sweetest thing?

Now, if I were his wife, if I had any love left for him, that little statement would certainly make it evaporate. Let their boys watch Sponge Bob or find some other role model for them who is at least a grown up. Their father sounds like he's 14. 

Here's a link but I'm not reading the story. I have had enough.

I hope his wife has put his things on the curb. Then, somebody neeeds to put duct tape over his mouth and leave him sitting in the governor's chair. He can just sit there quietly until it's time to elect somebody else. I'm still not ready for Andre Bauer.

Why Sanford Shouldn't Resign

Ordinarily, I would call for the resignation of a governor who let the state go to voicemail and snuck off to Argentina to dally with his mistress. But at least he's more of an adult than our lt. governor, Andre Bauer.

On the other hand, if Sanford resigned, maybe the media would lose interest in him and focus on Cap and Tax, Iran, North Korea and the debt that's going to make us a third-world country.

What to do When Your Governor Goes Missing

I stole this from a friend:

SOUTH CAROLINA: Too small to be its own nation, Too large to be an insane asylum. Please remember that politics in SOUTH CAROLINA are for entertainment purposes only!!!

Y'all enjoy. I'm personally embarrassed by the craziness and feel sorry for Jenny Sanford and their four boys.

No doubt I'll know more about Governor Sanford's affair than I want to know eventually, but I do wonder how you sneak off to Argentina to "carry on" as my mother might say.

At least we don't have to worry about him running for president.

I Would Rather be Hot than Cold

I just got back from Pony Club camp in Tryon, N.C. It's the kind of camp where you don't drop off your kids and their ponies/horses and head off for some fun, and parents do the work. I'm a parent. This is bad news.

And if that isn't gruesome enough, it was so very, very hot. I found myself texting Paul, "I wanna come home." I felt like I was back at camp in sixth grade sending homesick letters to my mother.

We were there over 12 hours a day and it was brutally hot. I wondered how I could stand it. Then I would remember Philadelphia, and try not to complain. I would rather be hot than cold. That's one of the few things I am certain is true about me.

Beyond the heat, and the heat, and did I mention it was terribly hot? I'm also so very glad we went, because it was a great experience (almost) all the way around. Here's a great photo of one of the campers. Probably the best photo I've ever taken.

At least I wasn't cold, so I have no reason to complain or whine. My first job was in construction in Philadelphia. I got "put outside," kind of like the cat at night, on a high-rise project in Center City, in the middle of the winter. I stood on the frozen concrete floors, the building wide open to the wind. My job was to follow the plumber and be sure that he put insulation around the bathtub pipes. He was slippery, fast and knew how to dress for the weather. I was 23 or 24, from South Carolina, innocent and unsuspecting, and completely unable to dress for the weather. They were pouring the concrete floors above me, and they had the salamanders fired up to keep the floors warm (or at least not frozen) while the concrete set. Nothing else was warm. No, make that nothing else was thawed out. The winds and snow blew through the open building. The winds and snow seemed to aim for me.

I have never been so miserable, and that was a formative moment in my life.

Because no matter how hot and miserable I am here in S.C. or even in the Caribbean in July, I think back to sitting on the side of my bathtub in my Philadelphia apartment after a frozen, long day at work, holding my numb feet under the hot tap trying to get the feeling back. I almost cried when the alarm went off in the morning, not because of the job, but because no matter what I wore, I couldn't stay warm. I couldn't even get to be merely very cold. I was so cold I couldn't even think.

I can't stand to be cold. So that means that I will tolerate the heat though I will whine about the heat like my mother-in-law whines when we are five minutes late, yet I will remember: I would rather be hot than cold.

I wish other things were as easy to put in perspective. Or maybe I don't. That was a very painful lesson I learned and I'd rather be ignorant than suffer something like cold. Or worse things that life can throw at you.

If I could only be grateful for what I have. At least I wasn't cold. But I do believe there is a reason that hell is depicted as hot, not cold.

I didn't just say that.

Here's what I really meant to post about. If you're looking for some summer reading, here are a few books I've enjoyed over the last few months or maybe it was several years ago. Whatever. My brain doesn't work if it's too hot, either.

