Being a girl has nothing to do with it

Trish Herr's then five year old daughter Alex wanted to hike all 48 of New Hampshire's 4,000+ foot mountains. Would you let your five year old do the same? Join From Left to Write on April 12 as we discuss Up: A Mother and Daughter’s Peakbagging Adventure. As a member of From Left to Write, I received a copy of the book. All opinions are my own.

I read Trish Herr's book, Up, and I have to admit, I'm impressed with her daughter.  It's not every 5 year old who understands and wants to undertake such an endeavor.  Actually, I'm impressed with both her daughters.  It's also not every 3 year old who would want to hike huge mountains.  

I have three children, for all of whom 5 and 3 are in the past, and I don't know if it would ever occur to them to want to hike 48 4000+ foot mountains, but in fairness, we live in the wide open spaces of Midwest USA.  Mountains are not exactly easily accessible for us.  And by that I mean, we'd have to drive for days or buy airline tickets to get to one, let alone 48 of them.  Would I let them do it?  Sure, if they wanted to. Would I let them when they were 5? Sure, if they wanted to. 

I love that Trish has instilled such a love and respect for the outdoors in her children, and I love that her daughters have learned that simply being a girl doesn't stop them from doing what they want to do, it's a matter of attitude.  Being a girl has nothing to do with it.  

I'm a female in a male-dominated world, the military.  I get it.  I've worked long hard hours to be considered as good as the guys.  What I've learned is this:  if I don't focus on the fact that I'm a woman in a man's world, then generally neither does anyone else. If I ask people to notice that I am a woman, they generally will.  I don't see myself as a female Airman, I'm an Airman. What matters is not what restroom I use; what matters is the effort I bring, and the end result of my work.  The men I work with don't say, "Hey, great job....for a girl," unless they're trying to get a rise out of me.  Which only works sometimes.  

My children are all boys.  God most definitely has a sense of humor, and He definitely knew what He was doing, giving me all boys.  They're growing up with a mother who wears a military uniform to work, and still drives them to school every day.  They're growing up with a mother who chaperones field trips and does room mom duties, and who can also beat them at HORSE, and will practice pitching and catching and batting with them.  Their mother kills bugs (even the big ones), bakes cookies, and runs the house while dad is away at work, which is often. Their mother does indeed wear combat boots.  

And I think they'll be better men for it.  They don't see me, a woman, as limited by my gender.   I have one foot in each world, the traditional and the not so traditional.  No one made me quit working full time and choose the part time Reserve route; I made that choice completely on my own.  No one made me continue to stay home when my youngest child went to all-day school; again, my choice. 

It seems to me that kids will always take their cues from their parents.  When they take a spill, they immediately look at Mom to see how bad it really is.  If Mom gasps, they start to cry.  I get to determine, to a significant extent, how my boys view the world and how it works.  I like to think I'm showing them an example of someone who makes their own choices while considering others who are affected by them, who places value on education and on service to others, and who is willing to put effort into making a family work.  Someone who acknowledges mistakes (most of the time) and is willing to try to learn from them (most of the time). Not a woman who does these things, just someone who does them.  

I'm not at all ashamed of being female or wish that I was not; I love being a wife and a mother.  It's my true vocation, above all else.  But I don't allow my gender to limit me, or define me.  


Being a girl has nothing to do it. 

Not really a single mom

During the fifth month of her pregnancy of her first child Natalie Taylor is devastated by the sudden death of her husband. Her journey with grief is chronicled in the memoir Signs of Life. Join From Left to Write on March 29 as we discuss Signs of Life by Natalie Taylor. As a member of From Left to Write, I received a copy of the book. All opinions are my own.

 

I am not a single mom. 

I sometimes make jokes about my traveling husband, how many days he is gone every month and how we practice tag-team parenting.  How, when he gets home, I clock out.  We slap hands in the driveway, my tires squealing as I shout, "I'm out!" before he can set down his suitcase long enough to protest.  I sometimes call his schedule and his absences "the married single-mom shuffle."  My friends, who know the unpredictability of his work schedule, just ask, "When will he be home?" when we're discussing weekend plans,  the kids' baseball practices and Cub Scout meetings. 

And there it is.  

He will come home.  I am not a single mom. 

