Off With His Head (A Change of Life Story)

The Hub used my bath towel again. I have told him 50-11 times that I don't like that, each and every time after he claims to have "forgotten" that I don't like it because I have observed that he's used my towel. So I snapped, and that's why he's walking around without a head your Honor.

Disclaimer: No husbands were harmed by the writing of this piece (not yet), but the next time he uses my towel...so help me!

On Sunday morning, the Kid had to be at church early, so the Hub made her breakfast and left the kitchen a grease-spattered un-wiped wreck because he wanted to make sure that she arrived on time. He made himself coffee in the French press, left out the agave sweetener that only he uses, and didn't throw out his eggshells from the breakfast he made himself that he left in the sink. I'm sure he pissed me off in a number of other ways, but it doesn't matter because he'll play dumb and accuse me of nagging. And if I grumble to any of my so-called girlfriends (all of whom have come to his defense for the past 23+ years), they will excuse his bad habits because none of them live with his messy azz! That's part of the reason why I need to tell my side of the story so that everyone knows how to react when they cart me away for accidentally/on purpose taking off his head.

For the last year, I have not been my normal self. I haven't become some other woman; I've just decided that I have had enough of the bullshit I've been putting up with to keep the peace. I'm done letting it slide and quietly tolerating what might be classified as the "small stuff". All of the isht that has always irritated me that I have chosen not to mention is now fair game for a knock-down, drag-out fight because dangnabit, at your big age you should know how to fold a paper bag since the folds are literally imprinted on the gotdamned bag! This ain't origami, so what the hell?

Since the piece I started to write for my 50th birthday that declared how I would approach life after the half century point is buried under a year and a half of other drafts, and distraction has become my constant companion on the road of good intentions, let me cut to the point--perimenopause. I have no idea where I am in the process, but the change is a-coming and I am not happy. I already expressed my feelings about that here, but I feel the need to really unload because I get crankier and less tolerant by the day. We are only a week into the 2025 hurricane season, and though there is no chance that a storm will officially bear my name (because of biases against ethnic names, no doubt) it's just as well. As long as this category 1 Hurricane Ayanna doesn't destroy too much property, you might survive, but you still need to be prepared. Because if things continue on present trajectories and gain more strength, my warning is for these meaux faux to evacuate or hunker down.

I am not playing.

And because God is a woman with a wicked sense of irony, puberty is also forming a tropical depression to cause her own wave of destruction and nonsense. This girl-child of mine is nearly as tall as my 5'10" self and wears a woman's size 6.5 shoe! Y'all already know that she's only just 10 years old, so how much more growth do you expect from this particular spurt before she's wearing my clothes? She still believes in the Tooth Fairy and Santa Claus...

Before you judge me, judge yo' mamma! Because as long as my Kid is repulsed by the kissing scenes in the live action versions of Beauty and the Beast (2017) and The Little Mermaid (2023), yes, she absolutely can still believe in whatever imaginary friends and fairy dust magic that exists in the world. Borrowing the title from one of my generation's coming-of-age movies, reality bites. So don't spoil anything unless you're a man with six fingers preparing to die.

I said what I said.

I don't know if I get any sleep because I am always tired. That could be the rainy weather, but my knee isn't aching. I'm craving salty foods, but also chocolate. I need to go grocery shopping, and I made a list, but I know I am forgetting something that I want and probably need but won't remember until after I'm in the self check-out line with my 20 plus 2-4 extra items and I can't remember which phone number might be in the system for the discounts. At least I always remember to bring my reusable bags, because as much as I resent bagging my own groceries, the cashiers won't use my bags, and I hate having to pay .05¢ each for the plastic bags they will use. It's like asking me to tip the hostess at the restaurant for pronouncing my name correctly as she hands over my takeout order that I am picking up myself. I always add the tip though, because I don't want to be thought of as cheap (but just know that I don't appreciate feeling guilty).

Yeah, I hate a lot more things now. I hate that all of these plastic bags kill aquatic animals and cause unsightly litter. I hate how bike lanes have increased my commute time between points A and B by at least 10 extra minutes and how no one ever uses them! I get stuck driving behind some dude casually joy-riding an electric scooter when I'm trying to get somewhere. Like seriously, walk or take the damn bus! You look like an overgrown child--scooters are for kids to ride on the sidewalk while their parents walk them to school.

Stuff that I used to find mildly annoying or inconvenient, I hate. Like commercials. I'm trying to understand why every other commercial is for weight loss drugs or these obscure conditions that no one I know has ever been diagnosed with, like the treatment for eyelash mites. Why does that need its own ad campaign? Are y'all just making up ailments in anticipation of some massive outbreak of dust? And look, I'm definitely not against more advanced treatments for diabetes that have the beneficial side effect of aiding weight loss. I'm just wondering why all of those commercials look like those Carnival Cruise Ship promotions with Richard Simmons. Or when the marketplace for car insurance got so competitive.

Speaking of, you wanna know what commercials really annoy me more than anything? Those radio ads for Top Dog Law. They are inescapable if you listen to urban radio anywhere on the East Coast (apparently, they are all produced by this guy). First of all, does Mr. Top Dog, Esq. have a real name? And if he is licensed in several states, he's not going to represent you both in Richmond and Philly. You're getting one of his Scrappy Doo associates, and they're going to take a third of your settlement to pay for more of those annoying commercials. 

I almost forgot what I was here to complain about--that I am surrounded by eediots who do things to annoy me and act shocked when I get mad about it. Like dude, do you know how to turn off any lights when you leave a room? Nobody shits roses, so use the Lysol and close the bathroom door! If you aren't losing your hearing, why is the TV up on sonic blast levels? Little precocious child, why are you playing in my expensive skin care products? This is not Dexter's Laboratory and you are not getting extra credit for these ridiculous science experiments. Do you people think I live only to clean up after you?

As I try to accept the things I cannot change, and given that menopause is inevitable, I feel like it should have come with better warnings. All we were told during middle school health class was that our periods would stop, but there was a LOT of other information that was withheld, and I demand to know why! Why not offer us another updated health class at 40 since we now know that our mothers didn't tell us anything. There's a long list of things they didn't warn us about us about but let me stay focused...the point is that it ought to be mandatory that we get some coming-of-age movie that explains what the hell is going on because Steel Magnolias (1989) barely scratches the surface.

I hate feeling blind-sided.

I hate that every attempt to address menopause in pop culture leaves out all of the real scary shit like heart palpitations, facial hair, and the litany of chronic health issues that all have the same symptoms. That one episode of The Golden Girls where Blanche thought she was pregnant only addressed her one missed period, yet no one ever mentions about how misleading that was? She got a definitive answer from a gynecologist after one visit, then continued to have the same libido for the next five seasons? In a house with three women in their 50s living in Miami, did I miss the episode when they compared the severity of their hot flashes? What the heck did they discuss every week over cheesecake???

