Summer schlummer. Whatever. It’s over.
The great thing about blogging is you’re always blogging in your head. The awful thing about blogging is you’re always blogging in your head.
This one’s been swimming up there for a while, but nonetheless, I give you “The Green Piano Post”.
So. Sometime between 1970 when my parents got married, and 1975 when I was born, my folks spent their hard-earned G.I. money on – No, not a down-payment on a house…No, not stocks in McDonald’s – a piano. God love ’em. Such a beautiful hippie love story, and I’m proud of it to this day. I’m pretty sure they were eating beans and rice or the equivalent, but By God they had a piano, and I know they sat at it night after night and played Kum-Ba-Yah and Puff the Magic Dragon and whatever else the Readers’ Digest Piano Book contained that was in a key that worked for their perfect triad: guitar capo, piano, and vocal range.
Forty plus years later: Their 1970’s flower child who grew up playing that piano now spends hours a week with her hot husband/love/bff/duet partner and his guitar/ukulele cranking out Kasey Musgraves and Symarip and Jack Johnson. The same piano is featured in her newly renovated front room, and it hosts at least 12 different pairs of hands each week.
The variable: Instagram and an obsession with paint. So, you need some background here – I’m the girl who saw curtains she liked, couldn’t afford them, bought some similar curtains and painted each and every stripe the desired color…four pairs of 96″ curtains. She wanted yellow and blue, not khaki and blue. I’m the girl who bought a figure-flattering dress for her role as Grace Farrell in “Annie – the Musical”, but was told she couldn’t wear a red dress because Annie wore a red dress, so she spray-painted it with car upholstery paint until it was some weird form of black with a red sheen. Also the girl who follows Annie Sloan Paint on Instagram because her motto is “Paint Everything”.
So when I saw a painted piano on her feed, I thought “huh. I haven’t painted a piano. I have a piano. I have paint. Why don’t I have a painted piano?”
Now, I’ve painted a lot of things, but nothing has caused me pause and reflection quite like this piano. Nevertheless, with the kickass new home reno and no hope of a baby grand in sight, I just decided to close my figurative eyes and jump in. LOTS of encouragement from hot husband, who, based on his experience with me, couldn’t believe that I talked about it and didn’t make it happen the same day. I told him I needed to process this one.
So, after a couple of weeks of reflection, I stuck the brush into the green paint and touched it to the piano and knew that now I had to do it. It made me a little sick. Until two very strong feelings swept over me consecutively, in a very connected way. In such a way that I’m not sure I’ll do it justice.
First, I was overwhelmed with the realization that those two hippies who could have bought food or a television or something else more conventional – bought a piano. And then they made a baby, and their combined DNA created a baby who wanted to paint everything and play every song and sing every note and love everything deeply. And I realized that they can’t get mad that I’m painting their piano – they made ME, and so it’s their own faultslashcredit.
Then, without warning, I was overcome by the feeling of gratitude for having a Nike husband. To anything I want to do, his response is “Just Do It!” or something like it. And he MEANS it. It my past life (ex-life), I wasn’t even allowed to play the piano when ex was home because it “made too much noise”. I was discouraged from painting all the things I wanted to paint because I would “diminish their value”. So what am I even here for? Something in me was programmed to want to make things different from everything else…What was really going to be negatively affected, the painted furniture, or who I thought I was?
I love my green piano. It is fun. It says, “come play me…I don’t bite…we’re all just here to have some fun while we can.” It speaks volumes about how much I love the way my parents raised me. It sings a melody of the freedom that comes from finding your one-and-only who wants you to just keep being more of you.
And hey (this could have been my life’s motto), if you have to be an upright, be the funkiest one in town.
I just deleted the whole post I had started (and almost finished) here because of how whiny it sounded when I reread it just now. I’ve been crying a lot. That’s it. Don’t know why (maybe job-change, house in boxes for upcoming reno, band seemingly slowly dismantling, treadmill isn’t working, watching Call the Midwife, allergies, lack of sleep, being 40, maybe.)
In the meantime I blamed everything else imaginable. I know it’s not my husband’s fault, or lacrosse’s, or his band’s, or anything else I accused. But I can’t really fix any of the likely culprits. So I’m going to stop whining. (I might not be able to stop crying, but I can stop whining.)
That’s it. Short post. If I keep going it’s going to turn into whining. (And probably crying.)