Right now I'm enjoying The Help. I loved The Story of Edgar Sawtelle and discovered it before Oprah. Nyah nyah nyah. And I tried my first Stephen King this past year and thought it was extraordinary -- Duma Key. That's all I can remember for now. In fact, that's more than I can remember about my own novel(s) right now, which I didn't even take with me to Pony Club camp because I knew I wouldn't be doing that kind of work -- and I was more right about that than I could ever imagine.

But at least I wasn't cold.

Now I'm Afraid to Go Outside

I used to be afraid that there were alligators under my bed. Turns out I was not such a foolish child after all.

The alligators have gotten too big for their breeches. I guess that's what happens when you over-protect a species that doesn't appear to need much protecting.

I'm happy to say that it's legal to hunt them in S.C. now, though I don't know when, how or where to do it.

Unfortunately, for the "where" part, it seems you don't have to look very far. A couple of weeks ago, at Betty's Diner on this end of town, or rather, since I'm not in town and Betty's not either, I guess you'd say sort of in this neck of the woods, had a10-12 foot alligator relishing the aroma of cooking hamburgers, fried chicken and tasty customers from just off Betty's property line. Since the marauder wasn't technically on her property and was a good tipper, the authorities wouldn't do anything about it.

Betty said:

“I check under my car when I go out,” said Betty Mack, 59, the diner’s chief cook and restaurant’s namesake who says her specialty is her fast-selling, secret-recipe, nonalcoholic green fruit drink she calls “Jesus.”

The gator hung out all day Friday.

And then, about 35 minutes from here in another town where alligators do not belong, a family heard a noise on the porch at 3:00 a.m. and thought it was a burglar. I think I would have preferred a burglar.

It was a nine-foot alligator. On their porch! And what's with the rug (picture above)? Remind anybody other than me of Little Red Riding Hood? This is serious, folks?

What the heck was a nine-foot alligator -- impersonating an alligator wearing a rung -- doing making a ruckus on their porch? Alligators do not belong next to restaurant parking lots. They don't belong on people's porches.

I'm beginning to believe that they belong in the purse-and-shoe shops. A few alligators is a natural wonder. Alligators leaving their natural habitats (and I'm not talking about how we encroached on them -- they do not belong this far away from their snaky rivers and golf courses near the coast) is how you lose an arm.

I had a friend who used to be in public relations for Jekyll Island. Every now and then she'd have to handle a situation where a tourist would have Poopsie the beribboned poodle on a leash, and an alligator would snatch Poopsie and gobble her down in one bite, just leaving the leash and the horror-stricken tourist. And my friend with a PR problem. (Poodles are apparently alligator chocolate.)

Anyway. I don't know where I'm going with this, but one thing's for sure: I'm not going outside.

We Don't Show Our Bosoms before 4:00 O'Clock

I'm in a crisis. It's funny, the things that come to you in a crisis. Things you think you remember but can't find any evidence of. And the headline for this post shows how I am already in the midst of a battle I am losing.

First off, I said "we don't show our bosoms."

And now I'm negotiating not to show them before 4:00.

Didn't Mammy say that in Gone with the Wind? "We don't show our bosoms before four o'clock." I can see her talking to Scarlet while the rest of the girls are napping and Scarlet has A Plan. Hence, she needs to show her bosoms before 4:00. Or was it 5:00?

At what time of life and time of day is it all right to show our bosoms? From the look of things on TV, as soon as you wake up is a good time to be showing your bosoms (note -- I am talking about low-cut frocks, not naked skin). Coffee and bosoms every morning on the news. And do hospital administrators really dress like Dr. Cuddy on "House"? My den overfloweth with images of overflowing, button-stressed tops.

A couple of weekends ago Lily and I went dress shopping for a dress for her for church confirmation and for middle-school graduation. (Didn't I already whine about this? Well, if I did, I'm not done.) There were NO dresses that didn't show bosoms. My child is 14. She shouldn't even have bosoms. I think she should leave them home in a box, under the bed. Save them for later. But no. She has bosoms and the fashion designers have plans for them.

They are to be emancipated. Yes, as soon as bosoms sprout, they are to be displayed, set free, let loose upon the world. Yes, the dresses are even pretty. But pretty doesn't equal appropriate.