To be fair, the show actually did address some of the various health issues that accompany menopause, they just didn't make it obvious. At least now I understand why Dorothy was in a perpetually bad mood. The Cosby Show also addressed the issue outright once, and a few other times as well, but we weren't paying close enough attention. Now seen from the perspective of a 50-something year old woman, the anger Clair unleashed in that Wretched episode was about more than Vanessa's stupidity and getting entangled in her lies. However, the most accurate depiction of what life has become is the episode when Clair comes home exhausted from work and after the family gets on her last nerve, she goes off to some cabin in the woods where she is met with more chaos and calamity. If I were writing that episode today, it wouldn't have mattered if she had retreated to that cabin or a 5-star hotel in Manhattan...the punchline would have been that she never went back home.

I am serious.

There is one Law & Order episode that mentioned more symptoms and ways of coping, but it did so by leaning into many of the stereotypes society has of powerful women. In essence, if nothing else can knock a bitch down, menopause surely will. And I hate that, because all it did was cement a litany of tropes that demonize women for not always being sweet and lovable. As if some of you aren't the most self-centered, inconsiderate, and helpless bunch of babies who can't handle simple dilemmas, like where you left your stuff that you need right now so I have to stop whatever else I am doing to find it for you or else your life is over. Yeah, it's definitely my hormones that are causing all of my irritation...

I'm not advocating or justifying violence; I'm just not ruling it out. Because now I empathize with the women in fairy tales who got fed up with those trespassing children eating the candy off their houses. Where is all the righteous disgust for their cowardly Daddy who abandoned them in the woods? (Don't even get me started on how whack the full story is or how the Brothers Grimm obviously hated women.) If you saw Wicked, then you should be reconsidering whether the real villain in Oz was the woman who lost her beloved sister and her magic designer shoes in a freak accident involving a falling house. Because if you recoil at the sight of the lady with the green skin instead of being disturbed by the lies of the con man game show grifter and the bubblegum fairy who pulls the levers of chaos behind the scenes, you've missed my entire point.

All I know is if the Hub uses my towel one more time, Imma go Red Queen on him and I don't want to hear nothing other than plans to help me hide the evidence or reassurance that you've got enough money to pay for my defense. And for the love of all humanity, it better not be that Top Dog Law dude.

Mother of the Dance

Last July, I received a phone call that quite literally took my breath away. It came amidst a period of upheaval and chaos, not personal but national--it was the Monday of that same week that would upend the Presidential election. Imagine me thinking that the worst thing that could possibly happen in a year was the death of my Mom. Sadly, one of the ironies of life is it's hold my beer or glass of sweet white wine¹ way of reminding us that things can always get worse. So, I instinctively dreaded that when I got a call from an old friend (her daughter-in-law) in the middle of the afternoon, the reason why she was calling was not just to check in. It was to inform me that my long-time dance teacher, Mrs. Rosetta A. Brooks (Mrs. B) had passed unexpectedly.

I had intended to publish this tribute back in September. I wrote a version of the second half (after the jump) in August and had hoped to have it read at her memorial service. But for a variety of reasons, things didn't work out, so Plan B was to post it here right before the implosion of the election. Then came the holidays, more distractions, and the realization that maybe it isn't my imagination that I'm finding it a lot harder to focus or finish anything lately.

Instead of lamenting that particular downside of aging, I figured that at the right time I would eventually make my way back to finishing what I started. Eight months later, we were driving back from New Jersey and while listening to a late afternoon gospel music program out of Baltimore, I heard a song² that I thought I knew but couldn't place how or why. Normally, that kind of disconnect would have caused me to fixate until solving the riddle; however, by the second verse I recognized it as part of a suite of familiar dance pieces. 

According to the calendar, it has been a year since the last time I saw Mrs. B at my daughter's dance recital, June 1, 2024. Each week, I sit in my car not far from the very spot where we had our last conversation. To think that interaction almost did not happen...but God. In a seemingly random series of ways, everything divinely aligned. Instead of leaving immediately after the show, I had my daughter pose for pictures in both of her costumes, which took time. I'm sure that I got to chatting with some folks whom I hadn't seen in a while as that is the nature of these kinds of event. When I made it outside, I saw my Dad's priest wandering past, so I stopped to talk with him. Then finally, on my way to my car, I saw Mrs. B slowly trudging her way across the courtyard to her car. Although I was used to seeing her walk with a cane, she seemed to be moving a lot more cautiously, almost dragging her body alongside a much taller walking stick that was twice her height. As always, she was toting more than one bag including one that held several bouquets of flowers she had received in honor of her being named director emerita of the studio.

My daughter had given her one of those bouquets, which turned out to be another one of those random impulses that God must have whispered into my spirit. I had dropped the Kid off to get ready for the show, and with a little time to fill before it began, I made a quick side trip to Trader Joe's to buy wine and flowers. I snapped up a few bouquets for my dancer, her teachers, and since I knew that Mrs. B was expected to attend, I grabbed one for her as well. Until the previous October, she had been one of the Kid's teachers too. 

Until that previous October, it would have been inconceivable to think of St. Mark's Dance Studio and not have a simultaneous thought or memory of the ubiquitous Rosie Brooks. The very suggestion of her retiring was taboo, even if she was the person floating that trial balloon. Thus, when she had to take medical leave unexpectedly, we all hoped it would be temporary. In 40 years, I had never known her to get sick or injured enough to miss teaching classes. Paradoxically, it should have occurred to me that if she needed to take a medical leave of absence, then whatever the cause was a lot more serious than we wanted to believe. Therefore, I never imagined that our catch-up in the parking lot that day would be our last. Or that as we chatted about my Mom and she reassured me that I should take all of the time I needed to grieve, I would need to apply that same advice to my feelings about losing her.

In life, we aren't always given opportunities to let our loved ones know how much they mean to us. Sure, we have special holidays, formal observances, greeting cards, etc., but transitions don't tend to coincide with those moments. We become aware in hindsight or once we've missed the moment and promised to do better the next time. What happens if there is no next time? How to cope with the reality that you didn't make good on that promise to stop by one afternoon while she was teaching? Nor get to drop in to take a class for the first time since the pandemic? Nor just come to sit and chat like we used to in that big gap of time she had midday before her afternoon classes? How do you accept that you really never told her how much she meant to you because you had all of these ideas about how that should be communicated in some grand fashion, but she died before you got to formalize the proposal, let alone implement any plans?

Maybe that's why the church folks always tell us that we have to give people their flowers when they are able to smell them. Because six weeks later, I got that phone call and that meant I would not get to make good on any of my promises to visit. Instead of the retirement celebration I had envisioned to include testimonials and revival performances of some of her classic pieces, there was a memorial service. 

That I had to watch online from the road because of a scheduling conflict...

