Unfriend THIS

So I have kittens right now, who are learning to be independent, and teaching them is a never-ending source of amusement, anxiety, the fear of getting way too attached, and precious moments. Many hours are whiled away with a tiny fuzzball cuddling against my chest, or giggling while another fuzzball chews on the hair on […]

Unfriend THIS

Unfriend THIS

So I have kittens right now, who are learning to be independent, and teaching them is a never-ending source of amusement, anxiety, the fear of getting way too attached, and precious moments. Many hours are whiled away with a tiny fuzzball cuddling against my chest, or giggling while another fuzzball chews on the hair on the back of my head.

Kiko
Sully

I should be up, doing stuff, or out and about, but how do you put a precious baby down when they sigh and relax against you? Don’t get me started on how addictive their baby smells are. Bury your nose in a six-week-old kitten’s warm, fuzzy, vaguely pink tummy and inhale: there’s a very faint, almost indiscernible scent of pee, but then the warm fur/skin scent takes over, with a faint blush of cinnamon.

Intoxicating.

At least, until he or she latches onto your face with baby claws that barely know what their use is for.

Anyway, while I allow Sully or Kiko to use my dirtypillows as a soft bed, I scroll through Facebook and check out pages, or research ideas for home renovations, or read good articles (and blogs). Facebook is usually an exercise in self-control, because, as an old friend once said, opinions are like assholes. Everyone has one.

This is unfortunate, because invariably, one encounters dissenting opinions from that which one holds personally. However, when one delves into the black abyss of uneducated opinions, one risks becoming caught up in a fecund quagmire.

It often mystifies me that there are so many grown-ass adults who believe blatant bullshittery and refuse to educate themselves. Here are some recent statements I’ve read, just today:

“The coronavirus is just political B.S. and NOBODY is gonna make me get a vaccine.”

“Flu shots are LIVE VIRUSES they inject into you!”

“There are pieces of fetuses in vaccines.”

Okay. Unpack those. Yes, grown-ass adults made those claims. My first reaction was to say, “The fuck outta here with that” and unfriend, because honestly, it’s a friendship that has been peripheral, at best. We met at a job, this person left said job, and moved in with the first (of my association with them) of at least a dozen individuals they have been “truly in love with” over the past couple of years. I used to feel sorry for them – everyone deserves to be loved, right? – and so I hung in there, offering support and encouragement. At about #6 of their choice in life partner, I began to lose faith in their ability to pick a decent human being. You don’t know what to say to a person who obviously neither loves themself, nor has the ability to discern good from bad. You begin to see, as a casual observer, that this person’s life has been one trainwreck after another, mostly of their own making. You quiet your urge to shout, “Are you fucking serious???” when they introduce Mr or Ms (inserted here-because-while-I’m-certainly-an-asshole-I-am-not-that-asshole-who’s-going-to-out this-person-on-the-chance-that-they-may-read-this) Right (now). You continue to reply to their self-defeating posts with inspirational memes.

Seriously, the world does not give up enough gratitude for memes. They replace the need to come up with real words and often summarize how we’re feeling perfectly. Instead of replying with some lame comment we don’t feel, we can meme a bitch with fake affection.

Anyway, I really ought to unfriend. I guess I was looking for the straw that broke the camel’s back, and I guess I’ve found it, because 𝗪𝗛𝗔𝗧 𝗜𝗡 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗔𝗖𝗧𝗨𝗔𝗟 𝗙𝗨𝗖𝗞𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗙𝗨𝗖𝗞 is this shit about COVID-19 being “political bullshit?” Have I been wrong, all my life, in my voracious quest for knowledge about the history of the world and the scientific discoveries that have saved the human race from all things plague-like? I mean, is it all political bullshit: measles, mumps, rubella, pertussis, whooping cough, chicken pox, et al?

Image courtesy of Never Stay Dead

I’m actually grinning as I write this because 𝗼𝗳 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗿𝘀𝗲 𝗶𝘁 𝗳𝘂𝗰𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗶𝘀𝗻’𝘁.

I could have gone onto that post and replied, asking them where they went to school and if there was a history class or are they Scientologists who believe in the magic underpants, or if they were awake during a single history class throughout their education, or if they’ve ever fact-checked a single thing that, well, if it sounds like fuckery, it likely is, indeed, fuckery? I could have cited facts and articles from reputable sources, because SCIENCE.

I could have done any number of things that would have satisfied my desire to educate, to dispel rumors and blatant fallacies, to provide a moderate voice of reason. I didn’t, though; I didn’t use SCIENCE and try to educate. Know why?

Because my efforts would not have come from a sincere desire to persuade, or teach. They would have come from my desire to be right. Don’t get me wrong – I am right – but why do I need to attempt to prove that to people I really don’t know intimately and who I would definitely avoid, were they to approach me? Because even if they are the sweetest person in the world at work, they are, in fact, a Trump-loving, Confederate flag waving, ignorant, narcissistic, middle-aged dirtbag who has fucked more people in two years than possibly the entire population of some blink-and-you-missed-it town in Texas. I no longer feel compassion, or a sort of camaraderie (we self-loathers recognize our kind) with this person.

No, with that statement: “Flu shots are LIVE VIRUSES they inject into you,” my brain just shrugged in defeat. I didn’t even post “Read a book, you dim-watt doofus” or react with an angry emoji. I came here, instead, to write, while Sully snoozed on my dirtypillows and Goose looked on in disgust.

Next, I need to go find my Unfriend button, now that I’ve exorcised this particular demon. It’s almost time to feed the kittens, anyway.

Science Fiction, American-Style

Have you ever pondered the possibility of time travel? Are the fantastically portrayed ideas of alternate realities and parallel timelines something you enjoy reading about or watching at movies and on TV? Is Dr. Who and his timey-wimey stuff something you could imagine happening? I dunno how it happens: you are given a tiny, little green pill to swallow, which will send you to a future not of your choosing, or HG Wells will have built a working time machine somewhere and you’ll get to take a ride; possibly there’s a real-life T.A R D.I S. with your name on it. Maybe there’s a rip in the time continuum and you fall through the hole. I am clearly just riffing, and completely unknowledgeable about time travel. That’s not the point, though. The how of getting to this future isn’t important. For the purpose of this exercise, let’s just say you were able to.

I did. It was altogether alarming, and I almost hesitated to write it, lest it become an actual possibility. Some might read it and think, “Oh, come on! This can never happen here!” I may be told, point-blank, that I’ve got one fucked-up imagination. (I do not deny this, by the way.) I would then invite them to have an honest look at the state of the union today. Take a good look, if you have, thus far, been able to fracture your world from that which is happening all around you and affecting people you know. As an aside, if you have been able to separate your life from the dumpster fire that is the United States throughout the last 3 or more years, please: tell us your secret. We beseech you.

Really examine just the events of the past six months, if the whole Trump presidency is too much for you to rehash. Then, tell me that this scenario I offer below doesn’t at least stand a very real chance of becoming true as things stand today.

This is not for the faint of heart. Continue……

I wake up. My bed is the same soft, cozy surface. The room is the same. Everything around me is normal, the house, the cats, and, I assume, the humans. Let’s say that I forego the morning routine of looking at social media and checking out the news. That’s not likely to happen, but since this is my little work of science fiction, let’s say it does. I suddenly have a craving for a breakfast burrito, and I walk down to a place where I would normally get a breakfast burrito. Names aren’t important here. Context, people. Use your imagination.

When I get to the entrance, I don my face mask. There’s a sort of big, red, symbol on the door that closely resembles an elephant. I pay it no mind; I’m hungry, and my stomach is growling like a fucking angry bear. I get to the counter, standing the usual 6 feet away; the associate’s eyes go up, and she gestures to my face. “We don’t do that here, and you don’t have to, either,” she says. I shake my head and say, “Better to be safe.”  Then I peer back into the kitchen area. There’s one guy back there, wearing gloves and a hairnet, but neither he nor this girl have a face mask on. Pick your battles, I say to myself. “I would appreciate you wearing a mask to make my food,” I say, and she rolls her eyes. She asks me if she can help me. I order what I usually do: a breakfast burrito with sausage, cheese, peppers, onions, and tomato, with salsa and sour cream on the side.  Oh, and a large, black coffee. We cannot forget that most important item. She places the order and begins ringing it up, after asking “For here or to go?”  Obviously to go, lady. Then, it gets strange.

“I need to see your card,” she says.

“Oh! I’m using cash. Besides, I could just use the swiper you have here,” I answer, not troubled by her assumption that I would be using a debit card. Most people do, these days. She purses her lips tightly and says, “No, not your debit card. Your card.” I look at her, not comprehending. My ID? My library card? Do people still have those? My {insert restaurant’s corporate name} points card? Seeing my confusion, she rolls her eyes again and calls back to her manager. “Hey Frank? Can you come here a minute? We might have a situation.”

A “situation”? What is the situation? Why am I a situation? Is there suddenly a ban on cash, or green peppers, or sour cream? I mean, I know coins are becoming scarce, but I want to give you cash, which will help with the national shortage, at least. Clearly, I should have checked the news this morning.

The guy who is all hair netted-up strips off his gloves and walks up to her. “Again?” he asks? She gives him a look and he regards me with a sort of bland, slightly disinterested gaze.

“Ma’am,” he begins pleasantly, “she has to see your card. With the mask on and all, it’s a red flag.  It’s necessary.” 

What? Just……what?

“You mean, since you can’t see my face, you need an ID for a burrito and coffee?” I sputter, completely exasperated. What he says next in reply sends my head spinning.