Today, on the 44th anniversary of my hot husband’s birth, I submit to you a small pictorial sampling of the things he does that make me smile.
The vast majority of these are from events related to music, sports, water, or motorcycle rides (several are even a combination of more than one) – things I enjoy the very most in the whole wide world. Though I would still be the happiest girl in the world if we never did anything or went anywhere and had no money and no friends, I thank my lucky stars every day that I get to ride this ride with him…my dream guy.
I think he was put on this earth to do so many amazing things, and he blesses so many people with his gifts and his love and his passion. But it’s a big enough task to thank him for what he does for little ‘ol me, so I’m sticking to that for this post…
Happy Birthday, My Love!…Thanks, People Makers! 🙂
I wish – so badly – that I knew how other people’s brains worked. I don’t feel like mine is normal, if there even is such a thing.
It would give me some peace to know that everybody’s brains were completely unique – like a fingerprint – so there was no “normal” to compare to. But I have a feeling that there is a range of brain and thought patterns, wide as it may be, and mine is way outside the range.
OVER-ANALYZING: I wish I didn’t always care what people’s motives were. When someone does or says something, I like to interpret what they really meant. I like to try to figure out what they’re hoping my response will be. When I was single, this was bad enough, but then I had a child, and now a husband plus two, and I do it for all of us since none of them seem to care to do it for themselves.
OBSESSING: As I’ve probably explained quite well so far, I obsess about a lot of things. But the thing that probably qualifies me for medication and possibly some federal funding is the obsession I feel when I find out I don’t or didn’t know something I should have known (fill in the blank with just about anything that either didn’t affect me, didn’t matter, or wasn’t at all a big deal). I want to know why, I want to know who’s job it was to tell me – is my email broken? do people not think about me? do I even really exist??? I will obsess until I get to the bottom of it – which usually involves knocking some people down along the way and talking really fast (and not listening to “answers” that don’t do anything to “answer” my questions.) Apparently.
OVER-OBSERVING: If you’ve been an acquaintance at any time in my life, I’ve known what you drive, and if I’ve passed you ever on the road, I’ve seen you. I probably waved and you didn’t. I’ll notice every discarded tag in the bathroom trash, any set of blinds that is turned a slightly different angle than I turn them, and any Q-tip that doesn’t look like it came from any of our ears. I should have been a detective, because this super-power does me no good whatsoever in my everyday life. Also, I seem to be the only person at work to utter the words “Y’all match!” It’s a wasted gift, really.
What I want from all of this is to be Oblivious – some of the time anyway. I don’t want to take prescriptions or do illegal drugs. I think it’s probably why I like a little drinkiepoo every now and then. Any suggestions? Meditation? (Just so you know, I’ve tried to be a pray-er, but I don’t focus very well, and before I know it I’m planning dinner or remembering to return my Stitch Fix, and then a few hours later I remember that I need to say in-Jesus’s-name-I-pray-Amen.) Anybody? Same?
I just Googled this term, and it’s not even a thing. It was at 510 Brodie when I was growing up. This term, apparently made up by my mother, embodies so many wonderful things about my upbringing and heritage, and so many things I can’t seem to give up.
Are all obsessions bad? I feel like this one is just one of my quirks (I think I’m justifying a lot of these post topics that way lately…) But it is an obsession nonetheless – one that causes undue stress almost every day. I’m not expecting – or even wanting – to turn this one completely off…just moderate my expectations.
If I was going to cast someone to play my mother in a movie about her life, I would have a hard time deciding between the proper Hyacinth (from the BBC) and the oh-so-southern Paula Dean (from the South). She’s the juxtaposition of keeping up appearances and lovin’ Jesus while cookin’ with bacon grease. Her mother (more like a mixture of characters from Dallas and The Beverly Hillbillies) wasn’t too much different in her appearances/housekeeping/presentation standards. On more than one occasion, I called to ask if I could drop by and see her while I was in her area, and she declined because her house wasn’t presentable.