Presuming that eight months of procrastination can indeed be blamed on brain fog and aging, it could also be that I felt a bit ashamed and a heap of guilt that this would be the only way I would ever get to express any appreciation for this relationship that spanned 40 years. Had I known that I wouldn't get another chance to do anything meaningful, what more could I possibly have said in that parking lot? Thank you? For not dismissing me as some gangly limbed freak when I showed up to start ballet classes at the ripe old age of 10? Thank you for seeing whatever it was you saw in me that kept me dancing all of those years. Thank you for being tough and honest and pushy because I needed to be challenged, disciplined, and encouraged. Thank you for loving my daughter. Thank you for being more than a dance teacher because you were also a confidant, a mentor, a life coach, and most of all, a friend.

It hasn't taken me all this time just to say thanks. It has taken me almost a year to confront my guilt and release my regrets for not being able to show up as I would have wanted. If writing this was the least I could do, then leaving it unfinished to languish in the drafts has been the worst. So it was not mere happenstance that something as subtle as a song inspired me to return to this piece. It was a nudge and a reminder that this was never supposed to be about me...but about her. 

A year ago, some of her former students, my daughter among them, got to dance for her. Instead of being worried about the behind-the-scenes technical stuff, Mrs. B got to sit and watch the show. For all I know, this might have been the first time in 40 years that she wasn't running everything. In that unscripted, serendipitous encounter in the parking lot, she praised how well everything had been managed in her absence. It must have filled Mrs. B with pride upon seeing what she had built, with confidence that we could carry on, and with reassurance that she had trained us so well. In essence, she had received something far more substantial than bunches of grocery store flowers--she got to bear witness to all she had done at and for SMDS all these years. Assurance that her legacy would endure and flourish is the kind of gratification that is priceless and beautiful beyond words. 

My daughter in costume from
Mrs. B's recital piece in 2023

The next part is what I wrote for the memorial service on behalf of the disbanded dance company/former students/current parents, but for the sake of expediency in the planning process, it got dropped from the program. Then because I couldn't be there in person, it seemed appropriate to convert my remembrance into a reflection to be read privately by her family. However, there was no way I could allow 800 words to suffice as my final farewell given the nature of our 40-year relationship. The version published after the jump is longer than what was submitted to the family...one of the perks/pitfalls of editing my own blog. 

 -- ADH

Re-Markle-Bull $#*!

This is a post that I started over a month ago, but got distracted by life so it didn't finish in the intended time frame. The recent verdict that went against Prince Harry and this subsequent statement issued by his office, along with a few other developments with the Royal Family convinced me to revisit and finally publish this piece. 

I haven't written about Meghan Markle in a minute. I was content to let that woman live her best life in peace because other than a few concert sightings and public appearances at the Invictus Games with her Prince, she wasn't doing anything to draw unnecessary attention to herself. That includes starring in a new show on Netflix that premiered in March. I was all set to ignore it until y'all started complaining.

So I accept the challenge, because dagnabbit, I need to know why y'all can't leave well enough alone! Then I realized that since January and the return of the Troll King, there haven't been any Black women in the public eye other than Rep. Jasmine Crockett to draw your ire, so it looks like Duchess Meghan is the volunteer tribute...

Y'all are upset that she has a job? 

Or is it that she's getting paid to do what so many of us do every day for free, and that just doesn't seem right because she's a princess...duchess...still married to a Royal? Because stay at homemaking has always been a thankless, under-appreciated form of devalued labor; however, now that affluent women are embracing it as a form of "soft living" they can brag about, it has become a glamorous trend that they get paid for...

For the sake of argument, yes, it is crazy once you realize that an actual princess is being paid big money to appear to be happily doing the kind of work she could have had servants perform. Isn't the dream of becoming a princess to have somebody else do all of your chores? Alas, she left that life behind in merry olde England, so instead of having servants, here in America she has staff and their job is to make it look like she enjoys doing all of her own cooking and bee-keeping. It's like code-switching accents: potāyto-potăhto...

When you really think about it, her show is just another celebrity cooking show. Singer Trisha Yearwood had a show for 16 seasons as did actress Valerie Bertinelli for 14 seasons. Other celebrities who had shorter runs include Tia Mowry, Haylie Duff, Tiffani Theissen, and Rev. Run (of Run DMC). Heck, not too long ago, Snoop Dogg and Martha Stewart hosted a potluck dinner party show on Vh1. Other than being shocked that Snoop and Martha weren't pranking us, I don't recall any of those other efforts getting this much negative attention. Therefore, if you were ever bored/sick/curious enough to watch any of those other shows, then it doesn't make sense to dissect Markle's show for its lack of authenticity, unless you're a bona fide hater. 

On a whim, I googled Gwyneth Paltrow because I couldn't remember if the name of her lifestyle website, Goop, was the same as the skincare company, and yes the same entity. I guess others responded to a similar vibe because the comparison searches popped up immediately. Only, I was initially looking for that infamous vagina candle to point out how celebrities are always selling unattainable lifestyle "luxury" items, such as handbags, jewelry, and other symbols of conspicuous consumption. Look at any glossy magazine photo spread to see what I mean (e.g. Paltrow featured throughout this Vanity Fair piece). I was amazed to learn that not only have y'all been actively comparing these two women, but Lady Gwyneth Kate Paltrow was declared more relatable?!

Can we take a moment (but not ten minutes like this video I watched, so you needn't bother), to state for the record that someone actually posted on Blue Ivy's internet that Lady Gwyneth Kate Paltrow, in her wrinkled Ralph Lauren jammies baking $14 biscuits in her "own" kitchen sans makeup a few doors down from Meghan in the hills of Montecito was throwing shade?! If you sat through any of that in spite being forewarned (and to be honest, I clocked out at 5 mins), then you, like me, are at a loss in understanding this irrational hate for the Duchess. Because it is literally the same, bland, let them eat scones with expensive pots of jam (beginning at :33) schtick!

Her haters really want us to believe that Markle is some massive phony and a failure, so that leaves me wondering who bought up every pot of jam on her website last month? IDK, what do you call people who will probably plan an entire garden tea party in a few weeks just so that they can show and tell you all about the keepsake packaging that came with their runny fruit spread?

What does it say about the people who have time to hate-watch and comment on every move this Meghan makes but have no smoke for the other infamous Megs...like the one who capitalizes on her Daddy's name and reputation or the former journalist who once claimed Jesus is white and Santa too. There's Meghan Trainor who used to sing about her booty, but now that she's lost all of that baby phat, she's selling laundry detergent. There are other Megans/Meagans and so many other more pressing issues to complain about, so many injustices that should have us in these streets...

But y'all would rather take time to rail against somebody who isn't destroying the world with every stroke of her pen. She's not doing anything different than the rest of us in sharing photos of her family or of herself on IG. She's spreading sunshine and joy, sprinkling edible flowers and hanging out with her celebrity BFFs...so what is the deal?