“No, not your photo ID. Your voter ID.” He seems perfectly serious about this. He does not seem batshit crazy. He seems to think that am batshit crazy, though. When he sees my eyes widen in a way that must make me resemble a Bratz doll, he elaborates in a sort of bored, I’ve-memorized-this-spiel-before monotone.

“This is a Republican-owned restaurant. We must see your United States Voter Identification and Party Affiliation Card in order to serve you. Come on…. you know that. Why do you people have to be so difficult, with your masks and your shields and your outrage? I mean, we have 331,000,000 Americans in this country and only 14 million have died of the ‘Rona so far. It’s a big, fake story.” The associate next to him nods like a bobble head as he says this to me. I remain standing there, incredulous, wondering just what the hell happened while I was sleeping or if maybe I am still sleeping, and this is all a jacked-up nightmare. I take a deep, shuddering breath. Easy, my inner voice warns. Don’t lose your shit.

The manager holds his hand up swiftly. “I need to warn you that I will call the authorities. The Federal Karen Act of 2021 makes it unlawful for you to express any so-called “outrage” about any and all regulations. So please, don’t make me have to call them. No card? No service. If you’re a Democrat or an Independent, go to their restaurants. You know who they are.”  He shakes his head, clearly exasperated with me. Bobble head just keeps bobbling. Turning to her, he asks, “You got this? I have to step out for about 15 minutes to run my mom to the doctor for her test. She’s had the ‘Rona 3 times now and they keep saying they don’t know why. I mean, my uncle only had it once before he got it that last time and died. I think there’s some secret stuff going on. That Dr. Fauci might really be the descendent of the Nazi doctors.” Bobble head replies. “I hear they’re giving you the test so they can inject a time-release capsule up in there, so you keep getting sick and the numbers stay high.” He shrugs, then nods his head nervously. “I mean, I don’t want my mom having the test again, but her insurance company is owned by  Democrats.” 

I back out of that restaurant slowly but steadily, not trusting them and not really trusting myself. Outside the restaurant, I pull my phone out of my pocket. The news is easily accessed; I search words on Google. I don’t even realize that I’ve sunk to the grass in front of the store until I look up from my haze. 

Somehow, I lost 2 years of my life and somehow, I woke up in an alternate reality where Donald Trump is still President, having declared martial law back in 2020 when Joe Biden won a decisive victory over him in the election.  Biden was assassinated on December 18th, 2020, before he could ever take the oath of office. The date was horrifying: it was the same day his wife and daughter had died in a car accident in 1972. The nation had become gripped in what was nearly a civil war, and Trump had declared that it “wasn’t safe” to have another election. The borders remained closed and we were at war with China now. The United States was being funded by Russia, with Vladimir Putin having his own office in the White House for his frequent visits to “advise”. Somehow, the US was trying to function in a way that allowed citizens their simple freedoms, but also allowed racism, prejudice, and bigotry to run free.  

I learned that my assigned “times” to be able to shop at Walmart and most big box, “bipartisan” stores were from 12pm-5pm. Republicans shopped from 6am – 11am.  Independents got 6pm-11pm. The store closed from 11am to 12pm, and again from 5pm to 6pm, to restock. Small, local businesses were permitted to choose how they wanted to do business. A red elephant symbol appeared on Republican-owned and operated stores, and a blue donkey symbol appeared on ones owned and operated by Democrats. The Independents had an eagle with an “I” symbol affixed at their locations. The government refused to address the needs of Libertarians, and there was a lot of civil unrest because of that. They were lumped in with the Independents, a fact that irked both parties.

There were federal troops in every large city now, dispatched to try and stifle protests. There had been one defining protest during a week in July of 2020, in Portland, Oregon. Some women who called themselves “The Wall of Mothers” had formed in response to Federal interference and occupation of that city.

They had appeared in front of a federal building, locked arms, and stood, chanting. Suddenly, strangely camouflaged soldiers had appeared out of nowhere and mowed them all down, using rubber bullets. One pregnant woman had been hit by three bullets and had gone into premature labor, losing her baby.

Another was shot in the face and lost an eye. One had been trampled in the ensuing chaos and died at the hospital later. The rest were loaded into vans and driven away. Three were still missing “in custody”, despite pleas from their families and demands for transparency by the Oregon Attorney General and many other officials. It was said that they had been taken “where the Mexicans go.” Tear gas, pepper spray, and rubber bullets were the rule of thumb, but there were lots of class-action suits being brought against the companies who manufactured these things. Apparently scores of Americans had been gravely injured or died as a result of peacefully protesting and being shot or sprayed by these federal troops. Trump didn’t care how the suits went; he was a big supporter of “a person’s right to sue.”

As I read the absolute chaos the country has descended into, I begin to cry.

We had lost one Supreme Court Justice in 2021, and another conservative had been named. When calls for a fair and balanced Supreme Court were vociferously voiced by both Democrats and Independents, Trump had merely answered, in a two-word tweet:

”Make me.”

The ”Great Pandemic of 2020” was called, simply, that. Most news outlets had simple, stark tickers at the top or bottoms of their pages and channels that continued to keep track of the numbers of those infected with COVID-19 and those who had died: state by state and national totals. Apparently, there was a vaccine, but it was only 45-52% effective, and a full one-third of the country refused to get it, because Trump had stated, “It’s not for me, I don’t think.” He continued to refuse to wear a mask, and only went out to golf, having completely given up on rallies and appearances over a fear that “some Left Wing Nutjob” would target him, “and very unfairly.”  At his last appearance on Fox National Television, interviewed by Tucker Carlson, he had appeared to weigh an estimated 390 lbs. He drooled from one side of his mouth and slurred his words. It was said he could not walk unassisted. He refused to address his immobility, insisting, instead, that he never be seen attempting to walk. Sources at the White House refused to comment on his appearance or health, declaring Trump to be “as fit as a 30-year-old.”

I rise to my feet. I cannot read any more. I need to get home and to make sure everyone I love is okay. The incredible reality – that I was somehow caught up in an alternate universe – has settled deep within the pit of my stomach, where it pours black terror into my veins. The how and the why don’t matter right now.  I stumble up the hill as quickly as I can, aware that I am running on no caffeine or food. It doesn’t matter; I am functioning on pure adrenaline.

 As I near the front of my house, a white ATA van pulls in front of it. The driver smiles and waves to me as the door slides open. I hear the sound of a lift, and suddenly, a figure pushing a walker slowly makes his way off the lift and out onto the sidewalk.

It is The Male Sibling Unit.

He grins tiredly at me and shuffles slowly to the front door. The bus driver calls out to me.

“He had a really good day at work! He’ll be tired. He’s really getting around good with that walker now!” The look on my face must startle her, because she turns off the van. “Hey,” she says, compassionately, “Chin up! I know how hard it has to be to see him have to fight so hard every time he’s gotten the virus. You do all you can to keep him safe. No one could have known he’d have a stroke this last time. But look at him! He’s such a fighter! He never gets down! I’ll bet he could get it a fourth time, and a fifth. He’s a strong guy. I admire how he just says that life’s too short and you gotta live.” Winking at me, she turns the key in the ignition. “I’ll see you Wednesday! I have to go pick up a crew at the Elm Street group home for testing.” With a short beep of the horn, she pulls slowly away.

The next thing I remember, I am coming to on a gurney in an ambulance. A figure, clad head to toe in blue and with a full-face shield and mask works over me. A neighbor found me on the pavement. I had passed out. “Hey, no worries,” he says to me as I jump at the sight of him. ”Your husband gave us all your info. He’ll follow in your car. Just relax for now. We’ll be at D-UPMC Erie before you know it.”

“E-Erie? Am I that sick?” I stammer. “What’s the matter with Bradford Hospital?” He rubs my shoulder softly. “You really did hit your head, didn’t you, Dear? Remember, Bradford closed a year ago. Budget cuts on the federal level. Insurance costs skyrocketed. Everyone goes to Erie or Buffalo now, depending on their party affiliations. It’s okay – let me give you something to help you sleep. It’s just a little, green pill.”

No.

It is not okay.

*******************************

I know, I know. It can’t happen here. The thing is, we said that about a whole host of things that did, indeed, happen. Here’s a great article on how the Trump Administration is corrupting government. And here’s a Trump timeline of shame, in case you need one.

We have less than 4 months to neutralize the batshit crazy and inject some sanity into this country’s leadership. If we allow what is happening to continue unchecked, my fear is that my science fiction will become less the musings of a writer who drank too much caffeine and allowed some of her darkest thoughts to make it onto the page and more of a prediction and a premonition.

No, it’s not reality. Let’s keep it that way.

Summertime memories

When I was a little girl, the park was right across the street from where I lived. Every ward (precinct) had a playground, as well as an elementary school. Our park was huge and had a big baseball field adjacent. At the southern end of the park, running east to west, there was a creek (“crick” if you grew up in these parts) that provided homes for many forms of life: minnows, frogs, a few snakes, beetles, and the ever-present crayfish (“crabs” if you grew up in these parts) that could grow to be as big as a little girl’s whole hand. Those crabs were the ultimate “get” for a lot of kids. They hid under rocks, like alien creatures with bodies that could be muddy green, brown, or the occasional darkest blue. Their antennae wiggled intelligently and their claws were always at the ready for some unfortunate, foolish child who dared to try and touch them from the front.

5th Ward School, where I attended from 1972-1978. This photo was from many decades before I was born. Those trees on the left and right were mammoths by the time I walked up that sidewalk. The school was at one end of the block of Rochester Street. The park was at the other end.

