Dear Sarah, I Am Sorry

Dear Sarah,

I don’t know you, but I am sorry.

I’m sorry the grownups who are in charge of this country didn’t protect you today. I’m sorry your friends had to die. I’m sorry we have not done better and fixed this mess.

I’m sorry that Congress is bought and paid for by the NRA. I am sorry the adults who are supposed to protect you value the so-called “right” of firearms manufacturers to sell assault rifles to teenagers over your rights and your friends’ rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

I’m sorry that you will relive this awful day for the rest of your life, and feel the trauma and pain of it. I am sorry because I’m an adult and a mother and I have failed you. I have failed you, and we have all been failing you for too long.

But I am also hopeful.

I'm hopeful because you are strong and brave, and you are the future of America. Not Trump. Not Wayne LaPierre. 

You.

I am hopeful because you are already using your voice to speak up and say what you know is right and true. And you are going to make this country a better place one day because of it.

Sincerely,

An Admirer in Alaska

I'm Sorry

I used to apologize all the time. Like reflexively. For everything, and to everyone. 

I would say "I'm sorry" constantly for things that I both could and couldn't control. I'd apologize for being tired. I'd apologize for the weather. I'd apologize for being ten minutes late. I'd apologize for being ten minutes early. I'd apologize for something I said or how I said it. I'd apologize for something I wrote or how I wrote it. I'd apologize for something my parent or spouse or child did. I'd apologize for everything under the sun, at work and at home, whether I was objectively at fault or not. 

Obviously, the subtle (or not-so-subtle) message I would convey every time I did this is that everything was my fault, or the result of my own personal failings and bad judgment. It's a form of narcissism really, and a self-destructive form of it at that. It's probably more common with women than men. It was sure common with me. And it suggests to the world that things are your fault or responsibility when they actually may not be.

That's why the older I get, the more selective I've become about when I apologize for something. I am way more hesitant to just sprinkle "I'm sorries" willy-nilly all over the place.

In short, I have started to give the word "sorry" the respect it deserves. I treat it like a sentiment that actually means something and has some value, instead of just some filler word like "uh" that comes out of my mouth as a knee-jerk response to everything that happens every single day.

Before I write or say "I'm sorry" now, I ask myself if it's really true. I ask myself if the thing I am apologizing for actually deserves my apology for any reason at all. Sometimes it does, but more often than not, I have discovered, it doesn't.

I still have plenty of issues with guilt. But I've become very conscious of not saying "sorry" if I don't really mean it. And I've come to realize that I am actually not remotely sorry at least half the times I have the hair-trigger instinct to say that I am.

When you apologize for something, you automatically adopt a position of fault and you automatically acquiesce that whatever you are feeling or doing is wrong. You come to believe it, and so does everyone else. It's like a form of debasing yourself and demeaning yourself, and it's unproductive.

So sorry, but I'm over it.

Adele Calls Her Ex in Rural Alaska

Adele: Hello, it’s me.

Ex: Hello?

Adele: Hello? Can you hear me?

Ex: Sort of.

Adele: I’m in Californ—

Ex: Are you calling from Outside?

Adele: I’m sorry—

Ex: No, I’m sorry.

Adele: How are y—

Ex: How are y—

Adele: Oh I’m sorry. You go.

Ex: No you go.

Adele: No you go.

Ex: Wait. No you.

Adele: Ugh. Hello? Hello?

Ex: This is awkward and you’re breaking up.

Adele: That’s what I was calling to say. That I’m sorry for breaking--

Ex: Wait, I didn’t catch that.

Adele: Catch what?

Ex: Wait. Sorry. Go ahead.

Adele: I was just saying I’m sorry for breaking your heart. Hello? Hello?

Ex: Sorry . . . I missed that.

Adele: At least I can say that I tried, I must have called a thous—

Ex: Did you say you tried?

Adele: Wait. What? Hello?
Ex: Hello? I’m confus—

Adele: Hello?

Ex: Forget it. Send me an email.

Click.