Like WTF, Bethenny Frankel (whose video I juxtaposed on the FB page with Kamie Crawford's, formerly of MTV's Catfish a few weeks ago)! What's with the green-eyed envy? You do realize how petty and bitter you seem with your constant snipping and sniping at Markle? Rich coming from someone who rose to fame on other people's coattails--first, as a reality show runner-up and then as the unmarried wannabe on a show about NY society housewives. You had your shot, made millions selling watered-down cocktails, but now you have the nerve to opine and stew in your feelings about someone else's life? If you want a Netflix show, get a better agent!

A few weeks back when it was announced that the Duchess would get a second season to regale us with more bread baking and butter churning, I saw an avalanche of reactions, most along the themes highlighted in this article that panned the show and offered up a bunch of reasons why she's so polarizing. Perhaps it is as simple as people not liking her, which is how it goes sometimes--she's not everybody's spot of tea. My problem with these formal pronouncements is that we're constantly being told how unlikeable she is by people who are paid to write negatively about her, and that stacks the deck. It isn't my imagination that every critic writing for The Hollywood Reporter, the New York Post, Screen Rant, and Variety had the exact same reaction.

Doesn't it seem rather coincidental that there are anti-Meghan stories pumped out by the tabloids at the same time there are waves of stories written in support of various members of the British Royal family? Like Queen Camilla deciding to repurpose her wedding suit on an official state visit...it is newsworthy and laudable for the Queen Consort to repeat a 20-year old outfit, giving the impression of being budget-conscious (for once, the Frugal Queen). How about those adorable official birthday portraits being released to celebrate the Wales' spares Prince Louis and Princess Charlotte (better enjoy all of that positive attention now kids). With all of their good news and noble deeds, why was it necessary to pan the roll out of the Duchess' product line in the Daily Mail, The Sun, and the NY Post unless the entire goal was to undermine her efforts?

Furthermore, whenever someone suggests that there is something more sinister behind the immense hatred aimed at the Duchess, we're accused of being woke or ultra-sensitive. Awake to the double-standards or ultra-sensitive because we recognize the abusive cycle of seeing Black women getting built up and then strategically and methodically torn down as some kind of perverse entertainment? The Duchess is hardly the first Black woman to face this; some of her best friends, supporters, and peers have braved the same firing squad of shifting public opinion. Right now, some of y'all are Red-State mad on Blue Ivy's internet that her Momma has the audacity to insist that Black Southern culture is a thing, and not just the fear and complacency y'all would prefer people to believe. 

So let's take a moment to address the irony of this backlash to a Black woman occupying a space to which we were once relegated--why is it so hard to accept the notion of an accomplished Black woman knowing her way around the kitchen? Is it more offensive that she does so while dressed in her designer duds and making use of that good Le Creuset cookware or did y'all expect for her to be sweating over a cheap frying pan from the Dollar Store wearing a red head hanky and a gingham apron?

Lawd...that can't be it, can it?

Surely, it can't be that scandalous that she opted to film her series in a rented kitchen as opposed to her own. Did you honestly expect that a woman whose husband is the son of the King of England, brother to the future King, uncle of the future-future King, and still 6th or 7th in line to the throne himself, who also happens to be fighting several high-profile battles in court to protect his family from tabloid gossip and other nefarious actors--surely she wouldn't be that reckless as to allow cameras into their personal residence to film a cooking show? Other than reality TV Housewives or the late Julia Child, who else is willing to allow a film crew all up in their personal space like that? 

To be clear, the aforementioned Lady Gwyneth Kate was filming herself (or perhaps, she was being filmed by an assistant) in a home video that she posted to her IG account. I shouldn't have to explain any of this, but you do know that most of those TV cooking shows are filmed on sets because there are strict safety protocols for food handling that are difficult to follow in one's own kitchen. If you watch any of those cooking competition shows, they are filmed in spacious studios with fully stocked pantries, farm-fresh ingredients, and state-of-the-art appliances. Do you know anybody who has butcher-block counters or a walk-in freezer?

Speaking of the incomparable Julia Child, most of us who grew up watching her didn't take much notice of her expensive cookware. But if you did, then you rarely, if ever saw her reach for any of those copper pots she had adorning her wall. So why is it unreasonable for Markle to make use of those expensive wedding gifts she amassed when she wed Prince Harry as opposed to letting them collect dust in storage? 

In Meghan's own words, this is a thing, in 2025? Really, because women have been buying discounted enameled cookware from Marshall's for years. Our pieces might not match, but most of the items in our kitchens are a hodge podge of stuff we bought or inherited. I have an enamel Dutch oven that my parents bought me during a post-Christmas clearance sale at Macy's years ago from the Martha Stewart collection. I also happily use my Circulon pots as well as my mother's 50-year old stainless steel cookware. My Mom also had a collection of decorative copper pots adorning the walls of her kitchen. So where is it written that we can't have nice things too?

So what is the big deal? It's a doggone cooking show. On Netflix. Which means, you have to intentionally decide to watch it, unlike the shows that you leave on as background from the Food Network or the Cooking Channel during the holidays. In order to find Markle's show, I had to use the search function because it didn't come up automatically as a recommendation even though every season of Bridgerton, The Crown, and the Downton Abby (2019) movie did. 

By the way, I watched one episode. But I'm not here to offer a review...

I'm here to question why this woman is more polarizing than a Kardashian (whose nonstop attention-hawking we've been subjected to for 20 seasons). Most of us American commoners couldn't care less about the lives of European royalty, yet we know more about the British royals because their family drama is inescapable. Thus, when a Black woman married into the family, more of us got invested and have taken keen notice of how she has been treated. And she has been accused of everything from contributing to global climate change and drought to worrying her husband's nonagenarian Grandparents to death. Since I don't know her personally, I can't tell if she is as terrible as Wallis Simpson...or any more of a phony than this guy.

You would think that she had falsely accused a member of the Royal Family of sexual abuse or that she was a long-lost descendant of one of the rabble-rousers at the Boston Tea Party. As it turns out, it was her naiveté in assuming that in exchange for becoming a mascot for the British Empire, she was entitled to some measure of respect. That she would prove to be as valuable and beloved as one of the Queen's corgis. Upon realizing that the household staff at Buckingham Palace was better regarded, she did what every self-respecting American has done since 1776. And they act like she stole the Crown jewels the way the Brits ransacked everybody else's treasures and antiquities as their own.

I've been trying to wrap my head around this for years, and other than the visceral hate some people seem to have for Black women (and I've got receipts), Meghan hasn't done anything to deserve this. And that's exactly how most of her haters see it too--what makes her so special as to think that she can abscond with our spare prince, keep that title while refusing to allow us to use and abuse her, and live her life on her own terms? Who does she think she is?

As Ever, and With Love...she's HRH Meghan the Remarkable Duchess of Sussex.

