I came back from Thanksgiving in Massholia with a new fur hat and vintage coat, and have been called “ma’am” three million times in 24 hours. I’d be cross except dowager chic is my all-time favorite look and I always knew I’d be a tough old broad someday. So here I am. Armed for whatever messed-up mishegos is next for our beleaguered country, at the midpoint of my life if I’m lucky, and ma’am like a motherfucker.
Three things haven’t changed in the DT era: The sunrise is still beautiful. My permakitten is still sweet. I still do a little jig to the “Congratulations” theme song played upon completion of the online New York Times crossword. But our Constitution is going out the window, white supremacy is on the rise, the Standing Rock protectors are under siege, and the United States of America is being overrun by a reality TV oligarch. I got no spin, because spin is what we no longer can afford. So good morning. I use the term loosely.
I have been such a whirling dervish since T Day, as I now dourly regard November 11, that I scarcely remember my own name. I’ve said yes to every invitation: gone to parties, theater, talks, protests; joined with others in prayer, laughter, dance, resistance, tears. I’ve told myself: This is not the time to stay cozy with Grace and a cauldron on the stove. This is the time to rally with the troops. There’s no one right way to grapple with this new reality, though I disapprove of mindless entertainment since we Netflix-binged ourselves into this regime. My way has been to open my heart. Continue Reading →
I came back from Thanksgiving in Massholia with a new fur hat and vintage coat, and have been called “ma’am” three million times in 24 hours. I’d be cross except dowager chic is my all-time favorite look and I always knew I’d be a tough old broad someday. So here I am. Armed for whatever messed-up mishegos is next for our beleaguered country, at the midpoint of my life if I’m lucky, and ma’am like a motherfucker.
Three things haven’t changed in the DT era: The sunrise is still beautiful. My permakitten is still sweet. I still do a little jig to the “Congratulations” theme song played upon completion of the online New York Times crossword. But our Constitution is going out the window, white supremacy is on the rise, the Standing Rock protectors are under siege, and the United States of America is being overrun by a reality TV oligarch. I got no spin, because spin is what we no longer can afford. So good morning. I use the term loosely.
I have been such a whirling dervish since T Day, as I now dourly regard November 11, that I scarcely remember my own name. I’ve said yes to every invitation: gone to parties, theater, talks, protests; joined with others in prayer, laughter, dance, resistance, tears. I’ve told myself: This is not the time to stay cozy with Grace and a cauldron on the stove. This is the time to rally with the troops. There’s no one right way to grapple with this new reality, though I disapprove of mindless entertainment since we Netflix-binged ourselves into this regime. My way has been to open my heart. Continue Reading →