10 Excuses That Only Work in Alaska, and 6 That Don't

I was born and raised in New York City, so I especially appreciated a piece I read in Time Out New York called "21 Excuses That Only Work in New York," most of which I agree with and can relate to.

But I've lived in Alaska for 10 years, so this article got me thinking: What kinds of excuses only work in Alaska? And what kinds don't? Here are a few:

Excuses That Work:
 
1. I need to take the day off from work today. The sun is out. (Southeast only).
2. I need to take the morning off from work today. It's a powder day.
3. Sorry I'm late, I hit a moose.
4. Sorry I'm late, I forgot to plug in my car last night and it wouldn't start. (Anywhere but Southeast).
5. Sorry I'm late, I had to dig out my car.
6. Sorry I'm three hours late. The plane had a mechanical.
7. Sorry I'm three days late. Some weather came in.

8. Sorry to cancel our plans. Someone invited me out on their boat.
9. Sorry I didn't respond to your text/call/email. I was out of cell range.
10. Sorry I'm late. Obama. (August 31, 2015 only).

Excuses That Don't Work

 
1. I didn't realize it was a potluck.
2. It's raining/snowing too hard.
3. I don't have the gear for that.

4. I left my garbage out.
5. Sorry I'm late, I was stuck in traffic (Anywhere but Anchorage).
6. But I don't like bluegrass.

If I Actually Said What I Was Thinking at a Wine Tasting ...

Wine-Pouring Dude [Sommelier? Something else? Wine-Pouring Dude? Yup. Close enough for jazz]: Good evening!

Me: Hi, how are you?

Wine-Pouring Dude: Just fine, thank you, ma'am. We have a lovely selection of …

Me: Wow, did you just call me ma'am? Do I really look that old? Holy FUCK. Now I'm a ma'am? When did I become a ma'am? Anyway, let me stop you right there. I'm SO sorry. I don't want to be rude. But the thing is I don’t really care and I'm not really listening to you and you're wasting your time on an unsophisticated person like me. Really I missed the boat on this whole wine thing--specifically the part of adulthood where everyone got into wine. Just ... ugh ... OK ... fine. Which one is cold? That’s the one I want. I want the cold one. And the not-sweet one. So I guess I want a “dry” white wine? Right?

Wine-Pouring Dude: Ah, yes. Allow me to offer you this subtle pinot blanc from the yada yada yada region of Tuscany. It has textures of pear and oak bark and a lovely finish with notes of ripe mushroom dust and a blossoming burst of blah blah blah...

Me: You're kind of cute. I like your tie. You're probably way too young for me though. Plus I'm married, hahaha. I see you are too? You have a wedding ring. How did you get into this, anyway? Anyway, you had me at "allow" and lost me three words later, at "offer." I’m confused about the etiquette here. Do I really have to stick my nose so far into this glass? And smell a piece of cork? What am I looking for here? I feel like a thirsty Labradoodle. I think I’m getting a headache. What am I supposed to do now, again? Am I supposed to swirl this around in the glass and stare at it from the top and the side? I'm looking at other people now to see what they're doing. Oh, OK. Now I need to swish this around in my mouth like Listerine at the dentist. God this feels so weird and pretentious. All I want to do is get drunk. Why do I have to do this whole elaborate ritual first?

Wine-Pouring Dude: So this one here, if you like reds, is a 1997 Sangiovese chocolate-noted desert wine with an earthy, leathery, flower from the yada yada yada region of South Africa with good legs and density …

Me: Wait ... why are we talking about legs again? Every time you say "legs" I think of Paul McCartney's ex-wife. The one with the prosthetic limb that he met at a land mines charity event and that took him for everything he was worth several years and one baby later. Yeah, that one. Please stop saying "legs." It's super distracting. It's knocking me off my game trying to follow this script ...

Wine-Pouring Dude: Wait ... you need to ... Allow me to …

Me: Oh whoops. Did I just mess up? Ack! Sorry! These red ones all taste the same to me more or less. Like they all basically taste like warm, sour, grape juice that reminds me of sitting through boring Jewish holidays. I wish this was all hard liquor so I could just get wasted more efficiently instead of with all of this pomp and circumstance and a bad headache and a hangover tomorrow...