Grounded in the Stars

Emotionally, the week leading up to Mother's Day was fine...until the night before when I found myself gnarled up in an emotional heap over asshole comments on the internet. Triggered, bothered, agitated by online reactions I read to the installation of this statue, Grounded in the Stars, by artist Thomas J Price in New York City's Times Square.

I like it. I wish that I could get to New York to see it up close and in person before the exhibition ends in June, but the way life has been lately, that might not be in the stars...

As for reading the comments, I know better. I've been on Al Gore's internet since the beginning, and I know that people shitpost and troll and get away with being awful because that is the nature of unmoderated free expression. People are going to post their innermost asinine unfiltered thoughts because there are no other places in polite society where one can go around and say whatever nonsense pops into one's head about other people unless they are Donald Trump holding a rally for his cult of deplorables. Not unless they want to get beat down...

So trust, I didn't go looking for negativity. It was dumped onto my timeline by the geniuses who manage the Meta algorithm. Apparently, they get bored once a week and decide to flood the zone with crap that I would never interact with from all kinds of random pages. Or they throw out red herrings since I did happen to like a post that highlighted this very statue; perhaps they thought that meant I would appreciate seeing some alternative viewpoints.

Hell to the naw!

Which brings us to this unprecedented Busy Black content move: I erased a post I had previously shared to my Facebook page. When I saw some of those nasty comments, I was compelled to write on impulse, and even after I allowed my thoughts to marinate overnight before posting, I ultimately changed my mind. I was uneasy about what had triggered my anger though I remain steadfast in my admiration of the work itself. However, once I sat with my discomfort and deconstructed it, I figured I would write about my change of heart.

My initial reaction to the piece was to shrug and think, huh, as in is this a newsworthy distraction given everything else that is going on in the world? In the same week that we got an American Pope from the Southside of Chicago by way of the 7th Ward in New Orleans with Haitian Creole ancestry, does a 12-foot statue of a Black woman dropped in the middle of Times Square really need all of this attention? Of course, I shared Grounded to the FB page as it had become clear that the reactions appeared to be divided between the like and laugh FB emojis. Hardly scientific, but random enough to take notice that while some pages celebrated the installation, others deemed it "woke"--the new buzz word to indicate that something is unnecessarily polarizing. Nevertheless, I posted a quick looky here and moved on...until a post in one of my groups directed my attention to the comments section. Curiouser and curiouser the farther I fell down that rabbit hole...

There I saw numerous cruel and mean-spirited memes attacking the work and Black women, including this re-imagining of the Statue of Liberty as a heavy-set Black woman checking her phone (inspired by this other Price exhibition in Florence, Italy perhaps). Accompanying their laugh and hate emoji reactions were images depicting morbidly obese Black women scantily dressed with exaggerated breasts, protruding stomachs, and thick hips. One meme depicted a woman pushing a shopping cart from the "EBT" store; another picture juxtaposed the image of a woman "mocking" the statue by posting a picture of herself striking the same pose. The most offensive meme contrasted this statue to a "preferred" mock-up to immortalize the recent racist encounter on the playground with the woman from Minnesota. 

Having made a trip to see the iconic Lady Liberty colossus in person just last year for the first time since high school, I decided to share this meme since I deemed it the least problematic. My visit to Liberty Island had been so uplifting and empowering, especially as I learned that this beloved American symbol had been a gift from France in celebration of the abolition of slavery. Over the years, her symbolism evolved to serve as a welcoming beacon to immigrants from abroad (and despite what anyone else says, those dual purposes are not in conflict).

My knee-jerk reaction to this and those other aforementioned memes? An emotional fuck y'all. Fuck y'all racist, sexist, homophobic, fat-shaming, Trump-voting fascist asses! This was the day before Mother's Day, so fuck your Momma (since she raised you to be this special kind of asshole); fuck your Daddy next month when Father's Day rolls around; and whomever else agrees with your fucked up worldview! But instead of all those f-bombs, this is the more thoughtful reaction I initially posted: 

Moment of emotional transparency: I really effing hate how *free speech* on social media has turned this country into a nation of rude assholes.

Really. If I could cuss people out and be convinced that it would matter for them to know that I see their racism, sexism, homophobia, etc. And while it may just be words that aren't supposed to permeate or hurt, the truth is that taken individually, no, you don't hurt me. But the accumulated impact of your cruelty and meanness, yes...it's like pouring lemon juice on a thousand paper cuts. Salted wounds.

I've been writing about the small indignities and micro-aggressions endured by Black women on this page (and other platforms) for YEARS. I know only a handful of people care or are moved. I write anyway because I think that maybe, one day, someone's heart will be pricked, pained by seeing the impact of the hurt that is so easily heaped on others. But I know better. No one who knowingly and casually inflicts pain recognizes or cares about how exhausting it is to wake up EVERYDAY as the object of their insatiable cruelty.

I know who and what I am, as well as what I am NOT. I am NOT the ugly, stupid, classless, undesirable, useless, (fill in the blank with whatever adjectives/insults you've been taught that are supposed to describe Black women and girls)... I am not a mule, nor a beast. I am a woman of flesh and blood, who knows better, even as I foolishly and vainly hope otherwise.

We are taught to let them...Laugh. Joke. Think the worst. Believe the lies of their superiority and our inherent inferiority. Prove their weaknesses and insecurities by highlighting our ability to endure, survive, and sometimes thrive in spite of their best efforts to destroy us. 

I should mention that I did not (will not) post any of those memes but chose this one that spoke directly to how I feel. I also did not wish to attract the wrong kind of attention to engage with my page (I have better ways to waste my time than to argue with morons). A few hours later, my anger wasn't as raw or as intense, but much like seeing a taunt from this DEPOTUS posted on his official social media account, it had numbed. Stings at first, then I get used to the pain of the daily indignities and humiliations because he can, so he does...and the futility of accepting that there is nothing I will ever say in retaliation that can penetrate or appeal to any semblance of decency. 

As far as I am concerned, everyone who sees this Grounded statue as an object of mockery or scorn, that is how they see me, my nieces, my daughter, my sorors, my aunties...my late mother. My dilemma is whether to accept their judgment or to subvert it. I will admit that it isn't always easy to ignore the noise. The attacks began to feel personal upon seeing the fourth, then the fifth, and later the subsequent posts that took aim at this composite of a random, non-famous Black woman. The comments assumed that she's on welfare, that she speaks in her outside voice, that she barges her way into exclusive spaces where she doesn't fit in or was not invited. That she has multiple children by different men. That she doesn't work a full-time job. That she expresses herself in vernacular colloquialisms. That she twerks when her favorite songs play. That she eats at McDonald's and so do her children. That she complains about injustice.

That she exists.