We would spend hours on the banks and in the silty waters of that creek during the summer, overturning rocks and catching crabs. They were deceptively adept at evading capture; you’d think you had them, only to see them effortlessly piston themselves backwards, floating through the water with their tails tucked underneath. If you timed it right, and grabbed them behind their pincers and just squeezed gently, you could pick them up and plop them into whatever container you had at the ready: a coffee can, a bowl, a big, glass jar. I never kept mine for long or surrendered them to the boys, who would cruelly poke them with sticks to see them attack the wood with their great claws or try to have the crayfish version of WFF on the hot pavement of the basketball court.

No, I would always feel sorry for them, fancying myself as a sort of facilitator of TNR for crabs. At the advanced age of 7 or 8, this was my life’s work during the summer. The idea that I was “saving” them by catching them is an irony not lost on me today, but back then, I thought I was doing noble work. You see, if you creeped eastward along the banks of the creek and then through some dense trees and brush, you entered a sort of secret spot, an emerald Shangri-La where the trees and brush were so tall, the area was completely canopied. A mammoth pipe – at least 6 feet in circumference – emerged horizontally from the ground, like a giant, rusty black hole. It ran underneath High Street, which was just east, starting up in the back yard of house #237. (When I grew up, I would become the owner of #237 and raise my kids there. That underground pipe was the bane of our existence when it would become too backed-up with debris and the creek would spill into our yard.)

Not my oasis of childhood, but similar. The creek at Droney Road, 2020.

But as a child, it was a mysterious opening that none of us ever even contemplated investigating, because we knew that within these drain pipes and dark places, there were certainly monsters. The water was pretty deep, about 2 feet, where the pipe yawned, and I would take my rescued crabs and assorted minnows to the edge near that deeper water, where I would give them an urgent, stern talking-to about staying safe and not getting caught by the boys, and then release them into that calm, cool pool of water. My hope was that they’d stay there, preferring its shady depths to the perilously low waters and dangerous terrain that exposed them to capture down below.

Then, I would sit, sometimes for hours, in that canopied, shadowy green place that was alive with flying insects and trickling water. My mother didn’t like it when I would disappear into this oasis of vegetation, rock, water, and wriggling, swimming life; I think she feared that I would travel up through the drain pipe. She didn’t need to worry about that; though I have never been afraid of the dark, I am also a true Taurus, relishing places that feed my preference for beauty and comfort. This little piece of Pennsylvania paradise suited me just fine. It was a place of solace and needed solitude; a place where a handful of us would go to enjoy the calm that even a child needs once in a while. It was the destination for two of us, when we needed to talk, or plan, or even scheme.

The sun would peek through the little holes between the leaves of the tree limbs that sheltered us overhead, making prism-like light on the water in the creek. It was like being in a diamond-encrusted cave. Sometimes, I’d rearrange rocks and look for little, round, white river rocks and hunks, thick ropes, and tendrils of green glass; remnants left behind by a glass factory that had stood not far from the creek during a bygone era when Bradford was growing by leaps and bounds and people predicted that it was going to be a booming metropolis, like New York. Even back when I sat under the shelter of those trees, in 1974, it was declining, populated primarily by blue collar workers and a handful of extremely well-off families who wouldn’t even contemplate allowing their child to play in a hill runoff creek. They took their kids to the country club or paid the money for them to spend the day at Callahan Pool, where the lifeguards served as defacto babysitters.

Me?

My babysitter was that creek, and that park, and the hills surrounding us. It was old, abandoned oil derrick shacks up in the woods and piles of junk in the junk yard, where we’d find boards and old buggy wheels and all manner of parts with which to build go-carts to race down Grove Street. It was hot, dusty afternoons playing kickball and hide-and-seek and games of chase at twilight on magical, summer nights, frolicking while our mothers bellowed our names and threatened “the paddle” if we didn’t get inside right this instant.

We didn’t fear the paddle, and we knew that, aside from some irritated shouts and maybe a swat on the behind – if they could catch us as we scurried past them for the front door – the little smiles that played on their lips that clamped down on cigarettes meant that they’d enjoyed standing at the corner, gossiping about this one and that one while they waited for us to exhaust that final, burst of energy that fueled the day.

Once inside, it was bath time, because I was almost always a filthy mess, my feet covered in dust, grass stains on my perpetually scabbed knees, dried mud underneath my fingernails from making mud pies and overturning creek rocks to save the crabs, grime caught between the folds of skin where my neck joined my shoulders.

I’d sink into the tub of water and let it run until it covered me, fascinated by the rivulets of brownish muck that would color the water quickly and mingle with the bubbles from the bubble bath. I’d sink down, underneath the water, where it was a different kind of quiet than my green canopied hideaway, and stay there until my lungs signaled an urgent return to the above. Then, I’d get to the business of washing (“worshing” if you grew up in these parts) my limbs and hair and usually behind my ears. Once that was out of the way, I could just lay back in the water and pretend I was in the ocean, letting my limbs relax and go slack. I’d examine my tan lines, marveling at how golden brown I was on my face, arms, legs, upper chest, and belly, while my other parts were a shockingly pale color. I preferred the sun-braised look of my skin to that white; somehow, it seemed to be proof of my youth and vitality. I feel the same way even today; I think that I will always feel young, as long as I am tan.

When much time had passed and my mother and grandmother had decided enough is enough, one of them would call up the stairs and tell me it was time to get out. Begrudgingly, I’d towel myself off and put on fresh panties and a summer nightgown or filmy, nylon pjs that were usually some pale, washed-out color, threadbare at the knees. I’d run a brush through my hair and then meander downstairs in my bare feet to eat a snack and watch some tv. Occasionally, there’d be an inspection of my efficiency in the bath, and nails – fingers and toes – would be clipped. “Look at you! Shriveled up like a prune! You were in too long,” I’d be told. Silently, I’d disagree. My ears would be cleaned with Qtips. “You could have potatoes growing in these ears!” I’d be told. Silently, I’d disagree again.

At bedtime, I would crawl underneath a sheet because it was still too hot, and listen to the droning of the tv downstairs and the crickets and peepers outside my window. The faint aroma of my mother’s cigarette would waft up the staircase, and I would feel that heavy, exhausted weight of a day played well and hard carry me into the depths of sleep.

Wash, rinse, repeat, until 1975, and the arrival of The Male Sibling Unit. Life changed then, and was not so carefree. Instead of crabs, there was a younger sibling to save, who needed my protection and vigilance. This was truly when childhood ended for me, but I am so glad to have the memories of what came before. What came after made me the tough nut with scarred shell that I am today, but what came before reminds me of who I would like to be: the sweet, soft, unmarked flesh inside of that nut.

It’s encouraging to know that she still lives within.

Glass EVERYWHERE

Look, I’m jaded af, okay? Very little surprises me, because I think humans are, well, human, and many of them have no business living in glass houses.

But today….color me whatever color “Holy fuck, I had no idea just how many skeletons could fall out of a closet” is.

I had a big family of great-aunts and uncles. My grandma had 9 siblings. One great-aunt, in particular, was perfect. I mean, she portrayed herself as such. Perfect home, perfect job, well-respected. Churchgoing. Educated. My great-uncle (my grandmother’s older brother) was cut from the same cloth. These were the people you “had to behave yourself” around. Their home was pristine, and beautiful. My grandma called her “uppity” and “a goddamned snob.”

They came to blows once, when my aunt and uncle were newlyweds and my aunt got a little too snarky with my grandma. At least, the blows came from my Scots Irish Gram, while my aunt cowered and whimpered. Grandma – she of the strawberry-blonde hair, fierce temper, and no-nonsense countenance, who would go on to attempt to murder my grandfather (you can read about that Here) with a butcher knife before leaving his deadbeat ass to support herself and two children and then marrying another dumbass who was mean to her kids so she had to take the piss out of him before leaving and deciding to use men as playtoys henceforth – did not take kindly to being poked with a stick. My aunt picked the wrong person, on the wrong day. She learned, quickly, but their bickering back and forth was the stuff of family legends. I’d never seen two women love/hate each other quite like them.

I was my aunt and uncle’s chosen favorite. I was showered with gifts, they babysat me, doted on me, and let me do things no one else could. I could go into their guest bedroom and touch all the pretty things no one else could touch, like all my aunt’s dolls and stuffed animals from childhood and her crystal decanters and fragile, porcelain figures. I was my uncle’s designated “train assistant” because their basement was a model train wonderland. They purchased special occasion dresses and shoes for me – expensive clothing my mother could never afford. They let me drink pink catawba at Christmas. My uncle adored me, but he smoked a pipe, and it both comforted/scared me, so it was rare that I even sat on his lap. My aunt spoiled the shit out of me, so much so that my mother was very jealous. She told people that “She has her sights set on my daughter. She would take her away from me if she could.” My grandmother agreed.

I wondered why such a loving couple, who obviously could have given children anything in the world, had never had kids of their own. I asked, and was told that they never had kids because they “couldn’t.”

Well, today, I know that answer to be false; at least partially. My aunt was actually able to have kids; so able, in fact, that she had a daughter in 1944, who was given up for adoption.

My aunt lived in a house absolutely filled with precious glass.

I received a letter, with proof, from that daughter today. She is 75 years old now, and wants to know her mother. She found me courtesy of my family tree on Ancestry. One of her relatives had contacted me about the possibility through Ancestry many months ago, but they were sort of vague so I forgot. She has since done her homework.  She sent me a photo of when she was younger. She looked very much like my aunt. She also sent her pre-adoption birth certificate, unsealed by the state of New York. I will, of course, gather my wits about me and provide her with everything I can; remaining relatives are far-flung and may not have the info that I do. And much info, I have. And photos.

My cousin, left. My aunt, right.