Wine-Pouring Dude: Perhaps you'd like to try this very mellow Shiraz? It's quite harmonious, complex, and evolved, with high tannins and an edgy bitterness that ...

Me: Yeah, no thanks. I'm good. Can you just pour me a giant glass of cold, white, sour grape juice now? And can you fill that sucker up ALL the way to the top?  Like, not just two inches of mouthwash at the bottom? Keep going. Don't stop there. No, like ALL the way. Yeah, that's good. Thanks. When did everyone I know get so into this? Can I chase this down with a couple of Percocets and maybe a shot of Jameson? Do you have any of that stuff behind the bar back there? Like whiskey and/or pills? That would really help cement this buzz for me and make this night a lot more fun ...

Wine-Pouring Dude: Ah. In that case, you might enjoy this subtle, balanced, Riesling varietal with a floral aroma from the Rhone Valley of France and blah blah blah …

Me: Yeah, not really. Again I am truly so sorry. You need to understand that all of this is completely lost on me. I get that lots of people are into this and that I am obviously missing something major here. Like literally almost everyone I know is obsessed with wine to a greater or lesser degree and I even know people who do this for a living. And every time I go to someone's house I pick out a wine from the liquor store in the $15-25 range without knowing what I am doing at all because I feel rude not doing that. I know this whole routine and appreciating wine is a centuries-old art form. I get that. Seriously I'm not dissing it. But I just don't like wine too much? And feel like I most certainly must be missing something? God, I am so confused and alienated by this whole experience. Oh. And I'm also INCREDIBLY hungry and I can feel that headache coming on. So can I get some more goat cheese and crackers now? Awesome, thanks.

A Mother’s Day Thank You Note to My Babies

Dear Babies,

I’m writing you this thank you letter from a sunny bench on the playground. (Thank you for letting me sit here, by the way. The swings make me barf). Technically you’re not babies anymore. At 8.5 and 11.5, I’m guessing you don’t have many years of monkey bars and swinging left in you. I’m just happy you still love playing with dolls and Legos. Can you make that last a little bit longer, please?

As an initial matter, I’m sorry I brought you into this shithole slum of a planet at probably one of the shittiest, most overpopulated and bleakest times in human history. Sorry for saying “shit.” I’m sorry, too, for the trouble I have caused in trying to do my part to un-shittify things. Maybe I’ve shat them up worse. But maybe you will understand why some day, and pick up where I left off, and do a better and less self-destructive job of it? 

I hope so.

Your biggest gift to me is bravery. Not fearlessness. I have more fear now than ever before. But you make me brave because I know that the only thing that matters is that I live to see you grow up and that you both outlive me. If that happens, I can handle anything. People can drag my name through the fetid sewer of lies and bullshit all they want and I could be broke and homeless and none of it will matter as long as we are around to love each other.

To my girl: I envy you. Your self-confidence, your self-esteem, your kindness, hard work, affection and your fierce independence. When I was your age, all I cared about were boys and friend drama. I cried over everything. You care about friendship bracelets and making your own French toast and finishing your math homework correctly and on time. You never get in trouble, unlike your mother. You hardly cry. Grandma dreaded my parent-teacher conferences but I look forward to yours because I know I’m not going to hear a bad word about you.

To my little man: You’re already too cool for your mom, I know. With your Sabiki fishing rig and your deep knowledge of local flora and your love of snowboarding and anything involving a ball. I doubt you’ll ever live anyplace but Alaska, and I hope you make it a better place. Thank you for teaching me how to raise a low-anxiety, wordsmith of a boy who loves babies, animals, and elders. Thank you for (almost) always being kind to other children.

The two of you are, by far, my greatest achievement. When you were born, I looked at you in wonder that my body made these perfect humans. I still love to put my face in your hair and read you stories and sleep next to you at night. I’ll try my best never to let anyone come betweeen you and your happiness and potential.