Natalie Taylor's memoir is real, and honest, and raw. Her grief is palpable, something her reader experiences with her.  I don't mind telling you that I shed tears along with Natalie as I read her words.  I have experienced grief and loss and the deaths of loved ones.  I have experienced growing up without a parent.  I have not, however, experienced the death of my spouse, and I came to realize as I read this book, that I have no idea what I'm joking about when I glibly call my life "the married single mom shuffle." 

What would I do?  How would I cope?  How would I get up every day and get my kids off to school?  How would I help them cope with their dad's permanent absence?  How I would keep him alive for them?  How would I dry their tears and tell them we'd be ok?  How would I teach my boys about what it means to be a man?  Who would teach them to change a tire and how to throw a perfect spiral pass?  Who would help them build a tree-house?  Who would give them their first .22 rifle and teach them how to use it right?  

I found Natalie to be incredibly brave.  Brave enough to get up in the morning, to continue to do the things that needed doing.  Brave enough to be the mother her son needs, even when she doesn't feel like it.  Brave enough to continue living her life. Brave enough to write it all down, and to share it with the world.  I believe that giving voice to something takes away its power over us, whether it's a secret or a struggle.  

I am not a single mom.  But I'm afraid I could become one, at any given time, unexpectedly.    I can't say I'll never make a joke again about tag-team parenting or doing the married single-mom shuffle.  Besides giving voice to my fear, those jokes allow me to laugh a little at the possibility, and humor is a powerful weapon, especially in the face of difficulty, however awful it might be.  

I know I don't understand Natalie's struggles.  I can't.  And to be perfectly frank, I don't want to.  I am afraid to.  I applaud her and I admire her for her honesty and her strength.  But I can't understand. 

Her story reminds me that I am not a single mom.  It reminds me to be grateful for the blessings I have, and that you just never know.  It reminds me that life can change direction, and turn on a dime.  It reminds me that I am, or I could be, stronger than I think.  It reminds me that there is always hope.  

What are the things you laugh about, that you're really afraid of?

 

All things in moderation

Could you live an entire year eating locally or the food from your garden? Barbara Kingsolver transplanted her family from the deserts of Arizona to the mountains of Virginia for their endeavor. Join From Left to Write on February 21 as we discuss Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver. As a member of From Left to Write, I received a copy of the book. All opinions are my own. 

Well, for me, the short answer for that first question would be: uhm, no.
 

I don't know how to grow daffodils, let alone anything one could reasonably eat, I don't happen to own (or be married to someone who owns) a farm on which to hone my growing skills, and I lead a very hectic life (or does it lead me?) with three very active boys and a husband who is off flying the friendly skies half of every month.  I am a big fan of convenience and the pizza delivery guy, especially when I'm the only one in the house with a drivers' license and a car, and three kids have to get to different activities or practices in the same afternoon.  My mantra is 'all things in moderation.'   Except coffee.... I really, really like coffee.   

Now, having said all of that, let me back off from my "uhm, no," at least a little bit.  

First of all, I fully realize that it is possible to lead a very hectic life and still grow vegetables.  Or buy from farmers' markets and farming co-ops or CSAs (community supported agriculture).  And I realize that many, many people far busier than I, can and do eat locally grown and harvested produce and meats all the time.   I also realize that I don't necessarily have to be the one doing all the farming and the growing.  Which, honestly, is a relief, because I'm not exaggerating, I can't even grow daffodils.   But I'm still a wife and a mom who wants to feed her family healthy and nutritious food that tastes good, is grown in a responsible way and doesn't cost more than my children's college fund. 

Barbara Kingsolver and her family moved from Tucson, Arizona to Virginia, to a farm her husband owned, and made a pact together to only eat food that they grew themselves or that was grown locally, or just do without it.  That's a huge step.  Huge.  Kingsolver's story is fascinating and well written, with humor and amazing research.  I especially liked the sidebars written by her family members.  I only wish my children loved fruits and vegetables so much!  

Being a historian, I was fascinated by Kingsolver's research into the types and variety of different types of fruits and vegetables that we have lost, due in large part to the mass production of industrial farms and the focus on growing only a couple of crops, but A LOT of them, for maximum profit.  I had no idea, and it's tragic.  If France and Italy and Germany and India are all known for their wonderful and unique cuisines, what would American food be?  McDonald's?  Ick.