Much like my grandmother, I don’t want people to see my home in any state other than “Magazine Perfect” – the term my mother used to distinguish whether she wanted me to merely clean my room – dust, vacuum, empty trash – or arrange it for the magazine photographers who were inevitably going to drop by unannounced to take pictures of our interior for Southern Living magazine – bed made, throw pillows and blankets strategically staged, frames placed on shelves by height and in odd numbered groupings, and stack of classic novels innocently gracing my desk…and of course I want it to appear effortless. (She never told me these were the things I had to do – I just created that as a definition.) As a kid, I preferred “magazine perfect” to cleaning. It involved throwing un-pretty things in my closet and desk drawers (’cause what kind of wackadoo photographer would take pictures of desk drawers???) and making things look pretty. Nowadays, I enjoy cleaning too, but I still – honest to God – have the thought in my head that a magazine photographer might show up on my doorstep, and By God I’d better be ready.
Like I said, this obsession isn’t ALL bad. I love living in a tidy house. I love the compliments from people who drop by. I love things looking nice. But most people really don’t care. I don’t get that, but they don’t. This probably goes back full circle to my Confidence post. I don’t feel like I judge other people if their houses are messy (I kinda do if they’re dirty), but I do find myself grateful that I live like I do, and I do expect to be judged.
Here’s what I need to focus on: Who do I feel like I need to make happy? The answer should be me and my family. It does take a regular cleaning and a regular picking-up to make me happy. It takes very little to make my family happy – I want them to care, but they just don’t. And I should see this as an opportunity for some freedom from stress…I’m going to try.
*voice in my head* I’m going to be SO mad if a magazine photographer really does show up on a day I’m practicing not caring. SO mad.
(in my head, that’s me below)
In 73 days, this family will make its annual pilgrimage back up to the holy land – known to others as Keuka Lake.
I hear all of the Finger Lakes are spectacular, but Keuka is the one where I’ve perched for two solid weeks of relaxation each of the past three years. My hott husband has been there almost every summer of his life. And last summer, it’s where we celebrated the 50th year of Maga’s Lake House and we were married on the dock in a perfect little gathering.
His family home there is warm and welcoming, its hosts are laid back and gracefully hospitable, the lake is cool and clear, and the people are friendly. But even if these things were not true, there’s something else extraordinary about this place…
They have a time-travel portal.
If you count their horses, the Amish might outnumber televisions, and they definitely outnumber air conditioners. You might find some of what you need at the little grocery store, but you still need to stop at the butcher’s, the Amish market, and the fruit stand. The summer days are long, the tables are large, and the windows are open.
But here’s my favorite part of the time travel there: kids get to be kids – without instructions or a plan or an itinerary or supervision, all day, all the while learning more than we could ever teach them. Our kids and the neighbor’s kids run all day – All. Day. – up and down from the lake to the woods and around again. They fish, build forts, make up games, swim, kayak, sail, paddle, run, run, run, did I mention they run? everywhere? When they’re hungry, they figure out how to eat while running. When someone gets hurt, they clean each other’s wounds. They celebrate the big catch together. They come up with creative things to make out of trash from the gully. At dinner, plates get clean, stories get relived, brothers don’t fight, and a good hard sleep comes easy. They strategize plans to most efficiently accomplish the assigned daily chores. You can’t make this stuff up! But they can. And they do. For four weeks straight. They learn more there without adult supervision than in all the time and money we adults (collectively) try to “invest” in their development. NOTHING is as important at their age as learning things for yourself. That is hard to find in the suburbs, my friends.
It seems like these days, if your kid turns out to be a self-sustaining adult, it almost has to be in spite of us, not because of us. My father-in-law dropped this wisdom on us a couple of years ago – “Don’t handicap your kids by making their lives easy.” But we do it every day.
My adult daughter is a walking reminder of this. It is abundantly apparent what aspects of her life I kept out of and gave her independence, and which aspects I stunted her growth by treating her like she couldn’t do it on her own (well, right, enough, etc.)
Challenge/Reminder: I am going to stop doing for the kids what they can do for themselves. Obviously, there are time constraints and bedtimes, but their ability-level is way higher than we give them credit for…and there’s a lot of things they should know how to do by this age, but they don’t – simply because we’ve never taught them.
So I might be the bad guy around here for a while, but in this whole step-parenting adventure, I’ve learned that my role is sometimes different than the parent – but just as important.
(Pretty sure it would be a big help if we do what we keep saying we’re going to do and cut off the cable…So many of these challenges are actually going to save us money – I’ve saved money on eating out, not drinking, not picking grout ((oops))…Feelin’ Pre-tee Good 🙂 )
Geraldine Frances “Jeri” Nein-Nein Cox Wilson.