Thank you for the gift of being mine.

Love,

Mommy.

Delta Airlines' Breakup Letter to Juneau

Dear Juneau,

I didn't want you to hear it from KTOO or the Empire first, but it now appears it's too late as someone's already broken the story. I'm sorry, I never meant for it to be like this. But I think we should take a break. 

I know we've been through this before, but I want you to know I'm not leaving you. I could never do that. (I'm fogged in). I'm just sort of thinking . . .  like maybe we need some time apart. Specifically Tuesdays and Saturdays. Also southbound flights on Sundays and Wednesdays. 

Not forever . . . just until March when I can figure my shit out a little? At that point I'm pretty sure Sundays could be added back into the schedule. I'm even thinking by May we can sort of pick up where we left off. I don't know. I just kind of have to see what happens.

I think maybe things with us just got too heavy too fast, what with a year-round commitment beginning in the summer of 2015. I guess I didn't anticipate all the demands. Or the lack thereof, I guess I should say. But I'm going to take care of you. If I didn't love you, would I be setting you up and rerouting you with a partner airline? And of course I'll totally give you your money back for that big trip we had planned.

It is what it is, I guess. That's the way life goes, and only time will tell what the future holds. Maybe someday I won't have so many people congregating at my boarding door and all sorts of pressures from my shareholders.

Juneau, part of your business will always live deep inside of me. I want you to know that. You're my MVP, my Platinum Elite. You always challenged me--with your dangerous mountain passes, apocalyptic weather patterns, and specialized pilot certification and clearance required to land in you. 

You really made me grow, and no matter what happens, I will always love you for that.

Take Care,

Delta Airlines

P.S. I'm taking Walmart with me.

Winter Gives Juneau a Booty Call

Winter: Hey

Juneau:

Winter: U up?

Juneau: New phone who dis?

Winter: lmao for real?

Juneau: yeah sorry software upgrade lost all my contacts.

Winter: it’s Winter!

Juneau: Oh lol I deleted you in Feb.

Winter: I know—ugh. Sorry I’ve been kinda MIA lately. I’m going through kind of a hard time with global warming and shit.

Juneau: k.

Winter: so ummmm ... I was thinking of coming to town for a couple days in April maybe.

Juneau: 

Winter: and I was kinda wondering if maybe I could like crash on your couch or something maybe?

Juneau: srsly lol. are you tripping? where were you in Jan and Feb when Eaglecrest was in the fuckin hurt locker broseph?

Winter: I’m sorry lemme make it up to you I swear it’ll be dif this time. I’m in like a way better place.

Juneau: k.

Winter: no like seriously I’m really working on myself. Like I’m on a real self care journey and I’m coming back like stronger than ever next year.

Juneau: uh huh omg so tired I HAVE to go to sleep I have work in the morning.

Winter: what’re you doing for work these days?

Juneau: Lol really?

Winter: what?

Juneau: I’m pulling dog turds and needles out of snow berms (aka cleaning up your fuckin mess) so the cruise ship yahoos won’t see dog shit or litter 

Winter: that wasn’t my fault and you know it

Juneau: srsly not having this convo RN. See you next year maybe.

Proof Positive that 2017 is a Trash Fire: John Mayer is Back

Trigger warning to hardcore John Mayer fans: I am going to offend you with this post, and I'm saying sorry in advance. If you have firm feelings about the amazing-ness of John Mayer--musically or otherwise--I suggest perhaps you stop reading now.

Otherwise, you'll have to get in line behind strippers, avalanche victims, my mother-in-law, a few transgender teens, a white supremacist stalker, and my dad among people I've offended with my color commentary. 

With that out of the way, I'm telling you that we now have proof positive that 2017 is a fucking dumpster fire, and we are labeling it Exhibit A: John Mayer's Comeback.

I went to camp with a kid who went to high school with John Mayer. It sounds like a distant six-degrees-of-separation type thing, but I'm pretty good friends with this dude and I'd trust him with my life (literally, he's a doctor). He insists quite credibly that John Mayer was as big of a douche in high school as he is today. 

