We got our dog a pet bunny. Not on purpose. It was very much an accident. Still, that’s what happened, and now here we are.
This is my lap at home.
ALL THE TIME.
Someone please bring me coffee and a bedpan. I’m not moving anytime soon.
So what happened, you ask? Fine; I shall tell you. Here’s the long version.
My kid has a friend, and the friend’s name is Rowan. ...
I met a man at 8:27am on Friday — let’s call him Rick — at a hospital where I’d dropped off my sister-in-law for an appointment. I was in the lobby waiting for her and considering the two-story glass and steel flower sculpture suspended from the dome in the ceiling — and, because there’s nothing like an anxiety/depressive disorder to steal joy, wondering how wise such a spectacular, delicate piece will seem after Cascadia, the Grand Earthquake tasked with killing us all, shakes it from its mooring — when Rick appeared on a cell phone call with his adult daughter. ...
Hey! Remember when I posted last in our questionable series wherein I duplicate my college daughter’s bikini-laden Instagram feed? Me, too. It was last May, and I promised more soon, bless my heart and good intentions. Now it’s February, which is to say, I’m not a full year behind yet. And, since I’m usually WAY more behind than that, I am officially AHEAD when compared to myself. So GOOD JOB, Me! #NoShame ...
New Plan: When things become undoable, we shall henceforth use this phrase…
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Last night, I was texting with my friend Heidi. She may or may not have had a few blackberry lemon drops from The Grain Station in McMinnville, Oregon, where the Very Best blackberry lemon drops are made, and I may or may not have been bored out of my mind at a college basketball game where I really just went to watch my daughter’s dance team perform. ...
I would like a massage, please. The hot rock kind even though I’ve never had it. I feel like hot rocks might push through the muscle tension keeping me wired like a preteen at a sleepover. Also, I’d like my hot rock massage to be on the cliff of a tropical island, inside a gazebo with loose, gauzy curtains rippling with the warm breeze. There shall be butterflies drunkenly making their way through the usual air mazes invisible to human eyes, and no flies or fleas or stinging bugs. ...
The life, words, and example of Martin Luther King, Jr. matter, and, not unlike Jesus Christ, not a diminished, sanitized, coopted version, either. MLK was a visionary, a revolutionary, a justice-monger, and a pot-stirrer. He sided with people who were powerless, poor, disenfranchised, and marginalized. He was mocked, criticized, and, ultimately, violently slaughtered. It’s popular and pretty to share our favorite quotes by MLK, Jr. in January every year. It’s not very popular to recognize, as a white person, my culpability in supporting the racial power paradigm that persists in America. The truth is sickening and uncomfortable, but it’s the truth nevertheless: if I’m not standing up for justice today, I would not have stood up for justice then. If I’m not marching now, I would not have marched then. If I’m not making the complacent and corrupt in power uncomfortable— and afraid that I will fight tooth and nail with increasing masses to unseat them— then I’m following neither MLK’s example, nor Christ’s. ...
Sometimes I run away to escape my family and write, write, write. Tonight is one of those nights, so here I sit at one of my favorite local spots — reopened after a fire — drinking an IPA, which I’ve recently come to enjoy because, I assume, 2016-Present has numbed me to bitterness and I can swallow more than I did before.
The folks next to me at the bar are talking about the Sicilian mafia, how many bottles of wine fit in the sink of an RV (consensus = five), and their abiding desire for more bread, and I’m trying to decide what point is appropriate to introduce myself as their new best friend. Meanwhile, the bartender is alternating between describing ube, a purple yam from Southeast Asia, and decrying the state of the beer taps which are too full of air and dispensing too much foam this evening. I want to be all, “THE BEER IS DOING THE BEST IT CAN, MAN. LET’S GIVE IT SOME CREDIT FOR TRYING IN THE MIDST OF CHALLENGING TIMES,” but I might be projecting the tiniest bit, so I decided to leave the bartender alone. ...