On our very painful shopping trip, Lily picked out several dresses. Hmmmm. Lots of spaghetti straps. Dresses that were nothing more than bikinis with skirts attached. So I went through the racks (no pun intended) looking for more modest clothes (we were in major department stores, not your local Hookers 'r' Us), and they were not there. There are no modest clothes. We are all hookers now.

So, we tried to do the best with what they had. Lily looked stunning. Like a sexy 25-year-old. She'd have to wear a nametag that ready, "Sorry. I'm really 14." with any of these dresses.

We haggled. We negotiated. I looked back through the racks. There were two other mothers in the dressing room, and we were all having the same argument with our 14-year-old daughters.

"You're not planning on wearing THAT, are you?"

Why yes. And before 4:00. In fact, before I'm 16. Before I'm 18. Before your very eyes.

Well, one of the dresses was marked down to $12 and actually was lovely, except for the fact that there was no fabric across the bustline. So I told Lily she could get it if she wore a camisole. She agreed. And tonight she tried on the dress with a camisole. She said it looked terrible and made her look like a hillbilly.

Better a hillbilly than something else.

Hear that stomping? That's me putting my foot down. I'm getting quite a rhythm going. Pretty soon it will be a real 'ho-down.

I may have a new play, though. Something that will be a real game-changer. Okay. She can show her bosoms.

Two can play at that game. Or would this make it four? I, too, have bosoms. And I'm not afraid to use them. 

The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, though some apples may have fallen a lot farther South than others. But you didn't need to know that.

Yes, I have a plan. Can there be anything worse than having your mother show up somewhere not fully dressed? And there's only one thing that will stop me.

"When I say, 'WE don't show our bosoms,' I mean 'WE.' You show yours, and I'll show mine."

I will win. This time.

I'd Like an Order of Vicarious Goal Fulfillment with That

A few months ago a friend alerted me to some kind of study (I want to say it was in the book, Emotional Intelligence, but who knows) that showed most of us can only press forward in one area of self-improvement or self-moderation at a time. This is good to know if you're setting yourself up for failure by trying to lose weight, save money and write two novels while continuing with everything you are already doing, all at the same time. (Tried it and it does not work.)

The one thing I remember, since I don't necessarily remember the source, is that they found that people who went window shopping before meeting friends at a restaurant ordered more and worse choices for dinner. Because they had already exerted self-control by window-shopping and not shopping-shopping, their self-control tank was half-empty.

Now here's another study that shows the ways our brains work -- or don't. If there are healthy food choices on a menu -- for example, a salad (though I can quickly make that unhealthy and yummy) -- people are more likely to do things such as order fries and other unhealthy food. They're calling this "vicarious goal fulfillment."

Here's a free and better description on Weighty Matters. You can probably google other stories, too.

Airline Makes Big Guy Buy Two Seats

This is a true story and not one that you've heard about. A friend of a friend has a rather large son (though not 555 lbs.) who is all muscle and plays football at some college. He's a monstrous guy with biceps like my thighs, only muscular and without cellulite, and weighs in at over 300 and something. So, when booking a flight, the airline made him buy two seats. This really made him and his mother mad because he's just your average college football player sort. Only in jumbo size.

Now, I have mixed feelings about this airline big-people, two-seat rule. I have flown before in the middle seat between passengers on each side who spilled over quite abundantly into my seat. The two large folks almost met in the middle, which, unfortunately, I was attempting to occupy. The thought did occur to me at the time that I was not getting full use of the seat I was paying for, and in fact, thought about charging rent. Though since they were bigger than me, and I couldn't be seen or cry for help behind the double-wall of flesh, I just endured.

So I can understand why if a person occupies more than one seat, perhaps the person in the seat who is experiencing the uninvited double occupancy of his neighbor's seat overflow really should either get a discount or a break. Yet, there is something unfair about this selling of two seats to one person. Heavy people and Southerners are the only people it's okay to make fun of.

But back to the true story of this son of a friend of a friend. He begrudgingly paid for his two seats, and showed up on time for his flight...

...only to find that the two seats weren't anywhere near each other!