I don't think I possess the intestinal fortitude for a transcontinental move and a vow to give up Honey Nut Cheerios, I'll just throw that out there.  But after reading Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, I will say that I am inspired to expand my horizons and try some new things.  I will frequent the farmers' markets and local farms more, I will research local CSAs and I will learn to enjoy cooking.   I will stop caving to the whiny "how many bites of THAT do I have to eat?" and I will continue to encourage and teach my kids to make healthy food choices.  I will learn more about what is in season, and what is not, and I will try to do better to abide by the schedule nature gave us.

I can't promise to delete the pizza guy's phone number from my speed dial, but I can promise that I will press 'call' a little less often.

Hey, it's something!   We've all gotta start somewhere. 

Home

 

When Julia travels to Burma to search for her missing lawyer father, she discovers much more than she expected. Join From Left to Write on February 1 as we discuss The Art of Hearing Heartbeats by Jan-Philipp Sendker. As a member of From Left to Write, I received a copy of the book. All opinions are my own.

Home. 

Four little letters, one short syllable. So heavy with layers of meaning. 

There is a part in this beautifully told story where Tin Win goes to a monastery as a young man who has lost his sight. I am not blind, and cannot fathom what it would be like to lose my sight. To lose the primary way I engage with and experience the world. I can't imagine how frightened and out of sorts I would feel, even in my own comfort zone, my home. But I know very well the layout and the design of the rooms and hallways within these four walls, and I could navigate it in the dark if I needed to. Home is, and is meant to be, our safe place, our soft place to fall. 

For Tin Win, he experiences a different kind of home when he arrives at the monastery. He has never been there before and it is all unfamiliar territory to him, and yet he feels peaceful, as if he is at home. 

There have been relatively few times in my life when I have felt that deep peace of coming home, when I was most definitely not at the house where I reside, and most definitely not in familiar territory.

I felt that way the first time I attended the church that spoke directly to my soul. I was not raised in this church or with the beliefs or traditions of this church. And yet, the first time I sat in the pews and really absorbed the message, I knew. I'm an academic; I need to know the why's and wherefore's of things. I need to see the proof and examine the sources and analyze the credibility of the argument and the premise upon which it is based. And yet, I can't do that when pressed about my faith. 

Because I didn't choose my faith after careful consideration of all the options and a thorough analysis. I just came home. 

I felt that way when I met the man who would become my husband. I didn't try to flirt like crazy with him, or impress him with how cute and clever I was. He didn't wait any certain number of days to call me after he asked for my phone number, and he didn't waste time acting disinterested to see how hard I would chase him. We skipped over the initial, sometimes awkward, dating rituals and mating dances. I just knew about him. 

I didn't choose my husband because he adhered to a list of do's and don't's or because he met a list of criteria. I just came home. 

Home, to me, is not about a nice three car garage on a wooded cul de sac. It's not about four bedrooms in a nice suburb. It's not about Home is about peace. Home is about feeling safe. Home is about acceptance and love and comfort. Home is about belonging somewhere, belonging to someone. 

What makes you feel at home?

On appreciating quiet

 

Are you an introvert or extrovert?.Author Susan Cain explores how introverts can be powerful in a world where being an extrovert is highly valued. Join From Left to Write on January 19 as we discuss Quiet: The Power of Introverts by Susan Cain. We'll also be chatting live with Susan Cain at 9PM Eastern on January 26. As a member of From Left to Write, I received a copy of the book. All opinions are my own.

I'm guilty.  

There, I said it. 

I'm guilty....guilty, I tell you. 

My crime?  Wanting my child, no, expecting my child to be something different than he is.  As if there's something wrong with him, or lacking in him.  When he is just exactly as God intended him to be, without me and my neuroses laid upon his scrawny, preteen shoulders. 

You see, my son is an introvert.  And I...I am not.  Oh, I enjoy quiet time now and then, and I happily kiss my children goodbye as I drop them off at the door of the school, looking forward to the temporary peace that reigns in my kid-free house for a few hours each day.  I get weary of the constant chatter and TV noise and music noise and video game noise that invades my house during the hours that Moe, Larry and Curly are at home and awake.  Oh yes, I enjoy time to have a cup of coffee with a book or checking up on my Facebook friends for a while.  But not for very long.  I get a little antsy and I feel like picking up the phone and calling someone, or asking a friend to lunch or maybe just going to the grocery for a little friendly checkout-line-chitchat.  Too much quiet bothers me.   Full disclosure:  I am an ambivert, comfortable in both realms, but not comfortable enough to really stick with one or the other.  I'm a perennial fence-sitter in so many aspects of my life, but that's another post for another day.