I feel conflicted, of course, given my close relationship with my aunt. Will it hurt my newfound cousin’s feelings to know that my aunt lavished so much attention on me, born when my cousin was 22 years old? Or will she realize what I did, almost immediately, after reading her letter: I was a surrogate daughter, given all the love and affection that she could not give to her own child, who she named “Becky,” a name very similar to her own. In any event, I will dig out every photo I can find, and I have a lot of writing to do. I would prefer to give her all the stories I have accumulated, all the memories, in person, but she is 75 years old now, and COVID-19 has effectively fucked up a heartwarming meeting with her.

It’s really depressing to know that I have this information now, when the cousins are scattered to the four winds and all the old people are long gone. I am about 99.9% confident that this was not something anybody, except possibly my uncle, knew about. She was living and working in Buffalo, New York, which was 100 miles away and a major trip back then. She worked in a Defense plant during the war, so her family may not have known, either. She either met soon after, or already knew my uncle (who was also stationed in New York State) because they were married 11 months later. I don’t think he was the father, because why wouldn’t they have married then? Given that we both did DNA tests and do not link as blood relations, he simply could not have been.

If this skeleton had been known, I would have already known this and not have been completely smacked upside the head with this information. This is the stuff that tenuous and volatile relationships, like my Gram’s and my aunt’s, feed upon. Would she have been looked down upon by our family? Certainly not; my mother, uncle, and I learned, the day of her funeral, that Gram herself had given birth to a stillborn daughter at age 16. The birth was attended by my great-grandma at home. I can only guess that the baby was buried, with no real ceremony, by my great-grandfather, who oversaw the cemetary grounds in those days.

However, my aunt’s family put on a lot of airs; they weren’t rich, but they did well. She tended to look down upon her sisters-in-law; she worked in offices, while they were housekeepers, factory workers, homemakers, and farmers. She had the grand, ranch-style home; they lived in apartments, trailers, or worse: still at home with great-grandma.

Still, my uncle was the salt of the earth and devoted to his family; he and my Gram were particularly close. Another family legend had them fighting, as teenagers, in the back yard. The next door neighbor was having a church-type meeting, and the attending minister was leading the guests in prayer. Suddenly, my Gram shouted, “GOD DAMN YOU, Forrie!” and my uncle shouted back, “God Damn YOU, Rhea!” At that point, the minister said “Amen.”

Funny stuff.

My aunt assimilated. She was a Rose. She, therefore, belonged. She was ensconced within a sacred trust. Even when a Rose daughter married, she did not become a Smith or a Covert or a Barr or a McKinney; her husband was now a part of the Rose clan. As Mando would say, this is the way.

My aunt and uncle in the late 40s or early 50s

No, if this was knowledge shared within the family, it would have been imparted to me to illustrate that “no one in this family gets to put on airs.” They didn’t know. That was her right. But now, everything about her genuine devotion to me makes so much sense.

I want to impart the fact that she was capable of such love to her daughter, my newfound cousin.

My aunt lived in a really thick, glass house. It did shatter, but at the right time: without anyone of importance knowing about it. I find that I respect her courage and her ability to keep such a big secret. In these days where everybody knows every fucking thing about every fucking body, right down to the ingrown hair on their butt cheek, it’s refreshing to know that I come from a family that knows how to really keep a secret. I’ve learned from the best.

I am looking forward to knowing my new cousin.

A white girl story

My first boyfriend was black. We were 5. I didn’t know he was my boyfriend until my friends in kindergarten told me he was. Apparently, he was pretty certain of the fact, because he couldn’t stop telling people all about it.

“I grabbed her and pulled her into Mr. Singer’s (the janitor) closet and kissed her and now, she’s my girlfriend.”

It was quite the grade school scandal. It was also categorically false, but I never lived that 5th Ward School tale down. It became legend.

I first met Eddie when we were 4 year-olds at Headstart. Headstart is a preschool program that helps economically disadvantaged children with early childhood education, health, and nutritional services. It was founded in 1965, so it was relatively new when I was enrolled in 1971. It is an angel network of helpers. You know who helpers are, right? Mister Rogers, my aforementioned Dad, coined that phrase and it’s the best way I can describe the legion of teachers, aides, parents, and assorted individuals who have championed this invaluable program and given it the wings with which to soar. My daughter is a Headstart teacher. I haven’t got the words to adequately express how proud I am of her.

Sometimes, helpers have horns and their husbands are wearing tutus.

Anyway, that’s where Eddie and I met. It seems hilarious to say, “We met when we were 4” because saying you met someone conjures up visions of mixers and parties and chance encounters in a coffee shop – at least, to me, it does. It was more like we were out on the dusty playground and we threw dirt at each other, and chased each other around the swings, and rode the merry-go-round together, with a bunch of other kids. I can’t say, with any real certainty, that I remember him from Headstart. I already had a best friend at that age, and her name was Iva, and we met at the Crippled Children preschool we both attended as toddlers. Me with my neck, and her with, well, I don’t know what was wrong with her to make her have to go to Crippled Children, but we were fast friends, and my mother would pick Iva up for school, and later, for Headstart, because Iva’s mommy didn’t have a car. The point is, when you’re 4, you have a pretty limited scope of reality. Having a bunch of friends doesn’t matter when you’re 4. You just want to play, and laugh, and it doesn’t much matter if you have one friend or ten to do that with.

I do remember that, when I entered kindergarten, I recognized Eddie when I saw him from across the classroom. Back in those days, there was a school in every neighborhood, and Eddie happened to live in mine. Kindergarten was only a half-day in 1972, and remained so until my own kids were in school, and then it switched to full school days.

Back in those days, we also could walk to school. Yes, at the tender age of 5 years and six months, I walked to school. On the first day, my Mom walked me to school, but she trusted me to make my way home after. It was only a street-long block and up a small hill to our house, so I was good. I wasn’t scared. Back then, you didn’t have to be scared. Those first few days were kind of a blur; new friendships were forged, if that’s what you could call them. I still remember the other Lori in our class, who vomited on the floor the first day. I remember being taught how to shelter underneath our tables, where we sat, four students at each one, in case of a mysteriously-coined “bomb threat.” The idea was that, if there was a bomb, we were to drop to the floor and get underneath the table.

When the teacher said “bomb,” this was what I thought she meant.

Being 5 year-olds, we knew absolutely nothing of nuclear weapons and the Cold War and any of that. Why anyone would want to go all Wile E. Coyote on us or our towering school was beyond our comprehension, but we practiced dropping to the floor and crawling underneath the table, where we giggled as the teacher commended us for our speed. The fact that our classroom was in the basement of a humongous, three-story brick edifice that, if bombed, would come tumbling down upon us, crushing and burying us, was something that escaped our childish wonder. We had a door to the outside in our classroom, but I guess that you don’t want to be outside when there’s a bomb, even if you won’t make it out from underneath your formica table alive.

My year of kindergarten is mostly a jumble of vague memories. Life had not begun to have its way with me yet. I remember that first day – and how I wet the bed. I recall having to go into the restroom so the teacher and the school nurse could examine my body for chickenpox when my mother sent me back after a feverish, itchy 10 days of what my mother and grandmother called “the worst case of chickenpox we have ever seen,” and my delight at being given my own clay (I can still remember that it was reddish, and slightly sticky, and how it felt and smelled) to put in the plastic container my mother had sent with me. That’s pretty much kindergarten for me. Oh, lots more happened; the teacher had a conference with my mother a month in to discuss placing me in First Grade because I was very advanced and “kindergarten bores her”. My mother politely demurred, not wanting to place me ahead of my own age group. Nowadays, we do this all the time. The name of the game is advance at all costs. I sometimes wonder what would have changed for me; I suspect not much. I made friends. I discovered art class, and music class. That was glorious.

Eddie and I would often walk to and from school together. He would always have a little gift for me when I would meet him at the bottom of my street; a little, plastic egg from a penny gumball machine with a ring in it. I would accept with a blush and wonder where he got them. When I asked, he said, nonchalantly, that there were machines in the offices where his daddy worked. “Why do you go to your daddy’s work?” I asked. His answer surprised and mystified me:

“My daddy runs the junkyard. I live in the junkyard.”

When I asked my mother about it, she explained: Eddie’s dad was in charge of the daily operations of the junkyard, which was across the street and then the creek and began as a vast expanse of trash and treasure a hundred yards or so from its banks. I could see the mountains of cars, metal, and assorted other discarded junk from our front door. The junkyard was called “Goodmans” and Eddie’s dad was the caretaker. He, his mom, dad, and little brother, Petey, lived in a little house right in the center. Not too long after we started school, Eddie’s mom left, taking Petey with her, and moved to New York City, where she was from. My mother told me to be kind to Eddie. “He’s going to be sad and have a hard time,” she advised.

Eddie and his brother had the nicest, warmest, milk chocolate-colored skin I had ever seen. Eddie’s mom was like me, which is to say she was white. Eddie’s dad, a congenial, gentle, towering giant of a man, was much, much darker than Eddie and Petey. I loved to wave to him when he drove by our house in his truck, “Sonny!” I’d holler, and he would slow down, grin, and wave at me. “That Sonny is such a nice guy,” my Gram would say, “but at night, you can’t see him in that truck until he smiles.” Please don’t judge my Gram, born in 1912. She didn’t have a racist bone in her body. Her father was the caretaker of the cemetery where their home sat just below on the hillside. Her earliest memories were of being terrified as she and her siblings watched from their bedroom windows as the KKK burned crosses among the graves behind them. My great-grandfather would fearlessly trudge up the hill and put them out after the band of cowards had dispersed. Yes, this was the north, but yes, racism existed even here. Especially here, where we ruefully call our region “Pennsyltucky” because the Rebel flags wave and we have rednecks and sometimes because of the attitudes, you honestly think we fought for the Confederacy. The founders of our town were rough men, oil men, hard-working and ambitious. That working-class ethic still remains, even if the jobs didn’t.