Frankly, I think it got under his skin that John Mayer made a million dollars threatening to "run through the halls" of their old high school. Not that I blame either of them, my friend OR John Mayer.

Anyway, I just can't with John Mayer. I don't know the guy, of course, and I'm sure he's very deep and complicated and a musical genius and a millionaire who banged Taylor Swift AND Katie Perry AND Jessica Simpson, and whose most recent Top-40 single sounds like Garth Brooks.

I'm not disputing any of that. 

And I also realize that the overarching theme of John Mayer's comeback is, to my very point, "I used to be an asshole and now I'm a reformed asshole, wait until you see how big of an asshole I'm not anymore."

But you know what? I'm not buying it, and I don't think I'm alone.

Like that's literally his campaign slogan right now: "Make John Mayer Not an Asshole Anymore." I'm pretty sure there are hats. Fedoras, probably.

With the exception of 1969--in which Jim Morrison rose to ascendancy as The Original Insufferable Dudebro--we might as well carve 2017 in the stone tablets of history as "Year of the Insufferable Dudebro 2.0."

Just Not Sorry

Regular readers of this blog know how I feel about the word "sorry." Let's just say I'm not a fan. "Sorry" is a five-letter four-letter word to me, and not just because it's something I think women say too often to their own detriment, i.e., when they're not remotely sorry and have no reason to be. 

The truth is I'm deeply self-loathing and guilt-ridden. But I am rarely sorry for anything. When I dig deep, I discover that any impulse I have to say "sorry" is just an impulse to placate someone else for no real reason, and not because I did something wrong and need to take responsibility. (Which, by the way, I have no problem doing when the occasion actually calls for it).

Today in Salon, the ever-incisive Amanda Marcotte pointed out something interesting that's caused me to modify my view a bit. She was reviewing Fox News' coverage of a new app called "Just Not Sorry," which is a Gmail plug-in that edits your lady-emails for words like "just" and "sorry" that convey a "lack of confidence." Here's Marcotte's point:

It’s easy to see why so many women fall for claims that you can manipulate people into taking you more seriously by eliminating the word “sorry” from your vocabulary . . . .  but the sad fact of the matter is other people’s sexism is outside of your control. This is especially obvious when it comes to the issue of women and language. Because, the fact of the matter is there is no “right” way for women to talk or write that will prevent other people from using it as an excuse to argue she should be silent instead. If you use “soft” language, you are called weak, for sure. But use “strong” language, and you will be called a bitch. The game is rigged.

I think she's right, but that doesn't mean I couldn't use the "Just Not Sorry" app, or one like it. However, my version of this app would be called "Motherfucker Cocksucker Douchebag Fuckstick Shitstain Asshole!!!!" 

See, my world can sometimes get adversarial, and I often find myself needing to edit out the non-lady-like curse words that appear unbidden in my lady-emails and all of the exclamation points that follow. 

So although I can't manipulate anyone into taking me seriously, perhaps I can manipulate them into thinking that I'm not actually a foul-mouthed rage packet hell-bent on verbally castrating people who piss me off in writing. 

Sorry ladies, there's no app for that. 

YET.

Blood, Sweat, and Tears

I wake up reluctantly, and still bleeding. Bleeding from the relentless, indifferent march of womanhood. Bleeding, too, from the cracked, dry corners of my eyelids. One of a few stubborn places where my immune system defies science and insists on asserting its inflammatory response.

If I were Christian (or at least not Jewish) I'd blame Christmas for needing an extra 10 mg of Prozac this morning. I would wonder about suicide hotlines and homicide hotlines and everyone being alone and sad. 

But there's nothing special about today, other than the fact that it's special to everyone else and nothing is open. 

Christmas each year is just a spectacle to me. I'm a spectator literally glancing through other people's living room windows from a stop sign. All the cookie-making and the tree-trimming and the electric trains and the family dynamics are all just a bemusing piece of theater. A Kabuki play unfolding on a stage of social media and delayed flights and text messages, none of which apply to me.