Reading Susan Cain's Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World that Can't Stop Talking, has given me a whole new view on the introvert/extrovert question.  I haven't worked full time outside the home in nearly twelve years, and when I did work full time, my office was the cargo compartment of a C-141 cargo jet, flying for the Air Force.  So I don't have much of a frame of reference for much of the office statistics, such as how private or at least semi-private offices or cubicles vice an open floor plan affect productivity or how meetings are creativity-killers, and multi-tasking is really just a myth.  (As a busy mom, I wonder about that, but who am I to question solid research?) 

But for me, the real gems in Cain's book were about people who contributed a great deal to life as we know it, with all the creature comforts and technological gee-whiz fun toys, and they didn't seek the spotlight.  They were introverts.  They wanted, they needed to be left alone, in order to really get inside their own heads and pull all that magic out. Everyone knows about Apple products and the legendary Steve Jobs, may his soul rest in peace.  But not everyone knows about the other genius, the other Steve, behind my super-cool iPhone. Steve Wozniak, Introvert.  He wasn't good at, nor did he want to, jump up and down and attract a lot of attention to himself.  He didn't need to be the public face of Apple.  He just wanted to build computers.  And boy, did he ever build computers.  Given his tremendous success, he has learned to deal with the spotlight from time to time.  But he doesn't seek it out.

Why and how do these quiet, unassuming people get all this wonderful and creative innovation and all these way-cool ideas, when they're not all that good at selling it?  Why is it better to work alone when the light bulb moment strikes?  Why doesn't brainstorming work?  Why do we seem to be more attracted to qualities like magnetism, charisma, forcefulness and energy, while allowing qualities like duty, honor, manners, integrity, and hard work take a back seat?  The latter group are all things that a person can work to improve, but the former group...well, you either got it or you don't. 

The world loves an extrovert.  And the world loves someone who will toot their own horn confidently, and sell themselves boldly.  We live in a time where people are famous for nothing more than, well, being famous.  These people simply assume that the rest of the world is interested in them and what they're doing, where they're going, and whose clothes they're wearing.  And to a significant degree, they're right.  These celebrities make more for showing up once at a nightclub than I'll make in the next two years.  How do they do that?!

It's all in the book.  There is a lot of science and statistics, but Cain writes it all down in a way that makes it easy to follow.  

But really, how does this relate to my crime and my guilt?  Well, my son is an introvert.  He's a bright, capable, intelligent kid.  His imagination and the world he inhabits inside his head are nothing short of amazing.  And yet, I fail on a regular basis to appreciate the wonder that is my introverted boy.  I'm such a social creature that I don't truly understand his need to be alone, his preference to work alone, his lack of concern for the small number of phone calls and invitations he receives.  It's not that he doesn't have friends; he does.  He does get invitations and when he shows up at a party or a basketball game, he's greeted by several friends high-fiving him or giving him a noogie (this is apparently how preteen boys show affection and happiness).  

He's totally okay with being, playing, thinking alone.  On his own.  No one else.  But I have to admit, I sometimes wonder....do the other kids really like him?  Why do they so rarely call to ask him to come over, or to shoot some hoops, or to sleep over on Saturday nights? Why does he always seem to be alone?  Is something wrong with him? More full disclosure:  we live in smalltown USA and attend a small Catholic school where everyone knows everyone else and it's not as if he's swallowed up in a huge school and doesn't really get to know anyone.  He's been in the same class with the same kids for the last seven years. And I know that the other kids love him.  But still, I worry.  I worry that he's going to get left out and left behind. 

I don't understand his imaginary world.  I often have to remind him that I don't understand the language he has just now made up, and I'm going to need him to just use English, please.  Sometimes I have to remind him to rejoin the here and now.  He always does, but he's sometimes pretty darn reluctant.  And I worry. 

I've had people...coaches, instructors, activity leaders, other parents...insinuate (or sometimes outright say) that with his temperament and his inclination to be perfectly happy on his own, that he's going to get left out and left behind. And I worry.  In the words of one of these esteemed individuals (a 100% complete and total extrovert, maybe not capable of being alone for 10 minutes), if he didn't learn to be more outgoing and change facets of his personality, he was "going to be totally screwed in this life."  Imagine how well I took that comment. 