Lessons I’m still learning from my 90-year-0ld grandmother:
- Phone calls to say ‘hi’ can be quick. Just let people know you’re thinking about them.
- If you work hard in your garden all day and eat what you grow, you can have ice cream every single night (with toppings).
- Almost every child ever is a handful – deal with it.
- Crafts and hobbies are wonderfully addictive.
- Squeal a little when things make you happy.
- Reader’s Digest is way better than television.
- Playing in the woods is way better than Reader’s Digest.
- It doesn’t matter what a person looks like, where they come from, what they’ve done – every single person deserves the same amount of love.
- You don’t need any more than you need. If you have too much or can make more, give it to someone else.
- Walk fast – there’s lots to do.
My soon-to-be new boss and I shared a few mom-to-mom moments at the conclusion of my interview a few weeks ago. We found out we had both recently married the man of our dreams, both after raising kids and graduating them off to college, both gained young step-kids in the process – mine boys, which I had never done before, and hers a 12-year-old girl who they had permanent custody of, after she had raised only boys.
Early Friday morning, she got a call at work that I can’t even begin to imagine. The 44-year-old love-of-her-life had a heart attack on the treadmill at his gym and died instantly. Gone. There are no words. I can’t think straight when I try to describe how devastated (the English language is inadequate), completely world shattered, stopped, exploded, I don’t even know…can’t even finish the sentence.
How do you go on? How do you even move your body from one spot? My natural reaction to this was to cling to my husband. I felt, in the depths of my soul, the fear of losing him and I began to program my brain and my actions based on this fear. I realized that I was loving him even harder than ever, but it wasn’t fun. It was emotionally draining.
I’ve only had a few long-term relationships in my life (that seems like it should be a given), but in the first two or three – beginning in high school – there were major issues with fidelity and truthfulness. Since these were during my developmental years, I never learned what it’s like to trust – wholly, completely, without fear. Even as much as I know, like KNOW know, that my husband loves me and is committed to me and would never hurt me, I also know we are humans and humans make mistakes, hence there is always something to fear.
I have been working on this for a while now – like intentionally and intelligently, and it’s definitely gotten better. As time goes by, I have less “flare ups”. In fact, I feel like I can truthfully say that I’m not afraid right now. I have realized – finally, and due to the terrible news of a husband’s passing – that if it WERE to happen, it would have happened whether I was a blissfully oblivious wife or a paranoid untrusting one, and which way would I rather live?
With the news of my boss’s husband, I had to make myself make a quick U-turn from deciding to live like I might lose him tomorrow to living like we’ve got forever. I want the same to be true with my trust. I want to live this wonderful life with him and love him madly forever – but not from a place that’s founded in the very things I fear the most. There’s too much fun to be had. Challenge: Cherish and treasure, but relax and enjoy or it was all in vain.
Last night, I was thinking out loud to hott husband on the phone (he’s in Atlanta on business) about what my “E” post should be. Since the theme of Accepting Self(ish)-Improvement Challenges has poked its little head out, I now have parameters. He first said “Exercise“, to which I explained, unsuccessfully, how yesterday’s “Diet” post was really more about Exercise. I reminded him of my theme, and he – without hesitation – blurted out “Expectations“.
I know this is the one thing that sometimes tries to divide us. I’m sure it’s really at the root of most people’s problems. But we’ve definitely identified it as a big difference between the two of us, and my way of managing expectations as being the spark that starts most of our very VERY few conflicts.
Example: I walk very fast. I do everything very fast. I can go to the store with a list of 20 items, get in get out and get home in thirty minutes. I walk in the door, and hott husband says, “Oh my gosh…you did that in like two minutes!” Husband doesn’t do anything hastily. He – as people should – enjoys everything. He loves to look at items in the grocery store, even if he has no intention of buying them. He’ll see jelly with a funny name and make up a song about it, dancing in the aisle for a good solid five minutes. He also doesn’t spend any brain cells trying to strategically plan his grocery run…He might meander from one side of the store and back and back again four times, and it doesn’t stress him out. All being said, it takes him for.ev.er. to make a grocery run. He walks in the door, I’ve been running through the three most rational scenarios that could have caused his delay (accident, phone call from family member, fire in front of the exit), so not only has my expectation of time not been met, but when he walks in the door I’m expecting his “Oh my gosh you won’t believe what happened” story to explain his delay. Instead, he be-bops in the door singing his new jelly song, and the instant he sees “the look“ on my face, he knows what’s about to happen. It shouldn’t be a big deal. It shouldn’t even be a deal. Why do I make it a deal?