And yet I feel something, and it's not good. 

Maybe it's the day stretching out before me--my kids needing to be entertained--with the hours a daunting muddy slog instead of a joyful future memory festooned with tinsel and cloying song. Maybe it's my family; their inevitable disappointment at my tuning them out for a Dear Diary moment with my laptop. 

But I know it's more than that. That it's another form of bleeding. Of skidding.

After so many winters in Alaska, I've become pretty good at driving on ice and snow. I know to slow down and make small moves so I don't roll into a ditch, or at least maybe not hurt myself if I do. I know not to slam on the brakes or try to steer out of a skid. I know to take my hands and feet off the gas and the steering wheel, and just more or less let the car right itself.

Sometimes, though, when I'm in a skid, when I'm suspended in that moment, I'm not sure where I'll end up. Vacillating between the ditch and the road, between self-preservation and indulgent masochism and half-hearted self-harm.

I decide that the treadmill, of all things, is what I need right now. So I rifle through an archeological dig site of three overflowing laundry baskets to find my workout clothes in level three of the fossil record.

This is not the anorexic, athletic ambition-fueled OCD running of my 20s, but the Parkinson's-avoidant, cardiovascular health running of my 40s. I do this frog in boiling water thing. This thing where I keep making the speed one tenth of a mile faster. I remember my old hockey coach telling me to breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth. To breathe like that, and unclench my hands when I run to conserve energy and achieve maximum oxygenation of the bloodstream.

As I cue up songs, I start to hear sadness emerge from all the lyrics.

And I start to feel sad about all the mistakes I have made and the reactions I've been baited into. The things I didn't say when I should have. The things I shouldn't have said but did. The hurtful people and selfish situations I've exposed myself to for no reason and to no end. The friends I've disappointed. The inadequacies of motherhood. My professional shortcomings and my petty envies. This beleaguered, disorienting slum of a time we are living through. The tiny, insidious biases and mundane daily hypocrisies we all live with.

I think about my 20s, my 30s, and my 40s.

I think about the lost feeling I had in my low-self esteem 20s. How I made decisions then without knowing what I was doing, and how I spent my 30s living out the consequences of those decisions, for better, worse, or just plain dumb luck. (So far I've had more of the latter than I deserve, and I'm always waiting for the other shoe to drop).

I think about how my 40s will have to be a place of reckoning with the last 20 years. How life isn't a Choose Your Own Adventure book where you get to just back up and ramble on down some unchosen path to see how it would have turned out.

5.6, 5.7., 6.2., 6.5, 6.7. I keep dialing the speed up on the treadmill and the volume on my headphones and my whole face is just a mess of salty wetness now. A bald eagle soars past the window in front of a snow-capped mountain and it looks like a postcard outside. There's sweat and tears all mixed together, and as I run faster I just feel sorry for myself and grateful for the people who make good sports bras and music.

I bring music into the bathroom with me so I can keep crying in the shower. Bellbottom Blues is playing. I go through these phases when I'm really into Eric Clapton. I know he's just another rich, arrogant, womanizing asshole rockstar who went to rehab, and I read his biography so you don't have to. On the other hand, dude could write a song. 

My hair drips water onto my iPhone as I scroll through Spotify for another song by another band; one of many, that always re-centers me when I'm in this type of headspace.

So, so you think you can tell Heaven from Hell, blue skies from pain.
Can you tell a green field from a cold steel rail?
A smile from a veil?
Do you think you can tell?

Did they get you to trade your heroes for ghosts?
Hot ashes for trees?
Hot air for a cool breeze?
Cold comfort for change?
Did you exchange a walk on part in the war for a lead role in a cage?

How I wish, how I wish you were here.
We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year,
Running over the same old ground.
What have we found?
The same old fears.
Wish you were here.

And suddenly, there's nothing left to do but write it all down.

I'm a Cheese Enchilada, and You Know You Fucking Want Me for Lunch

Oh heeeeeeeey sexy! Haven't seen you around here in awhile! But I'm back and you're back, and I think the timing's finally right for us to try this thing again. 