All she did was stop for a moment to survey the sights in Times Square, just like everybody else visiting for the first or even the 50th time, because you try navigating an amusement park without a map to indicate where things are? Doesn't everyone need to take a moment to get oriented to the utter chaos and confusion that is New York's Time Square?

So let's do just that--take a moment to fully establish what Times Square is and what is surely ain't. Like it ain't the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Not the Museum of Modern Art (MOMA) nor the Whitney Museum, where I took the Kid on a special trip to see an exhibition on Alvin Ailey last December. It also ain't the Guggenheim. So the idea that any kind of art installation in Times Square is supposed to evoke fantasies of taking a leisurely stroll through some tranquil sculpture garden is insanity.

The most accurate way of describing Times Square to someone who has never been there is to compare it to a large open air, overpriced food court located in the middle of the most crowded and loudest set of city blocks in America. I've never been to the Mall of America, but I imagine that is the same kind of chaos. Thousands of tourists; folks trying to sell you same-day show tickets; the stench of burnt hot dogs and roasted peanut wafting from the carts on every corner; Sirijul and Mujibur; bootleg merchants; overpriced chain restaurants; and ginormous neon billboards with blinking lights. There is a Naked Cowboy and his wife. There are also people walking around dressed as cartoon characters, so if you've ever wanted your picture taken with a Disney character but cannot afford a trip to the other most expensive amusement trap on Earth, then Times Square is a viable alternative. That is, if no one will notice that the Times Square Mickey Mouse always looks like he just lost a bar fight in the alley with Elmo (also on hand in case you get lost on your way to finding Sesame Street, which as it turns out, is within 2 miles, not that far away).

The only reason to make an effort to go to Times Square is to see a Broadway play. I was there a year ago to see The Wiz. The only other reason to be there is to kill time on your way out of town by bus at the Port Authority or by train at Grand Central Station. Otherwise, you're only there to get robbed--by spending too much money at one of the multi-level concept stores (like we did on M&Ms), or by one of those shady looking dudes posing as the Mario Brothers.

As the resident of another city that is full of statues and monuments, I appreciate when something new comes along to break up the monotony of generals, presidents, and historical figures as decorative sculpture. Nothing wrong with a little whimsy here and there, such as past public art installations that featured painted pandas, donkeys and elephants, and now all kinds of vibrant murals. There have been varying responses to these kinds of works. They can be polarizing. They stoke derision. There is no such thing as a universally beloved piece of art that appeals to everybody, so it isn't surprising that some works are more controversial than others. However, as long as people understand that not all pieces are intended to appeal to everyone, then the easiest thing to do is move along until there is something that does appeal to you.

For example, a local favorite piece of public art here in DC wasn't initially an art installation but an advertisement for a furniture store. The Big Chair of Anacostia was erected in 1959 and is located in a strip mall in Southeast DC, across the Anacostia River--a world away from most of the city's other more famous monuments. For years, it was known primarily to those of us who grew up in the neighborhood, but as our population has grown and changed, the chair has become a more recognizable city landmark. It is still mostly significant to those of us who live in the SE quadrant; I doubt that anyone who doesn't have a reason to drive into Anacostia would go out of their way to see an oversized piece of furniture. Nor do people who have only become residents of the city in the last 20 years know that this isn't even the original chair.

In response to Grounded, I had no visceral reaction other than curiosity for why a 12-foot tall figure? Assuming the same question was asked when it was an installation of 10-foot tall Balloon Dogs or the 8-foot tall LOVE sculptures, then part of that answer becomes why not? If public art is meant to be seen, discussed, engaged, debated, then it has to make some kind of bold statement. Perhaps the next logical question is why now, given these tumultuous times we've entered with the return of Donald Trump. Because once the default complaint that this statue was "woke", that became a bat signal for MAGA to come out swinging. To which, my retort: if not now, then when?

For such a time as this, why not celebrate an unassuming Black woman standing in her own skin? Why not look upon that Mama Liberty meme as an affirmation of our power, instead of the insult to our appearance as was intended? Black women worked hard to preserve American democracy and its ideals in the 2024 election. One of us was handed the baton at the 11th hour and still got 75 million votes. No need to cringe as Mama Liberty holds that torch aloft while also busy organizing and handling her business!

To be clear, one can dislike Price's statue and not be a racist. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. My problem is that people were intentional and comfortable in bashing the work through the lenses of racism, sexism, classism, and body-shaming. We've already acknowledged how the term woke functions as a dog whistle; others sought to express their anti-Blackness in more subtle forms. For example, conservative provocateur Matt Walsh penned this pseudo-intellectual opinion piece to proclaim his disdain for Price's oeuvre of public art. Then there is the use of the historically loaded term Mammy which somehow becomes the default description of any full-figured Black woman...

Mind you, Grounded could just as easily have been someone's impression of me during the pandemic. Me, or any one of my friends whose struggles with menopause, stress, and the weight of the world have manifested on our bodies, settled into our curves. Once upon a time, full-bodied women were symbols of fertility and abundance. Isn't there a proposal floating around about paying women to have more children? When did our society become so repulsed by the sight of fleshy, Rubenesque women? Especially since many of our mothers, grandmothers, and your Trump-loving aunties have that same body type...when did we become so intolerant and shallow?

Instead of being distracted by superficial concerns, we ought to be more offended that our society has become immune to the ways that racism and sexism compound to harm the psyche of Black, Latino, Asian, and Indigenous women. Or that we're too proud to admit that the daily drip-drip of undeserved mean-spiritedness, insults to our intelligence and competence, and the outright hostility and disrespect exact a heavy physical, emotional, and psychological toll? Women of color disproportionately suffer from higher incidences of infant and maternal mortality, more diagnoses of autoimmune disorders, and greater tendencies to develop aggressive and debilitating chronic diseases. 

Why is it so triggering that a temporary art installation in the most garish public plaza in the most crowded city in America happens to be statue of a Black woman? If you aren't in Times Square right now, nor will be at any point before June 17, then why do you care? Everything you see in her is a reflection of you: your assumptions, your insinuations, your discomfort, your anxieties, your prejudices and biases, your insecurities. It is incredible to see how much fear and loathing she's inspired just by standing there, taking up space without saying or doing anything remarkable!

Stand tall among the stars and stay grounded.

Ten Years to Life

My daughter just celebrated her tenth birthday. I had wanted to write a long dedication in the days leading up to the big leap from single to double digits, but I got all caught up in my feelings. I am ecstatic. I am in disbelief. I am overwhelmed by a list of things to do for this "surprise" birthday party that I'm sure she'll be smart enough to figure out is really happening in spite of what I told her. (That it was cancelled because she got out of line, but how can I be expected to keep that kind of promise in anticipation of this particular birthday???)

And now, when I should be packing for a family trip, I am procrastinating to write about this pending major milestone, because this is a moment that deserves to be preserved and celebrated!