He acknowledged on the phone last night that I haven’t done that in a long time. But there are still little cases-in-point from time to time. Not that our relationship is comPLETEly perfect, but it’s pretty dern close. And I can control one of the tiny little things that blemish it on a monthly-ish basis.
I look at him – Mr. Positive – and wonder how it is that he doesn’t even seem to ever have any expectations that those around him need to try to meet. And I realize that’s just it. He’s positive. I am much more of a Negative Nelly when put up next to HIM, and I’ve never had to see myself that way.
I need to let him rub off on me. Not only do I need to Let it Go, I need to not have IT to begin with. This one’s going to be tough. (I think I’ve said that about Acceptance, Boys, Confidence, and Diet. Guess it’s part of the theme too).
In about four minutes I’m resigning from my job. New chapter. I don’t even know WHAT to expect, so I’m going to look at that as a good thing. This might birth tomorrow’s topic. 🙂
I’ve known a lot of boys in my life. I’ve liked some, loved some, hated some, and been irritated by many. But you don’t know boys until you’ve lived with some.
Not just one – not just your dad. Dads are different – they can do all the boy things and you don’t notice because you’re a girl and it’s your world when you’re the kid.
I live in a house with three boys now, ages 10, 12, and 43. They are not like girls. And they have no interest in learning the ways of the girls. The big one has at least known enough girls to be adaptable, and my goal is for the younger two to learn to do the same.
I’ve raised a girl – seemed much easier to me. Critics will tell you otherwise, but they’re probably boys.
My goal as step-mom has evolved from wanting to be one of the boys to being one of the girls they get to learn about early. I no longer feel bad asking them to do “boy” things, in fact I delight in it. I no longer make apologies for wanting things to be clean, for curtains to be straightened out after rough-housing, for the certain reward for “hmmmm!s” and “ahhhhh!”s at the dinner table, and for the proper arrangement of throw pillows on every couch and bed in the house.
They will remember me when they meet girls that expect the same. They may not remember me fondly, but they will not be shocked or dismayed by this behavior – and for that ONE day, they will be thankful.
Boys are great, and I love these with everything in me – the big one more than anyone I’ve loved in my entire life. But I’ve come to the conclusion that you can’t make a boy into a girl, and you shouldn’t want to.
Being a step-mom is weird. It’s nothing you can learn about from anybody else. And I hate the term “Step-Mom” for all the reasons one would expect – including the only two adjectives I’ve ever heard preceding it…evil and wicked. There are no (or if there are, I can’t think of them) popular examples of step-moms who are loved, appreciated, or revered. There’s even a show devoted to stepmothers who murder their families. As if.
I blame Disney.
For the first year playing this role, I felt like a new mom – The boys’ bio-mom was scarce at best…I was Mom #1, and unmarried, so without the “Step-Mother” label. It was great.
This past year, the ex-wife has re-emerged as Mom #1.5, and I have had to learn to play the role of Mom #1.5, and be introduced and known as Step-Mom. It’s much harder. They say “Step-mom” but it feels like “Step aside…we’ve got this”.
I started dating my dream guy when my daughter was 16. Small-child-parenting days were over. When she and I were on speaking terms, it was about jobs, colleges, ACTs, careers. My dream guy had eight and six year-old boys. It was never a decision – I never contemplated NOT being with him. I would have taken him von Trapp style if that’s how he showed up.
But any of you who have been here know that it’s nothing like raising the first, biological one. Older, wiser, less self-absorbed, and much MUCH more worried about screwing someone else’s kids up than your own.
So many things are different/harder with steps, boys, siblings.
Weekend before last, we had two events Friday night, two lacrosse practices, two lacrosse games, a birthday party, junior high solo and ensemble, and a high school musical on Saturday. Then another birthday party, team photos, a grown-up painting party, and Scouts on Sunday. I was joking with my hott husband (and the ex) that We Did It!…relieved that we hadn’t left any kids behind, hadn’t missed or forgotten anything (that we know of ;-/), and that was all with my parents and her sister in town. Then I realized that I did nothing of logistical value. I was merely the calendar keeper…I made sure everybody knew where everybody was supposed to be. My hot husband did all of the transporting or arranging of transportation for everything. He physically drove everyone everywhere they were supposed to be, and was the parent of record for both kids at each and every event. I felt like I needed to take my “WE Did It!” back and apologize for not pitching in.