As we grew older, Eddie used to tell the story of how he “fell in love” with me. “When we were in Headstart, I first saw you, and I knew you were like me, ‘cuz I thought you was Chinese.” I have told the Story of how I was often mistaken as having Asian heritage because my hair is nearly black, my skin is olive-toned, my head is pretty round, and my black eyes possess just a bit of a tilt at the outer corners. I had to deny it more times than I could count. As I got older, it changed from Asian to Native American. Sorry, folks, but there is nary an amoebic-sized smidge of Asian or Native American DNA in me; my Ancestry test doesn’t lie. And, I might add, so fucking what if there was?

Senior picture. This was why I was asked if I was Native American. Really?

It has always stuck with me, though.

“I knew you were like me.”

What did Eddie mean by that?I mean, I’m a human. Of course I was like him. But, I suspect that it had more to do with just looks. Maybe we did both look “different” from all the uber-white complected kids in our school, but we were both bullied a lot, too. I suffered from kids teasing about my lack of a paternal unit and then the usual girl-centric fights that cliquish gaggles of girls have. He, on the other hand, was teased for being black. He was teased for living in the junkyard. Those kids who themselves went home to dads who were drunks or deadbeats or who beat their mothers or their kids – our neighborhood had pretty much 50-50 lower middle class to low-income – thought they were somehow better than this boy whose father worked very hard every day but who committed some sort of societal faux pas because he lived in a house in a junkyard. Me? I’d have given anything for a dad like Sonny. He was worth 100,000 of those loser dads. I understand it now, but I did not then.

Sometimes, Eddie would lash out at me, chasing me, knocking me down, calling me names. He would change. He would not be the Eddie I knew. I was a little afraid of him when that happened. Again, I understand now. Life was having its way with him, and racism was a part of that life. Still, on one of the happiest days I can remember from childhood – the day The Male Sibling Unit was born – I was with Eddie, playing at the park. My dog had just chased him across the field and he was laughing uproariously at how “Whiskers wants to rip my pants in the butt” when my cousin, who was staying with us, called for me from across the street. Eddie followed me back to the house, always cautious, because there were parents who would tell him to “GIT” and he had to be careful. I beckoned him to come along. “What’s the matter with you?” I asked. “My dog might bite, but my grandma has false teeth.”

When my Gram told me the news, I spontaneously grabbed Eddie and hugged him. “I have a little brother!” I squealed. He let me squeeze him for a moment and then pushed me away, slightly embarrassed. “C’mon, gee! Little brothers ain’t that great. You’ll see,” he said, knowingly.

This is one of the last times we were really close; less than two years later, Eddie would leave Bradford to live with his mother in New York. His father died. “Brain tumor” was what I heard. I was terribly sad for Eddie, but out of sight, out of mind. New York City sounded exciting, and big, and I was a bit envious.

Life went on. I grew up, became a teenager, then a Senior in high school with hopes and dreams. Racism was still not a part of my reality. I had Asian friends. Bradford was possibly one of the whitest communities ever, but we did have non-caucasian doctors and businessmen. I think, when I was 17, we had exactly one black family in town. One or 500 – it wouldn’t have mattered to me. I don’t want to say that I did not see color; I was book smart about the problems, educated about the challenges of racism, civil rights, and the horrors of slavery and the Civil War that came to signify intolerance for it. I knew it existed. It just didn’t in my tiny, little world.

I can’t remember who told me that Eddie was back in town. He and his mother and brother had come back here, and I don’t know why. I think she had family here. My mother said something about New York being tough, and Eddie and Petey getting into trouble, and their mother wanting a better life for them. I do remember thinking, “Why here? Why Bradford?” I was solely focused on getting the fuck out of Dodge as soon as I could, and to me, going to New York City, with its lights and tall buildings and all the people and opportunities galore seemed absolutely wonderful. The movie Fame had enamored me of all things Big Apple. That’s where real shit happened. Anywhere but here, I thought.

Looking back, I empathize with Eddie’s mom’s hopes. I still don’t think this was the right place, though. Knowing what I do now, that is. Knowing that this place isn’t kind to other races. Oh, we say we are, we think we are, but hate permeates everything here, and racism is but the tip of an iceberg of angst and apathy and wasted opportunities that many citizens in this community sit atop, angry armchair warriors all. I can say now that yes, I see color. Do I judge because of it? Again, I have to admit that yes, I do. Is that a form of racism? Yes, it is. It is not the kind of racism that hurts people though; not the kind that passes negative judgment on them. It’s more of a blanket feeling of sympathy for them:

Oh, you’ve moved here, have you? I’m sorry you did, because this town is awful to outsiders. This town is awful to insiders. This town. Is awful. Period. Please don’t judge us by the kind of welcome you receive, though. Some of us, who have lived here our entire lives, are outsiders, too.

That’s the way in which I have been guilty of racism. I hope not to be judged by that.

Eddie and I met on the street one day, when I was walking home from school. He was a big, powerfully-built young man with the same, creamy-chocolate skin and jet-black hair that I remembered. His eyes were a tawny color, warm and tender, as he gazed down at me. His regard for how I had grown up was evident in his effusive compliments. “You’re not the little girl I remember,” he said, admiringly. I blushed, feeling warm. “Well, you aren’t a little boy anymore, either.” I replied. I don’t know why he wasn’t enrolled in school; I do know that he and his mom and brother didn’t live here long when they returned, and they ended up in Olean, New York, about 25 miles away and with a more diverse, racial demographic than Bradford. We talked for a few minutes and he asked me if he could call me sometime. I said sure, my number’s in the book. We parted; I walked away, feeling flushed and sort of unsettled. I had a boyfriend at the time. What was this, exactly?

True to his word, Eddie called a couple of days later. He cut right to the chase.

“I want to take you out,” he said, “to a movie, or dinner, or whatever you want. I just want to go out with you.”

“Eddie, I can’t,” I said, quietly. “I have a boyfriend.”

He was quiet for a moment, and then was direct and blunt. “Oh. It’s not because I’m black, is it? I didn’t think you were like that. Is it because I’m black?”

I felt gut-punched. Fuck! I raged inside, at war with my feelings. I kind of wanted to go out with him. But there was Kevin. Kevin was sweet. I really liked Kevin a lot, and Kevin seemed to adore me. The fact that I was even slightly indecisive should have told me chapters of information about how things were going to go with Kevin, but at this point in my young, inexperienced life, all I knew was that if you had a boyfriend, you didn’t cheat on him.

“Eddie, no. I don’t care what color you are. I just have a boyfriend. If you’d have called me a month ago, I would have said yes.” All that mattered to me was that he not think that I gave a crap about his race.

He was quiet for a moment, and then he said, “Okay. I just really like you is all. I always did.” After that, he became really cavalier, talking about gangs and fights in New York and how tough he had become. We spoke a little while longer, and then, I had to go.

When I got off the phone, my mother asked, “What was that all about?” When I told her, she smirked a little and said, “I knew he liked you 12 years ago. He said he was going to marry you.” When I exclaimed, “Uh…..WHAT????” she told me that Sonny had told her, when we were little kids, that Eddie would ask him to fish the little eggs with the rings in them out of the penny machine so he could give them to me because “Someday she’s gonna marry me.”

I lost touch with Eddie after that. Then, I married a man who pretended to be like me: accepting and loving of all humans. Hindsight is 20-20, but in any event, Eddie didn’t fare so well in this town. He would leave, then return. Each time, he was a little harder than rougher than he had been when he’d left. Life had its way with Eddie, and he got into a lot of legal trouble, and eventually died. I can’t remember what killed him, but I do know that we were only in our 30s when it happened.

I will always remember Eddie. He was one of my earliest, truest friends.

I’m not sure why I needed to write this, really. Well, yes, I am. It’s just a story from my life, but it’s also an offering, of sorts, to the universe. It is a tale of childhood, and a certain kind of color blindness. Maybe it illustrates ignorance, but I hope not in a bad way. When I had to explain the riots on the tv to The Male Sibling Unit last night, and George Floyd, and Ahmaud Arbery, amongst others, Eddie popped into my memory. The Male Sibling Unit doesn’t understand racism. It isn’t even remotely a part of who he is. After I made my attempt to adequately explain the hate in this country to him, he was no longer innocent. I am sorry that I had to do that to him.

I am sorry for lots of things. I’m not so full of myself to think that going out with Eddie all those years ago might have changed the trajectory of his life, but I wonder now…..what if?

I would like to be able to talk to my friend again.

Memories are not always unkind

Irish Poet John O’Donohue

This was today’s Facebook “memory.”

2009. Iraq deployment. He was stationed in Texas. I could not kiss him “See you soon.” Tiffany and the girls were there with him, and she took this photo.

I remember the day he texted me, saying that this was going to happen. It was a few months before it actually did. I was at work, at the front desk of the car dealership where I worked. When I read the message, I threw the phone across the desk, as if it were hot. I pistoned my legs reflexively, and my chair hit the wall behind me. I stood up abruptly, not sure what to do. I was not prepared, even though I had braced for it since the day he and his brother had both enlisted. Boots on the ground in Texas, the other set of boots going underway for months at a time on a massive, nuclear submarine. I didn’t sleep well in those days.

As I stood there, locked in a momentary panic, my boss walked out of his office, where I sat sentry to the right. Our eyes locked and something on my face seemed to alarm him and his eyebrows shot up. I turned and walked quickly toward the side door and outside, not willing to trust my voice or my composure. I couldn’t explain this. I couldn’t allow myself to think.