So let's start at the beginning: ten years ago in March 2015, I returned to this blog after a hiatus of two years. The last post I wrote in 2012 was on my 39th birthday. The first post I wrote in 2015 was to announce my pregnancy with just little less than a month remaining. At the time, I was still very unsure and uncertain of what was to come, including the gender of the child I was carrying. That was an intentional choice for reasons that I can only summarize as a delayed delusional denial--I was scared but unwilling to unpack those fears. Not knowing was a way of maintaining control, managing expectations, and like I said, delusional!

You can read between the lines I wrote in the few weeks before the Kid was born, including two pieces that were published hours before I went into labor. I had NO idea. Then the Babe was born, and I got caught up in those sleepless and seemingly endless post-partum days and nights. After a few months, it took more time to find both my motivation and rhythm to write. For example, when I wrote at the end of that year about Mommy-blogging, it was with the explicit intention of avoiding that lane and label. I was ambivalent about identifying myself as a "Mom" in the political sense, because I believed (and still feel) that it was necessary to embody many identities as a woman. 

Before I take you down that road, let's talk about my evolution over the past decade. 

First, let's acknowledge the transition from being pregnant (and still fertile) ten years ago to entering this new season of life called menopause. It is jarring. Literally, just a year ago, I still felt halfway normal, and now I don't. I have weird sleeping patterns, night sweats, and I am perpetually unfocused and cranky. As someone who never dealt with major PMS until after I had a baby, it is unnerving to undergo such drastic changes after so many years of knowing my body and how it worked. Now, I have no idea what to expect from one day to the next. Given my "advanced maternal age" when I finally got pregnant, I knew that I was on Team One and Done, but this change effectively ends the game.

Which brings me to the significance of this past year since the death of my Mom. Because if losing a parent forces a formidable life adjustment, letting go of the ability to have more children has me mourning another substantial loss. And for lack of a better way to describe this, it just feels cosmically unfair. My life isn't over, but this change puts the matter of my mortality on the horizon. I know, referring to menopause as the start of a death march is overly dramatic, but I can't help but to think that I am now counting down as opposed to gearing up. And that sucks.

Especially when your ten-year old is going through puberty. Because it suddenly registers what that all entails.

She's still my baby, but no longer a baby. She's still very much a kid, but she wants to engage in pre-teen things. Soon, that will become teen things, and before long, I will have a young lady making decisions about her future. So while I adjust to my own changes, I have to mentally prepare myself for hers. I know I've joked about that once or twice, but now that the time has come, and we are both in transition I'm not laughing. No, I'm not curled up in a ball, but I am trying to come to terms with this season of growth for her while trying to resist the fatalist tendency to regard this as a season of decline for me.

Ten years ago when my daughter was born, I had a dogwood tree planted in our front yard. I was following the example of my mother who had planted a dogwood tree in the front yard of our family home when we were kids. The tree at my parents' home started off small, but it grew and spread over the course of nearly 40 years to become a focal point of the yard. We took our annual Easter pictures in front of it and continued the tradition with younger cousins and grandchildren. 

Then about three years ago, I noticed that the tree seemed to be struggling, especially in the summers through successive years of drought. Since the tree had been resilient in previous years, we assumed it would recover, as it had each spring. Unfortunately, in the summer of 2023, only half of the leaves came back and one weekend, they all just dried up and died. I initially fretted this was an omen...

I had a tree specialist come by to conduct a post-mortem and we learned that the tree wasn't supposed to have been planted in full sun. It had survived a lot longer than it should have in the wrong location, so it wasn't neglect, but a combination of factors that had killed it. (Incidentally, two dogwood trees planted by a neighbor are also dying under similar conditions.) For a replacement, we opted for a sun-loving cherry blossom and planted another dogwood in a more temperate location. The new trees were planted in November 2023; my Mom passed three months later.

It didn't escape my notice that the cherry blossom tree bloomed the week of her funeral, followed by the new dogwood tree a few weeks later. Instead of regarding the death of that older tree as an omen, I have chosen to interpret my observations of all these trees as messages. The end of one life and the flourishing of another is the how this world turns. As painful as it was to accept that my mother's time was coming to an end, like the dogwood, she had lived a lot longer than expected under unsustainable conditions. Alzheimer's had taken so much from her and us...

I chose to have my daughter and niece read When Great Trees Fall, by Maya Angelou at her funeral. I knew they were too young to grasp the significance, but I knew that it was important for two of her saplings to have a prominent role in saying goodbye. It was important for people to see life flourishing, planted firmly in temperate locations and blossoming. 

Ten years of motherhood. At times it seems surreal to recall that I had a very different life prior to the birth of my daughter. I had different dreams and aspirations. It was by random chance that I ended up on the path toward motherhood after I had determined that it would only happen by some divine intervention...and I guess, that is how I would define the sequence of events I shared in this post. If I didn't believe in miracles before, I sure do now.

They Sleep Fine...

On a mattress, in their McMansions, on the leafy side of town where you need an access code to enter their gated communities. And they are lulled to that aforementioned restful slumber by the dulcet voice of Lionel Richie.

They sleep fine. 

I don't know who needs to be convinced of this now that we are two months and counting into the re-booted American Apprentice reality nightmare starring Donald Trump, hosted by Elon Musk. Or maybe only one of them sleeps just fine (we'll see how those weekly doses of ketamine for "depression" work out for Musk sooner or later).

Nevertheless, I think their decisions to unleash daily calamities and chaos are the stuff their dreams are made of: how many lives can I ruin today, just because I can (click here for evil laugh)? Let's fire half the people who work for the federal government, even those who own Teslas! Let's take over the Kennedy Center and revamp the programming to feature a series of dramatic readings performed by Slyvester Stallone and Scott Baio! Let's start World War III by invading Canada, Panama, and Greenland! Because any and everything is on the table, no matter how absurd, obscene, or unprecedented.

They sleep like newborn babies.

And just like cranky newborns who can't communicate what they need except through crying, if we the peasants get any ideas about trying to catch a few winks, there will be some outrageous tantrum or a ketchup-stained wall some minion has to clean.

About a month or so ago, I saw a video on Al Gore's internet featuring an interview with one of America's favorite drunk Aunties Kathie Lee Gifford explaining why her 'good friend' Donald doesn't need any of this; however, because he cares enough to put himself through this in order to fulfill his promises, we should trust his benevolence in choosing to systematically dismantle the lives of millions of people...

As soon as the thought bubble that contained et tu, Kathie Lee dissipated, there was Lionel Richie singing in my head. I looked up and just as we believe our smart phones are probing our thoughts, it was one of those Mattress Firm commercials. I had to laugh at the irony and the timing. Initially, I was just going to call her out in a Facebook post, but there's so much to unpack, so much smug, sanctimonious entitlement that she deserves more than just a quick passing rant. 