I felt bad – until I remembered these seemingly small but critical things (to which few people give/get credit):
Everyone had home-cooked meals, the little athletes and big coach had chilled water bottles, the birthday friends had wrapped gifts, everyone sported clean uniforms and nicely pressed band gear, we had reserved seating at the musical, and everyone slept on clean sheets. I finally know what the home fires are and what it means to keep them burning.
Thankfully, I have a wonderful husband who praises every little thing I do to contribute, but I’m sure there are many who don’t, and THAT makes me understand why second marriages run an even higher risk of divorce than firsts. I work harder raising your two kids than I did my own but I’ll never earn the endearing title that implies unconditional appreciation – “Just Plain Mom”.
It’s his turn to be the actor on the stage who everyone knows his name, and it’s my time to work backstage to make sure he has his props and sets and zipper up to deliver the thrills without a hitch. It’s a role I’ve not only made peace with but become fond of, and it’s a love language I didn’t even know I had until I became Step-Mom.
P.S. – As I’m writing this, I’m picturing my hott husband driving around in an eighteen-wheeler (which he does not), with dark glasses and Ronnie Milsap hair singing,
“She keeps the home fires burning, While I’m out earning a living in a world that’s known for its pouring rain…
She keeps the home fires burning, Ooh and it’s her warm loving that keeps me returning again and again.”
I don’t like it. So far, not so good. On a personal level, my life is still awesome. Hott husband, adult daughter who is proving to be more and more mature every day (or maybe more accurately, more or less mature every day), a job that allows me to do the things I am passionate about (even if there are facets of it that make me want to hide in bed), younger kids who are pleasant, smart, and healthy, finances are in order, book is being published, etc, etc, etc.
Body-wise…ick. Oh, people told me, “just wait until you’re forty”, “you can’t lose weight after forty”, “your eyesight goes after forty”, “blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.” In my mind, I always thought they were just super grumpy people who finally found something on which to blame their afflictions. Not me – no way. Why on earth would, one day – suddenly – my eyesight, health, AND metabolism all decide to abandon me simultaneously?
Guess what has happened in the two months since I’ve turned forty… I can’t see a thing up close without cheater glasses on. I’ve gained five MORE pounds – totaling 10 since the school-year started. I’ve developed panic attacks, acute occasional anxiety, vertigo, my first back-ache, and a whooshing sound in my right ear that sounds like a baby’s heartbeat in an ultrasound sounds, except it’s mine. My heartbeat. Now projected through my right ear so loud at times that I can’t pay attention to what people are saying. Nice.
Had my hormones tested. Normal. Had my ears checked. Nothing. Got off the holiday junk food kick. Gained five pounds. W.T.F.???
Every day I just want to come home and get in bed. I want to watch tv and scroll through Twitter and drink Prosecco. I have to get over/through/past this, but suddenly it feels like that would require going backward in time, and that hasn’t been invented yet.
I need to feel obsessed with something healthy again. Tonight, we started a writing group at my house. There are five of us at this very moment. Five of us, sitting, writing, conversing with some one or some thing via hands and words. I don’t think we’ll change the world. I don’t think we’ll change our own worlds. But I do think this is the vehicle that has motivated me before, and it’s the method of choice for me deciding to whip my body’s ass back into the land of the living again. And I’m grateful for the time and kindred spirit that we all can share so that I’ll leave the tv off, stay awake, and write.
So as before, here are my professions: 1) I will eat right this week, 2) I will exercise with the enthusiasm of a model, 3) I will drink more water than alcohol, 4) I will pretend I’m 39 until my body stops acting like it’s 40, 5) I will write at least twice a week.
When President Obama speaks, I always seem get caught on something he said that just bugs me more than the vocal majority. During his executive order speech about gun control a couple of days ago, he stated something about the fact that gun violence in America has little or no correlation to licensed gun owners. Then the very next thing out of his mouth was a very stern, presidential, “I reject that thinking!” If he can reject a fact, then so can I! I am 39 and 14 months. Forty is for suckas.