My boss was not the warm, fuzzy kind of guy you could relate to. Most of the dealership – okay, all of the dealership – feared him. He would arrive in his truck every morning, well after everyone else, and a couple of sale staff would scurry out: one to carry his briefcase and the other to leash and walk his bulldog, who almost always made the two-hour commute from Erie with him, where they lived. He’d stride in, a stocky, brooding figure in a fedora and leather jacket, a pipe or a cigar clamped between his lips. He exuded an air of wealth and privilege, holding court in the General Manager’s office, where the orders he had issued by phone on the way in were confirmed.

Then, he would settle into his day in a dark, richly-paneled office, surrounded by large pieces of leather furniture, his face lit by the glow of the massive Mac screen on his desk. State-of-the-art exercise equipment gathered dust in a corner, his paunchy figure defying their existence. I liked the days when he smoked a pipe; it was fragrant. The cigar days were not. Soft, classical music would drift out to my ears as I did my work, and occasionally, I would be called in to do some task. I’d pet Buster softly and call him “Baby.” My boss would growl, not unkindly, “Don’t spoil him.” As if.

His temper was legendary and he unleashed it often and without prejudice. When he wished to “have a pep talk” with the sales staff, he would first send me upstairs, where we would shelter in place while he tore them all new assholes. One time, I made my way downstairs, nature’s call unable to wait. He had been shouting for nearly 30 minutes and I needed the loo. As I gingerly opened the door, he finished a sentence that included “…..you’re all lazy, fucking cocksuckers,” and turned to look at me. “What, Lori?” he asked quietly, positive that there must have been some earth-shattering knowledge that I needed to impart to him because why would I interrupt his “constructive sales meeting?”

“Sorry, but I have to pee,” I said, walking toward the one restroom we had for both employees and customers. We’d had two when I started, but the building had undergone a massive renovation after a flood and he had decided we only needed one unisex restroom. He was rich, but he was a tightwad when it came to certain things not for himself, too.

“You came down to pee?” he asked, exasperation tinting his query.

“Uh, yeah?” I retorted, “You’ve been yelling for a half an hour now. How many more ‘motherfuckers’ have you got in you? We womenfolk need to pee occasionally.” I entered the bathroom as silence enveloped the cavernous showroom. When I emerged, it was to furtive grins and a much more composed, quiet boss. Thank you,” I said to him, heading back upstairs. “Yeah, yeah,” he waved me away. Things were much quieter after that. Less than give minutes later, he opened the door and called up the stairs, “Lori? I’m done.”

“Finally,” I shouted.

I wasn’t afraid of him, like everyone else. I respected him as my boss, and I respected him when he was worthy of it. Sometimes, he was not. He would receive my intractable resting bitch face when he was a dick, but I was not going to cower in fear at the feet of a guy who – last time I checked – was no better a person than anyone else. I think he knew it; he would rant and shout at nearly everyone else when his ire was up, making the women cry and the men shake, but he never, ever did that to me. One time early in my employment, a salesperson attempted to throw me under the bus for an administrative error that he, himself had made. As we stood in front of the boss’s desk, this ferret-faced little worm attempted to shift blame onto me. I threw it back in his face, enumerating the ways in which he had made the mistake, and finished with “Don’t stand here in front of Mr. T and lie. I’m not going to go along with your bullshit. And don’t ever cross me again.” I think that established a basic fault line that our boss respected.

This day, though, the day of the text.

I deserted my desk and didn’t forward the phones and it wasn’t the protocol but I didn’t trust myself to remain composed in that moment. When your child tells you, “I need you to be calm. I’ve received my deployment orders,” and it immediately registers with you that he doesn’t mean Germany or Alaska or even South Korea, but that hot, sandy place where people are getting killed every day, something chemical happens in your brain. Adrenaline rushes to all nerve endings and yet, you’re numb. You’re numb and you’re terrified and you think, “Who can I call to complain to?” and you realize with bleak finality that this isn’t grade school and there is no principal with which to lodge your complaint on your child’s behalf. Nope, you’re an Army Mom. Suck. It. Up.

So I went outside, and leaned against the building, taking gigantic, gulping breaths. These were pre-Xanax and antidepressant days, when I (didn’t) manage my mental illness much, if at all. I knew I had to get it together; work was not the place to break down, and breaking down, in any event, was not constructive. I wondered, fleetingly if all the other mothers who had received that message from their child throughout history felt like they were free-falling and that the ground rushing toward them would be a merciful fate, shutting down the panic?

As I was working through this thought, my boss walked outside and stood in front of me. “What is it?” he asked quietly, concern lacing his words. I could not speak. That unease in his voice undid me, and my throat began to constrict. I didn’t know, at that moment, whether I was going to cry or vomit on his shoes. I grunted and tried to walk away, but he blocked my path. “Tell me what’s going on,” he commanded softly, and it all came out in a rush:

My-son-got-his-orders-and-he-is-going-to-Iraq-and-I-wasn’t-ready-and-I’m-scared

And then fat tears snaked down my face.

Big arms enfolded me into an embrace and a hand softly held my head against his chest. I could smell his cologne and the soft pungency of pipe tobacco on his flannel shirt. Mr. T softly crooned to me, “It’s okay,” as I sobbed. As cars drove by on the busy street and people entered and exited the building, no doubt wondering “What in the actual fuck?” he comforted me. It seemed like forever but it was only a few minutes.

Finally, I pulled away, embarrassed and aghast. “I’m so sorry,” I said, and he wiped my eyes, saying, “Shit, I just wiped mascara all over your face.” I hiccuped and said, “But I got snot all over your shirt.” He chuckled. I shied away from him and he asked, “Tell me what I can do for you?” We talked a while longer, and his kindness nearly undid me; but it also made me strong. I was allowed this moment to be scared and the universe gave me exactly who I needed in that moment to come undone and to lace myself back up again. When he knew I was calmer, he told me, “Take whatever time you need. Call him. Call your husband. Hell, you wanna go to him? Go to Texas? Do it. Do whatever you need to.” He went back inside and barked at everyone to answer the phones for me and I made my calls and calmed down and then finished the day in a blur of numbness and resolve. My boy would never have to see or hear my fear because that guy took it upon himself. That was a different kind of service.

Many more times, I would feel that wave of panic until the day of this photo dawned. My son and I spoke on the phone and he texted me just before he boarded the plane. One of my coworkers offered me a valium. I refused. This was something I needed to feel fully: fear, intense pride, and calm resolve to send waves of my mother love to him. It would envelope him, like a force field, and keep him safe.

He survived that deployment, and another, to Afghanistan. He came home, and he eventually got out, and now he has five kids and knows all those feelings parents feel about their kids. I hope he will never have to send a son, or sons, off to war, but if he does, I want to be the one he can turn to in that momentary panic. He will be more prepared for the realities than I was. I don’t know if that’s a good or bad thing.

This Memorial Day, I am grateful to those who served, and those who serve. I am grateful to those who support and respect and revere our military. Today is a day in which our country – our world – has become intimately aware of sadness and very slight sacrifices. While we may be engaged in a different sort of war, we need to remind ourselves that this is small potatoes compared to what those soldiers of past wars and the ones who came home experienced. Today, we remember, and we say, “Thank you for your service.”

Thank you, my two sons, and thank you, my son-in-law, for your service. Thank you.

With friends like that, it is no wonder that I prefer my cats

I have a friend who lives in the Pacific Northwest. I followed him on Facebook for a number of years; he’s a very good writer and he sorta sucked me in with his gift of painting vivid pictures with his words. After a couple of years of this following, I decided, “You know what? Fuck it. I want to be this dude’s friend.” I had no reason to think he would accept me, a stranger who was essentially stalking his words – and thank you, Facebook, for making stalking legitimate with your “Follow” feature – but I was delighted when he did. I think I said something dumb, like, “I just really love your writing” but for whatever reason, he decided I was worth taking a risk on.

Over the past few years, we’ve become authentic friends, even though we’ve yet to meet. When we began our friendship, he still lived in the same time zone as me, but life has a way of doing some twists and turns and he soon found himself the owner of an RV. After that, it seemed only natural that he would take the RV on a most excellent, mystical journey throughout the country. His co-pilot was also most excellent, she of the chocolate-colored hair and soulful, medium roast eyes and a warm nose.

Izzy.

He’s had so many adventures along the way, including picking up two more co-pilots, Radar and Sophie,

Radar and Sophie. Both very good girls.

badly breaking his leg, convening with nature as a summer park attendant at a breathtaking spot in Oregon, and embarking (see what I did there, wink-wink) on a lucrative career as a dog-walker/sitter in a bigger Pac NW city. He’s met tons of his social media friends and someday, we’ll be in the same hemisphere again and I’ll be able to give him a hug – when social distancing is no longer a “thing.”

Along the way, great things happened and everyday things happened, and we benefited from his observations and the antics of daily life as a troubadour of canines (and a few cats, too) by getting to read really wonderful, descriptive, essays about “a day in the life.” We, his many friends, cheer him on and encourage him to publish these essays in the form of a book someday. He is so good and honestly, those words should be shared. He takes the good with the bad, and there have been bad times – his beloved Izzy passed away, for one – and sometimes, he has to take a break. This is where I feel him the most, because no one fades to black with as much skill as I do. Through our private conversations, I know him well, and I can almost always predict when he’s going to need to go dark for a bit. With the current reality resembling a Stephen King Novel-Meets Idiocracy right now, diving into the depths is not only expected of those of us with that dark passenger, D, but it is also feared.