However, when I went back to replay the video after weeks of leaving the tab open, it had been disabled. Was that some kind of sign that the moment had passed or was it just a matter of reloading a different page to see that, yes, Gifford is still among the millions who believe their own lies because that's how she sleeps at night. Content with the knowledge that so long as she is safe from persecution, she don't care about the havoc being wrought on the rest of us.

To be honest, there isn't much else to say. It isn't a difficult or highly nuanced concept to grasp that these people watch the news every day and only pay attention to how the stock market performs to ensure that their wealth is secure. They see the video that Homeland Security Secretary Kristi "I shot that dog" Noem filmed in front of El Salvadorian prison bars flanked by half naked men, but they hone in on her expensive jewelry and perfectly coifed hair. Taking notice of the dehumanizing way those people are stacked and packed like cans on a shelf is a bit too compassionate. While some on the MAGA fringes might be expressing some remorse or regret, the vast majority have been happily enjoying the slaughter because they DON'T CARE.

Therefore, to my FB friends who keep posting daily rhetorical queries to their remaining Trumplogyte acquaintances, stop waiting for a response. The only people who are reading and reacting to your posts are the same 25-40 people the FB algorithm allows to interact and engage with your posts. The majority of those other folks never get to see what see what you have taken time to eloquently write, not even at random. The Trumpists are too busy liking and re-posting their own anti-democracy content. So to answer your question, yes, this is what they wanted.

Do I know this for sure or is this an educated guess? Well, call it my Busy Black Woman's intuition based on the fact that I never deactivated my X-bird app accounts. While not as active on that site as I used to be, I still peek in on those accounts to see what the tweets are saying, and as we predicted, it is inundated by bots, pro-Trump ads, and assorted propaganda. Since every account that pays for a blue check is verified, their thoughts and musings are what gets amplified. The same is true for the content on Meta, where the algorithm boosts the pro-Trump and pro-Musk posts. Dare I say it, not only do they ooze with glee at each new executive order, but they are downright orgasmic in their anticipation of more to come.

I suspect then, that like Parker Posey's character on this season of The White Lotus, after several rapturous hours spent in paradise, they'll pop a special little pill, and sleep just fine.

I propose that instead of waiting for their humanity to reset, that in lieu of praying for changed hearts and minds, we accept what is and plan our next moves. And please don't start by suggesting that we find common ground.

There isn't any.

If you have seen any of the aforementioned Mattress Firm commercials, you will note that right before they pump the Lionel Richie, the previous scene features someone engaged in some disgusting, vile, or unconscionable behavior. Imma need everyone to linger on that part whenever someone suggests that we can find "common ground" with the Trumpers. Really? Take a moment and consider whether you can join in when you see someone heckling a child during an elementary school basketball game. Or if you are eager to eat some of that guacamole after everyone sticks their grubby unwashed hands in it. Go on and try to remain unbothered in the seat in front of this dude because the stench from his feet will override your fear of the plane being flown by a DEI pilot. Better yet, let's all follow the lead of the impatient driver who is late for her dog's grooming appointment, because surely there is no good reason to have an emergency lane or an unoccupied shoulder during rush hour when she has places to be and things to do.

If you can find common ground that you would be willing to share with those people, more power to you. There isn't an inch in that gutter that I find appealing.

The irony of how they appropriated the term woke and made it a pejorative is that they actually celebrate being the opposite--unenlightened, intolerant, but proud and patriotic assholes who prefer to sleepwalk through life, unconscious, unaware, and unconcerned about anyone or anything but themselves.

A few hours before I went back to revisit that video of Kathie Lee, I heard a segment on NPR about the lack of empathy that seems to be more pervasive in our society. We have clearly entered an era of not giving a good damn about hardship or suffering. As long as chaos and calamity are contained way over there, why should that keep me awake at night? Why should I lose any sleep over matters that don't directly impact me?

I'm too old to contract measles, (besides, I got my vaccinations years ago). For the time being, my husband's good government job is not in the line of fire. I don't live in California, Oregon, Hawaii, or anywhere else where wildfires have burned entire communities to the ground. I'm not a student on a visa who wrote an editorial in the student newspaper in support of Palestine. I'm not a purported gang member with a questionable tattoo. I'm on the other side of childbearing, so abortion restrictions don't endanger my health. I could keep listing examples that distance my life from the realities that impact others, yet in spite of my relative comfort and safety, I can visualize the faces of those who are not exempt.

One unvaccinated child might not be my problem or my business, but a community of unvaccinated children quickly becomes catastrophic for an over-stressed public health system. Knowing a handful of people who lost their jobs is unfortunate, until those job losses reverberate to impact others whose livelihoods depend on folks patronizing their businesses. We live in a society, not in individual pods. Eventually, all of this harm being unleashed will accumulate, and the effects won't be as easy to ignore. 

So forgive me, Kathie Lee, for not giving one-tenth of a hoot that your good friend Donald intends to keep his promises, because all that communicates to me is that you are just as horrible and shitty a person as he is. The fact that you are more concerned about him keeping his word to inflict maximum pain and pursue retribution against those who didn't support him (as opposed to appealing to him not to engage in this vendetta) is just proof of your true character. I wish I could unleash the right combination of expletives to articulate what I think of you and your façade of faith and dubious morality...but FUCK YOU Kathie Lee sums it up succinctly.

If you're wondering why it took all of this just to flip Kathie Lee the bird, please understand that I know she won't ever read any of this. Nor will anyone in her orbit. As far as I am concerned, they are a lost cause, so I'm not writing in hopes there will be some massive national change of heart that reshapes how she and a third of this country view the world. Beloved, I am writing to appeal to YOU, my tribe, to warn you of the depravity of the dark side. It is tempting to see how they live, how they sleep and want some of what they have to ease our suffering and pain.

Be ye not deceived by false prophets and promises, perverted faith, and the allure of community with those who celebrate the triumph of evil. Too many people have already been fooled. How many years did Kathie Lee sell viewers various delusions of perfection--whether as a carefree passenger on a cruise ship or as a happy traditional wife and mother on a talk show? This isn't about judging her faith or her life, but how people like her love to flaunt their privilege as evidence of their virtue and as vindication for their political beliefs. She claims that Trump is a changed man since getting nicked shot last summer, that he doesn't need any of this...and by this, it's hard to parse whether she meant he doesn't need to be this cruel and maniacal or if he doesn't need history to remember him as the man who destroyed America.

Either way, I'm sure that as long as the fires rage far, far away from her, she and the others in the cult will sleep just fine.

In their leafy green subdivisions across town, in their McMansions at the far end of the cul-de-sac, under heavy surveillance, armed guards, and with a loaded gun on the nightstand. I hope their apathy and indifference causes them such agitation and distress that the only way they can get to sleep is by taking whatever special pills with a chaser of whatever expensive liquor they keep locked away in their expensive liquor cabinets. I hope that even if sleep comes easy, rest doesn't.

Sleep fine...but with one eye open.