But Susan Cain begs to differ.  And through her book and her research, she gives me reason to beg to differ.  She has given me a reason and a way to view my son differently, and new ways for me to interact with him so that he feels loved and safe, no matter how social he may or may not be.  I don't understand him.  That's a terrible feeling, to not really get your kid.  To sometimes wish he could be a little more this or a little more that.  To fail to appreciate the beauty and the wonder, the gift from God,  that is right in front of me on a daily basis. 

But after reading Quiet, I'm beginning to get it.  And I'm beginning to get him. 

Losing, and then finding, yourself

**In Lost Edens, author Jamie Patterson struggles to save her marriage which may or may not be already over. Keeping her attempts a secret from her family, she attempts to mold herself into the wife her husband wants her to be. As a member of From Left to Write book club, I received a copy of this book for review. You can read other members posts inspired by Lost Edens by Jamie Patterson on book club day, October 27 at From Left to Write. This post is inspired by the book.**

I struggle for words when I think about this book.  That's a little unusual for me, to struggle for words, but I read this book nearly in one sitting and when asked what I thought of it, I came up nearly empty of words.  Not because I didn't like it, or it was a boring story, badly told; far from it.  I found it riveting; real and raw and emotional.  I felt as though I were living the experience with Jamie, and I was spent by the last page.  It's not a real happy, feel-good story but it is, in many ways, hopeful. 

Most of us have been through a terrible break-up, whether it was getting your heart well and truly broken by your first love, or a mid-30's divorce that left you shattered and alone with young children.  I remember when my first love, my high school boyfriend (I'll just call him T) broke up with me.  I sobbed and cried and begged him not to leave me; I promised I'd be anything he wanted me to be, if he would just not leave me.  My baby heart was broken; I was 17 and I believed with all my heart that he was The One.  He had even given me a tiny diamond chip that I wore proudly; it may as well have been a flawless, colorless 5-carat ice cube for all the weight it carried for me.   By the time I graduated from high school, the shine was off the diamond, literally and figuratively.  It was never going to last; we were children and we had no idea what we were talking about as we pledged to love each other forever and ever. We broke up on senior prom night and although we got back together and tried to make it last, we were never the same and no matter how I tried, I could never change myself enough to be the girl he wanted to be with.  

Now, over twenty years later, I am glad that, as painful as it was and as much as I didn't think I could live one.more.day without him, T set me free.  He's gone on with his life and I've gone on with mine.  My life is a pretty good place to be these days and I'd never have grown up to be who I am today, with my experiences and my perspectives, with all the good and the bad that entails.  

The next Serious Relationship I had, with R,  also ended with me sobbing and crying and swearing to be whoever he wanted me to be, if he would just please not leave me.  He did, in fact, leave and again, I'm grateful.  Although at the time, I thought I might die from heartbreak. 

I'm beginning to see a pattern here.  

The thing that T and R knew, that I didn't, was that you can't change who you are, to please someone else.  Not even if you really, really, really want the relationship to work.  When you dance to someone else's tune, you are always just a little bit out of step.  You are always looking to them to see what your next move is, to see how you're going to feel about everything, from the day's headlines to how much cream and sugar you take in your coffee.  Little by little, you get swallowed up by the person you're trying to please.  You look to them to see if those pants really do make you look fat, if you're cheering a little too loudly for your favorite team (wait, is that your favorite team? you can't remember), or if it's ok for you to go ahead and have that second slice of pizza or glass of wine.  What they want becomes what you want, and your desires and needs merge with theirs until you almost can't see yourself as separate from them. Your thoughts, and by extension you, cease to matter, even to yourself.

And in the end, by compromising so much of yourself and what you want, you disappear.  One of the most poignant moments in this book, to me, was pretty early on, when Jamie was at Target buying a new set of sheets.  She really wanted the pink ones but she knew he wouldn't like them and would rather have another color.  She tried to take a stand, even to herself, and get what she really wanted.  But even as she bought her new pink sheets, she knew she couldn't do it; she knew she'd be bringing them back the next day to exchange them for sheets that would make him happy.  Even in something so simple as a set of sheets, Jamie allowed her desire to fix her troubled marriage to trump everything that might have been important to her, everything that made her who she was.  

T didn't necessarily want me to change for him; he told me so, and so did R.  They both said essentially the same thing: you can't change for me.  You wouldn't be you anymore. During each of those break-ups, I wanted so badly for them to love the me that I was, and I didn't know that trying to make myself into someone that they could love would have negated me.  It wasn't T or R telling me I wasn't good enough as I was; I was saying that to myself. 