So, this friend started dating a new lady before Shit got real. He had been hurt in the past. Really hurt. We (his collective of friends) had worried about him a lot, but then celebrated his new relationship because this one seemed smart, sassy, and very well-balanced. They were very happy.

New lady friended me – not sure why, except that my congratulations came with a thinly-veiled threat (If you hurt this guy, I will find you and I have a particular set of skills….) and maybe I scared the fuck out of her. I dunno, but fine, it’s fine, you want to be friends with some of his friends (I don’t actually know how many others she friended) then cool! She was fun, she could spell and make coherent sentences with her goodly words, and she clearly adored said friend – who I clearly cherish.

Pandemic hits. Relationship may be tested – she had a lot of dramatic, personal posts, interspersed with really informative, caring ones – but they do fine. She’s got kids, she’s traversing a situation in close quarters, and they are nowhere near a “moving in together” aspect of a relationship, so he sees less of her than before the Covidpocalypse. I asked him how things are; things are all good. They’re making it work. They’re happy.

Until they aren’t.

I’d noticed less from them both on the social media fronts. He and I have always shared extremely funny (to us) and sometimes not appropriate (to many others) memes with each other. Whole days would pass by where our only communication was sending each other memes

and laughing. This is the best kind of friend to have.

I felt him go dark before he announced it. I waited. No one likes to be inundated with “What’s wrong?” messages when one is in Low-Down Funky Town. You’re sad, you’ve got reasons, you love that they care, but it’s exhausting. The last thing I wanted to do to him was that which I also don’t like. And the definite last thing I wanted to do to him was question The Relationship. After all, not every, single bout of depression is triggered by relationship problems, and we all have much more prescient reasons, right now, to be depressed, anxious, and stressed.

When he announced the breakup, I was sad for him, but I also knew, by his tone, that this wasn’t like another time, when that bitch ripped his heart out of his chest, stuck it on a sharpened stick, and whipped it through the air, where it landed, with a wet thwack. This wasn’t as dire. They both seemed okay. And yes, I reserved judgment about her because hell, relationships sometimes just don’t work out even when the two people are nice and a new relationship begun just before The Time of COVID-19 could definitely be put to the test.

Things were quietly normal for a day. Then, my friend count dropped by one, and my momentary thought was “Yay! A Trump Humper bites the dust FINALLY” to “Oh no she di’int!”

Oh yes, she did.

I’ve got to say, I am a little bit offended. I mean, damn, bitch: was I not an engaging-enough friend? We shared a lot of common interests. She was funny. Had they simply just not been able to make it work, I’d have been sad for the both of them, but I’m over here in Pennsyltucky and they’re in the Pac NW so we weren’t going to have any embarrassing run-ins while out for coffee or anything like that.

Her unceremonious unfriending of me made it clear that she was either

just collecting mutual friends of his

Or

scared of my protectiveness

Or

thinking I was interested in him.

Not a single one of these reasons shed a positive light on her. In pretty much every scenario, it seems like it was a “keep your friends close, but your enemies closer” kind of thing. In any event, this isn’t junior high, I don’t want yo man, but I will beat the crap outta you if I see you in the restroom between classes because no one likes a two-face thot. Btw, I have a pretty fine husband of my own already, who totally gets my friendship with this other guy and, in fact, salutes it – because he reaps the rewards in scads of inappropriate memes.

When I informed my friend that I was down a friend, he wasn’t even slightly surprised and confessed that he wasn’t really all that upset. Apparently, she brought too much drama with her.

Dude. Same.

Notes from the Darkside; where there are Oreos, but no TP

This pandemic, y’all.

Laugh all you want at the inexplicable prospect of finding a roll of tp to purchase in your town. I know I did, last Friday, when I saw nearly bare shelves. “Do all of these people think the virus comes out of their asses?” I mused. People cling to those comforting things that they buy when there’s a snowstorm coming, or hurricane. They buy the things that have been drummed into their heads: milk, bread, toilet paper. The herd mentality is always present in times of natural disasters looming on the horizon. Is this a natural disaster, though? None of us has ever lived through an actual pandemic in this country. The last worldwide killer that affected the US in large numbers was in 1918; my long-deceased Gram was 6.

The shuttering of nonessential businesses in my state does not really affect my day-to-day life. I don’t frequent bars or go out to eat a whole lot. We do take-out or delivery, if anything. When I joke that I’m a hermit in a hobbit hole, you laugh. Don’t, because I’m actually telling the truth.

The closure of nonessential, community-based centers DOES affect me in that now, The Male Sibling Unit has nowhere to go to 1) express himself socially, and 2) get out of my hair during the week.

He cannot close himself up in his man cave like his hermitish Elder Female Sibling Unit; as much as I might crave solitude, I also recognize his need to be around someone. That someone’s going to be me.

He also does not understand the words “social distance,” “quarantine,” or “flattening the curve.” In his world, these things do not exist.  You get a cold? You (very reluctantly) take some medication and sniff, sneeze, and cough your way through the day. The Male Sibling Unit has an extremely high tolerance for pain and discomfort; I have mentioned this before. He has had

a fractured ankle

a fractured wrist

Shingles all over his torso

Pneumonia ×2

Two testicular surgeries

along with a host of childhood viruses and disease; when he got chickenpox, he was so covered in pox, my mother bound his hands with mittens and tape. He was a walking model for full-body Calamine lotion – a pink nightmare.

Every time, he has taken, at best, Tylenol. Throughout all of these maladies, the only time I have ever known he was definitely sick, it has always been 5 seconds before he’s vomited all over the toilet. My cue to shout, “GET TO THE BATHROOM!!!” is when he stands, motionless, in the hallway, whimpering forlornly/urgently.

“Uh…uh…uh…no…I-don’t-want-to”

At this utterance, I feel my blood going cold in my veins.

The Male Sibling Unit finds it inexplicable that I am insisting that he tell me if he isn’t feeling well; even just a bit warm, and tired, or a runnier nose than normal, given his seasonal allergy situation. He finds it laughable that I am urging caution, and that something “like a cold” could be dangerous. I have to describe COVID-19 this way because he cannot comprehend the intricacies of the virus. He was young when he had pneumonia; he doesn’t remember what that felt like. He fails to understand contagion, and that this new coronavirus is much more contagious than the flu.

All he understands is that he doesn’t get to see his friends. He can’t go to work. We can’t lolligag at stores, looking at things. Going out to dinner anytime soon isn’t going to happen. That it could get exponentially worse is not even something his brain can make room for. The whole world may be grinding gears and halting, and we all might be experiencing varying levels of unease, fear, uncertainty, and stress, but for him, this means fuck-all. His WORLD has changed drastically. And he is not going peacefully.

I’ve spent the evening, once again – for what seems like the thousandth time – trying to explain things to him. The call from his rehabilitation center, where he works, was expected after the Governor announced stricter measures to flatten the curve. It didn’t lessen the blow; when I told him, his face just fell. He asked, in a little boy voice, “Why?”

He has asked at least a dozen times since. He has raged, talking to himself and saying, “FUCK the virus.” He’s made pointedly miffed Facebook posts, his displeasure on full display. He waited until the husband left for work to begin needling me; he knows that if he blows my cool and I erupt, his brother-in-law will be all up in his bidness.

“When will I go back?”

“Why did that Governor do this?”

‘When will I see my friends?”

“Why can’t I go out?”

“What do you mean, no Mexican next week?”

“But I’m not sick.”

“Fuck this.”

“I’m pissed off.”

“When will I go back?”

If this continues as long as experts are warning, I may not make it. I won’t be a COVID-19 victim; I will have a stroke.

I wonder when I should sit him down and explain exactly what it was like to watch our mother die, swiftly (for us) but agonizingly slowly (for her) of pneumonia. I wonder if I could then apply that scenario to his girlfriend, who is 63 and has advancing COPD. Would that be too traumatic?

Sometimes, shock and awe is all that works. It may be all that stands between my sanity and simply acquiescing to his maddening questions and incessant prodding.

By the way, watching someone die of pneumonia sucks. Being told their brain has died, along with their kidneys, their digestive system, and their respiratory system, is horrifying. Knowing that their heart is choking, gasping, and wheezing as it attempts to pump blood to organs that lay, deceased, on the open plain of their body’s hemispheres is actually heartbreaking to ponder. Having to make the decision to shut off the respirator and other machines is surreal.

Now, imagine having to do that all because someone decided this social distancing was hyped, people are overreacting, it’s “not as bad as it sounds”, it’s “just a cold,” or the worst: “a hoax.” They thought one, some, or all of these things and then in turn infected your loved one, who is elderly or immunodeficient. They did this because COVID-19 inconvenienced them.

I get that the future seems uncertain. I know that people are frightened. Will we be able to work? To pay our bills? Will someone we know get sick? Will we get sick? I know that we all cling to the things we know: familiarity and routine; routine being probably the most important thing. Right now, a virus has forced us to reconsider those routines, and nothing looks familiar. We’re watching our own lives unfold like an apolcalyptic thriller. This month was written by Stephen King.

If you’re refusing to see the danger of a virus that is, at the moment, defying assumptions, I think maybe I should sit down with you and describe what my mother’s death looked like, and how it broke me in small increments until I was in pieces. I’m still gluing them back together.

In the meantime, wash your fucking hands, order a pizza from a small business, and cue up Netflix. It’s going to be a looooong, hot summer.

Oh, and….Happy St. Paddy’s Day! Drink a pint or twelve. It won’t stop the virus from marching on, but at least you’ll be shitfaced for a day. My people have elevated suffering to an artform. ☘

We don’t need another hero. We need a woman.

