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leiamcgonagall
Who needs sanity I have squirrels
earththings
Earthling
ioannemos
đź’”the end isn't always about what dies
syeerazalan
Farah Syaheera Razalan
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A Disgraceful American President Who Has No Shame
I used to believe that I possessed an endless capacity for righteous indignation.
Now, as I watch the daily degradation of the office of the American presidency, I find myself numb. There’s only so much surprise and renewed shock I can absorb. The foulness of President Trump, and the lack of action against him by self-serving Republicans, leaves me weeping in despair for my beloved America.
With every hateful utterance and spiteful act against those who deserve our protection—the poor, the sick, and those trying not to be deported just because they are not white—I lose hope that those who have the power to throw him out of office will do anything.
The rationale that White Joe Average sits in a bar and uses racist epithets to describe non-white individuals is a transparent, offensive excuse to make on behalf of the Commander in Chief.
What will it take, Republicans?
When will the liabilities of a Trump presidency be enough to motivate you?
How many allies must we lose?
How ashamed of our president must we be before you will do the right thing?
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The Happy(?) Hypocrite
I don’t care if you block me or unfriend me on Facebook, or so I like to tell myself. Each morning I check this blog’s stats—I am, after all, the Stat Slut—to see (1) if my number of followers has changed, and (2) if anyone viewed my pages, clicked Like on a post, or made a comment. Here’s a little inside scoop about the number of followers you might see on a WordPress site: The second you…
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The Slap
By the time I looked down the barrel of a gun for the third time in thirty seconds, I started questioning the wisdom of living with an ex-con. I’d hung in there for four years, but watching my boyfriend, Brad, play with the handgun his buddy Mark just bought, I realized the only way Brad would be upset if I were shot is how much trouble he’d get into with the cops. Like the time he grabbed a…
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Oh, It's on, Karl
Oh, It’s on, Karl
Recently my neighbor Karl took me to task for being unenthusiastic about decorating for the holidays when I told him how I celebrate fall. It isn’t my fault. I got my home fashion sense from my mother, whose sole criterion for quality art was “I got it in Tijuana for three dollars.” The bar might be set a tad low for my taste: “Tiger Suffering from Ennui” I’ve never seen the interior of Karl’s…
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Two New Book Recommendations
Two New Book Recommendations
Handling the Truth: On the Writing of Memoir, Beth Kephart Kephart is terrific at helping the memoir writer make a scene richer through a variety of devices, and she is empathetic and encouraging to the fearful side of everyone who opens their lives to scrutiny. She assigns exercises to make writing stronger, and there is a treasure trove of suggested reading material.…
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Slouching Toward Memoir
As I work on my first essay in memoir-writing class, I’m beginning to feel vulnerable. I prefer wearing a veneer of titanium, but I’m willing to remove it—momentarily—to see what happens. I used to see vulnerable people as weaklings. I’m not talking about children, the elderly, people with mental disabilities who could be abused with ease. I’m talking about people who have the ability to reveal…
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Of Police, Pillows, and Pizza
Of Police, Pillows, and Pizza
This afternoon I heard screaming in the upstairs apartment. It sounded alternately like a man, then a woman. The footfalls were unusual too. Some rhythmic in one place and some short bursts of running all over the unit. I’m used to Stompy up there, and this was different. As the warm glow of domestic violence PTSD washed over me, I called the cops, hoping I was just overreacting. They told me I…
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Sweaty Betty, an Update
Sweaty Betty, an Update
It took less than an hour after I posted my Fretty Betty Disorder story to develop a new obsession: What if the memoir-writing class doesn’t get its minimum of five students? They’d have to cancel. So I’m in, but what if? I’ve had other writing classes cancel at another place. Now I have a lemony-fresh thought to worry about. What a relief. I must be a stress junkie. I do fight this. Really. I…
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Fretty Betty Disorder
I have no off switch for worry. If there’s any way to chill and let things flow, I can’t find it. Then there’s Paul, my vanilla-flavored glacier. He can’t envision a reason to push events forward at top speed or sweat about anything. I don’t get it. Why doesn’t he recognize the value in unnecessary stress? It could be that he sees when I freak out, I’m no less uptight, but it’s more likely that…
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Neeners from Beyond
I’m trying to decide if it’s weird that I enjoy planning what will happen after I die, especially because so much of my pleasure is rooted in vengeance. The last time I updated my estate documents was four years ago, just two weeks before I was scheduled to have a bit of cancer removed from my right kidney (or, as one of my bosses speculated, it was just a wine cork. My surgeon declined to…
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Who's Wearing the Smarty-Pants in this House?
Who’s Wearing the Smarty-Pants in this House?
For years, I’ve assumed I’m smarter than Paul. There’s no proof. It’s just nice to believe that. In fact, he has a master’s degree, and I have two associate degrees (which adds up to a bachelor’s degree, right?). So he’s a bit farther along in education. At the very least, though, I’ve assumed I’m cleverer than he is, but I’m beginning to wonder. Trying to get my handyman to do something (that…
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Even the Bee Gees Can't All Keep Stayin' Alive
Even the Bee Gees Can’t All Keep Stayin’ Alive
When I reconnect with someone from my youth, my first thought is “How cool. They’re still alive.” This leads to a couple of questions: One: Just how old do I think I am? (Answer: Dead any moment now.) Two: Is my reaction a glass half full or half empty? (Answer: Half full because I’m happy these old friends are alive, but half empty because see question number one.) I blame celebrities. If they’d…
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Happy Bastille Day (on Friday)
Happy Bastille Day (on Friday)
I like the idea of a national holiday that starts with a beheading. As far as I know, I’m bereft of French ancestry, but every July 14, I go around the grocery store, neighborhood, wherever I happen to be, and I wish people a “Happy Bastille Day!” Folks are consistent in their response: Maybe I should live in Soulard, a French neighborhood in St. Louis. This is a town that not only celebrates…
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Murdering My Inner Frump
Murdering My Inner Frump
Paul thinks we need to consult a personal stylist. To his credit, he was wise enough to say, “I need to,” but I believe the inclusion of me is clear. Maybe this revelation has to do with the old sweatpants I was wearing the other evening that have a large vertical rip down the center of the buttular area. Maybe it’s because everything we wear looks like we went out of our way to find something…
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The Chump Factor
I love a good bait-and-switch, especially when I’m the target. Especially when I feel appreciated for being me and not just my willingness to write a check. I’m always surprised when movie characters are surprised that an artist sees them as walking billfolds, but I’m even more surprised at how surprised I am that it can happen to me. It’s like that moment in every thriller where someone tiptoes…
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Latest Book Recommendations
The Internet is a Playground, David Thorne Rather than a review, just a note of caution: If you’re a laugh-out-loud reader like I am, don’t read this in the hospital waiting room with all the other folks waiting for follow-up cancer tests. Unless you enjoy scowling looks of disapproval as much as I do. I didn’t make any noise, but they still didn’t appreciate my shaking shoulders and the…
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I Put the I in IED
I Put the I in IED
When I go too long without something to outrage me, I break out into hives. So I’ve added “lack of anger” to amoxicillin on my list of known allergies at the doctor’s office. This condition is called “IED,” or intermittent explosive disorder, which I officially have because I found the term online. “IED” also stands for improvised explosive device, which means I’m fun-loving in an extemporaneous…
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