Losing yourself is far harder than losing someone else.  If you don't know who you are, if you have lost yourself, how do you know where to start?  How do you go about figuring out who you might be, what you might want? If you're not good enough for yourself, how can you be enough for someone else?  Finding out the answers to those questions is a tough thing.  But after you have allowed someone (and yourself!) to beat you down to where you don't recognize the girl in the mirror, the you that you will find at the end of the questions is pretty awesome.  Don't ever let anyone tell you differently. 

Politics and sex

**As a member of From Left to Write book club, I received a complimentary copy of Cleopatra, by Stacy Schiff for review. This post was inspired by reading the book, and you can check out other club members' posts by going to www.fromlefttowrite.com starting on 27 September.**



I recently graduated from college with my bachelors' degree in history. It was a big deal for me, a long awaited dream and a goal that I had put off.

I mention this only because it seems to me that, with said degree, I should have some knowledge of, well, history. I read this book, Cleopatra by Pulitzer Prize winner Stacy Schiff(who is totally my new hero! Author, scholar, historian, yo!) and I learned so much! I learned a lot, and I also disabused myself of some of notions previously held.

Obviously, as a history major, and a historian, I'm fascinated by history. I also love politics, and nothing pumps my blood pressure like an election season, preferably with big issues at stake. And really, when isn't there a big issue at stake? But every election season, I lament the ever-increasing hostility and lack of manners and decency. I wish that we could back to the days when politics was a little more civil and polite. Heh. And when, pray tell, would those days have been? Loosely defined, I think of politics as the relationship between the government and the governed. The bosses and the workers. The leaders and the people. The business of making a nation function.

That's what I mean. You'd think I would know that politics has always been a blood sport, quite often literally, and maybe never more so than in Cleopatra's time. In the early chapters of Cleopatra, Schiff outlines Cleopatra's "ungainly shrub" of a family tree and her early years when she was groomed and trained to lead. She was schooled vigorously in philosophy and language and the art of public speaking and it seems her father had high aspirations for her. She married one of her brothers; a common practice of the time, hence the "ungainly shrub" of a family tree. They were expected to rule Egypt as king and queen and yet they were mercilessly plotting against one another, even to the death.

The thing I find kind of funny, not so much in the ha-ha way, but in the ironic way, is that a woman who was successful in politics in the years before Christ (B.C.) is, to this day, regarded as a wanton seductress, and cunning manipulator. Julius Caesar, with whom Cleopatra crafted an alliance, was regarded as a successful military strategist. Credit is given to his intellect and his leadership, while Cleopatra, who was not necessarily regarded as all that attractive in her time, has emerged from history as a breathtaking beauty who was capable of rendering men senseless with her come-hither smile and a bat of those kohl-rimmed eyes. She doesn't get credit for being smart and well-trained; she gets credit for being beautiful. But love her or hate her, she was on a pretty equal footing with the men of her time and outfoxed many of them, including her brother and husband Ptolemy who was trying so hard to kill her! When he discovered she had tricked him right under his nose, he literally burst into tears and threw a tantrum, so furious was he. Who says she's just a pretty face?

Fast forward about two thousand years...love them or hate them, there are some pretty powerful women in American politics these days. Hillary Clinton, Michele Bachmann, Sarah Palin. Their education and expertise, although it is hotly debated by many, was enough for the people that elected them. They didn't come to be governors or Senators or Secretary of State on their looks alone, and yet that is exactly how they seem to be judged first and foremost. Eventually the conversation will turn to intelligence (or perceived lack thereof), training, experience, education, political savvy. But a lot of weight is given to looks, when the same isn't true of their male counterparts. Unless you count the snarky jokes about John Edwards' $400 haircuts, but that's another post for another day....

Cliches become cliches for a reason, and this whole line of thought brings an oldie but a goodie to mind: the more things change, the more they stay the same. No, a woman doesn't have to be beautiful to be successful, but it helps. Hillary's presidential campaign was history making, groundbreaking, and yet what got so much press was her wardrobe. Sarah Palin's clothing budget was the stuff of political legend. And just yesterday, I read a snark opinion piece complaining about how much Michele Bachmann must spend on her manicures.

I stand in awe of powerful women, who didn't follow the rules and didn't behave, no matter what they might have looked like. You know, well-behaved women don't make history.