When I was a little girl, I wasn’t raised with the idea that I could be anything I wanted to be. One might be shocked at that, really; my family was stocked with really strong, opinionated women who were quite comfortable telling men to fuck right the fuck off. My great-grandmother ruled with a benevolent, iron fist that would pull you into her arms for a loving embrace even as she was ordering you to go outside and cut yourself a switch. She was truly the head of the family, and her children – 4 sons and 6 daughters – idolized and followed her every word and deed.

My grandmother was a much freer-minded spirit than her mother, but she proved, again and again, that men were a luxury to her – not a necessity. When my grandfather established the pattern of an Irish drunk who had numerous talents, but who could not hold a job long enough to provide a stable life for his wife and children, she took matters into her own hands. I mean this literally. She knocked the crap out of him, beating him about the head and shoulders with a stilleto heel while he lay, passed out. He awoke the next morning, hung over and bruised, thinking he’d had a fall.

She took jobs housekeeping, and when the final straw came – he went to the bars on a Friday after work and spent an entire paycheck on booze, staggering up the hill on Sunday afternoon with naught but lint in his pockets – she sent him away, chasing him down Hillside Avenue, a butcher knife in her hand. Had she caught him, who knows if I’d even be here today. She then moved in temporarily with that mother who gave her that strong countenance, and took a fulltime job. She divorced my grandfather. This led to a much higher-paying job, and when she took a chance and married another man who proved to not be up to the task of providing, and who committed the cardinal sin of disrespecting her children, all bets were off. She lived, happily single, for the rest of her life. Oh, she dated, a lot, and a couple of guys were fortunate enough to meet her exacting standards and were permitted to stick around for long periods of time. One, I even knew as “Grandpa Mick.” The point was, she never needed a man to fulfill her; they were simply an option.

My mother – her daughter – was as tough as her, but I think she craved a different kind of happy ending in the beginning. She had a father she adored, and visited, and I think she thought that having the husband, the kids, the house, and the picket fence was the ultimate win. She saw her friends doing it and dreamed of such a life, too. She also dreamed of travel, and independence. She wanted to be an airline stewardess, but lacked the willpower to lose weight. She was never quite able to disentangle herself from my grandmother’s apron strings, though, and so they were kind of a package deal.

My uncle noped it the fuck out of town as soon as he was 18, joining the military and going to college, but my mom never seemed to be able to envision a life without her mom in the picture. She also possessed a nasty temper, as fiery as Grandma’s, and a vicious, rapier-tongued attitude. She lost a lot of jobs because, when some man would tell her what to do, she’d be just as likely to tell him to shove it up his ass as she would be to follow directions. She liked to drink, too, and this led to bars, and an eventual meeting with a smooth-tongued asshole who she thought she could tame. That he was already married wasn’t important. She wanted what she wanted, and when she got the kids, but no husband, house, or picket fence, she was sufficiently put off men as necessities – for good.

No, I was not taught that I could be whatever the hell I wanted. I was taught that I didn’t need no man. Men were, at best, luxuries. At worst, they were a nuisance. A man would try to control you. A man would hold you back from the things you loved. A man would lie. A man thought only of himself. Men were optional in one’s life, and the minute they overstayed their welcome, there’d be the trouble of getting them to go, and who the hell needed that headache? It was better to just forget they existed.

I weighed this advice carefully, but with suspicion. My aunts – my mother’s closest friends who were not related by blood but who I referred to as aunts – had husbands. Their husbands, my uncles, were nice guys who provided well for their families. They were great daddies, as far as I knew. They were funny and kind and honorable. My great-uncles were, too, even if they were old guys. They had all made really wonderful, successful lives. All of my great-aunts had careers, too – in independent, small business; in farming; in office administration. These couples seemed to complement each other inasmuch as being partners in marriage.

While I never said it out loud, privately, I held onto the thought that my grandmother and my mother tried to instill the belief that all men were shit into my psyche because they hadn’t met the right men. I wasn’t going to be like that. I’d be smarter, meet a good guy, like my uncles, and he would respect me.

Uh, yeah.

Okay, it took a while, and my first choice was made hastily, out of a desire to escape being stuck, like my mother had been. It was made because no one had ever said they loved me with the fervent conviction that he did, and I needed that. (Girls, if he says he loves you 5 days in, please take it with a grain of salt until a lot of time has passed and you’ve fully vetted him. I sure as hell wouldn’t have believed him today.) That choice was certainly a Big Fucking Mistake, but I scored five huge prizes, so it wasn’t for nothing. I’ve made massive corrections in that thinking, and chose more wisely the second time. No, I don’t need no man, but the one I have, I truly want.

That was as far as my female predecessors got in teaching me women’s rights. I grew up knowing I wanted to “do” something; something that included writing. I did not believe that I wanted to shatter glass ceilings and charge at the head of a pack and to lead. I’ve learned, along the way, that I am a natural-born leader who prefers to go it alone if given the choice. I’ve broken a couple of plexiglass panels, I suppose; but I definitely have no desire to aim for the sky above.

I did not -for instance – dream of being President of the United States. I admire those who did, and who do. That kind of single-minded ascension does not appeal to me. I am good – great, actually- in a crisis. You want me there if you need triage or a quick assessment. I’m as apt to do as I am to issue quick orders, because I’m impatient and convinced that, while I think you could do a good job, I can do the thing the way it needs to be done. Nope, I would not be a good President, because politics is filled to the brim with acts of diplomacy and the delegating of tasks. I’m too much of a lone wolf, and I know that would be a recipe for disaster.

We are living in a reality TV shitshow. The entire planet is suffering an existential crisis of common sense, kindness, and community. Calmer heads are not prevailing, and the only credentials one seems to need in order to run a country is that they’re louder than the loudest person in the room. (And more orange, but I digress.) There’s a novel virus tearing ass through all of the countries, and glaciers are melting; kids are eating laundry soap pods and yeeting themselves out into traffic. We are arguing about how we all deserve a piece of the pie but that we don’t want to pay the wages to get it. People in this country are dying because yes, they have insurance and yes, they do work fulltime, but they’ve been diagnosed with MS and the copay for a series of shots as treament is over $100,000. Yes, you read that right – I have facts to back that up. Insulin is unaffordable. Life-sustaining drugs and healthcare are unaffordable in this country for most.

Going to college means taking on debt in your first semester and not being able to pay it off until it’s time for your kids to start college. You have to be situationally aware everywhere you go, because somewhere, there’s a mentally unstable person, off his meds and growing increasingly paranoid, who may decide that the day you chose to go get groceries was the day he was going to shoot up the store; that is, after he posted his manifesto on 4chan.

Your kids are being taught by teachers who qualify for food stamps, have to work second and third jobs, and who buy a lot of the school supplies your kids use themselves because the school district’s budget doesn’t include funding for pencils, erasers, and yes, even paper. And let’s not even get started on kids in cages and robbing Peter (The Pentagon) to pay Paul (The Wall).

Meanwhile, your President plays his 238,004th round of golf on your dime, tweets reflexively and compulsively, and undermines the authority of every organization on the planet. He’s a fucking imbecile, but he does this with aplomb.

These are just some of the problems our country faces, deals with, and wades into. We, the people, face these realities every day. “It all needs fixed,” we say, “but what do we do?”

Elizabeth Warren had a plan for it all.

Elizabeth thought through all of these problems and wrote down her thoughts. She methodically consulted with experts and asked constituents what they thought. She weighed pros and cons and ins and outs and ups and downs. Then, she came up with plans. No, they weren’t perfect, but they were smart, and allowed for a fostering of ideas and a coming together of like minds. It would be hard, and dirty, and decidedly not pretty, but she rolled up her sleeves and beckoned to us, “Let’s go DO THIS.”

We let her down. In refusing to get behind her and to make her our candidate to defeat the Orange McMenace, we essentially said, a-fucking-gain, “A woman cannot lead.We let so many down, from the first woman who said, “No, you may not disrespect me simply because I’m a woman” to the Suffragettes, to every woman who burned her bra or walked into a roomful of men and explained her ideas. We let down the female warriors of the past and present: Harriet Tubman, Eleanor Roosevelt, Sojourner Truth, Susan B. Anthony, Rosa Parks, Clara Barton, Abigail Adams, Amelia Earhart, Helen Keller, Gloria Steinam, Louisa May Alcott, Maya Angelou, Elizabeth Cady Stanton, Sandra Day O’Connor, Sally Ride, Sacajawea, and Oprah. We let down Oprah, y’all.

We let down RBG; RBG, who famously said “I ask no favor for my sex. All I ask of our brethren is that they take their feet off our necks.”

Mostly, in continuing to allow old, white men to advance in a world that is so 🅒🅞🅛🅞🅢🅢🅐🅛🅛🅨 🅕🅤🅑🅐🅡🅔🅓 that it doesn’t even resemble itself anymore, we let down ourselves.

This cocked-up mess desperately needs a woman to fix it. It needs her to inject new life into old attitudes and mores that have become stagnant. It needs her to find all the misplaced things the men can’t find – values, decency, empathy, patriotism, truth, and fundamental good – that are hiding in plain sight, like the car keys/his glasses/his phone. We’ve been doing that for millenia. We’re doing it now. We’re the “fixers”; the doers, the nurturers, and the no-nonsence pragmatists. We need COMPETENCE. And Elizabeth Warren is the epitomy of that. She is nothing if not credentialed to the max; she is unapologetically exemplary.

Yes, Elizabeth had a plan for it all, and yet here we are, facing a choice between Statler and Waldorf to overcome the old, demented, but eminently dangerous self-tanning nightmare currently inhabiting the Oval Office.

We deserve everything we get.