Not sure who you think you're kidding, heading over to that salad bar area, because yeah, you just returned from a weekend away in which you probably drank your weight in gin. Still, you know you'll be back to scoop at least $12.57 worth of me into this container. (I'm looking at you, SALAD. Stay in your lane, bitch. Stay. In. Your. Fucking. Lane).

Sorry babe. As I was saying.

I get that a lot goes into choosing a lunch that you eat at your desk because you're too lazy to pack leftovers from home and they're gross anyway. And I get that you're too "busy" to take a real lunch hour in which you maybe do something "productive" like walk to the gym and drink a smoothie on the walk back. And believe me, I know that your major considerations in deciding what to eat for lunch are factors like will it stink up your office and your breath for hours afterward; will it make you fall asleep immediately after you eat it; will it give you pernicious gas; is it highly caloric and fattening; and/or is it cost-prohibitive. 

And I realize that maybe you're looking at me and saying to yourself, yeah, this cheese enchilada is all of those things, and maybe a few others I haven't even thought of yet. Which when you think about it is actually a really good thing, because it means I can still surprise you, right?! Even after all this time!

Why deny your feelings? YOLO--not YOLT. You only live ONCE, not twice. Like Eminem said, you only get one shot, do not miss your chance, this opportunity only comes once every few weeks when I'm available at the self-service deli counter of this store.

Go ahead and text one of your co-workers to see if there's anything she needs while you're out. While you're at it, ask her if it's a good idea to eat me, a ducking cheese enchilada, for lunch? I know you typed "fucking" but your iPhone keeps auto-correcting to "ducking" and I know her name isn't Gina. That was also an auto-correct/speech-text fail, when you tried to write/speak-text under your breath, "I'm gonna get this fucking cheese enchilada." Not "I'm Gina get this ducking tarantula." I bet she tells you to go for it, again because YOLO, if only in the hopes that it will make you fatter than she is. Wait, she just texted back. HAHAHA! "Go for it, YOLO!" See? I was right! That's what it says. I can see it from here.

Anyway, whatevs.

You woke up with a new wrinkle that you told yourself is just from sleeping on your pillow in a funny position, and your 5 year-old son refuses to get dressed in the morning unless you wave his clothes at him so he can pretend he's a charging bull and "charge" his head into the neck hole of his shirt. 

Furthermore, doing kegel exercises to strengthen your pelvic floor is like, the most exertion you did so far today, and no one's even giving you credit for that, because no one can see you doing it and your pelvic floor doesn't wear spandex and carry around a water bottle.

Well I'm here to make it aaaalllllll better. I'm like nothing you've ever eaten before, except all of the 8,000,000 other times you've succumbed to my incontrovertible deliciousness. 

Come ON. Don't be a hero. I'm a cheese enchilada, and you know you fucking want me for lunch.

I'm Putting Out Fires

Sorry, I’m gonna have to get back to you. I’m just putting out some fires.

Am I a firefighter? Why no. But I am the Special Vice Assistant Principal of Yellow Number Two Pencil Sharpening in this office, and let me tell you: the whole damn place is on fire. And by “on fire,” I mean I have three emails and two voice mails to return from twelve hours ago, and the whole world may very well resemble Rome in the time of Nero if I do not douse the flames immediately by promptly addressing the monumentally important content of these communications.

Indeed, these fires are likely to engulf not just my desk, but the entire office building in which I work. And from there, the city and state in which I live. And from there, the country. And from there, the entire North American continent. And from there I can all but guarantee the fires will spread to a large oil tanker, which will carry the flames across many oceans. And before you know it, planet earth will be a charred hellscape that looks like a cross between Death Valley and Satan’s own wood-fired pizza oven. 

There will be no survivors. Not if I don’t put out these fires.

I can hear the five alarms blaring now. What was that? Sorry, I couldn't quite make you out over the roar of the sirens. But best to save it for later anyway, because if I don’t don my respirator, duty belt, oxygen tank, and other heavy equipment and jump down this pole onto the back of a fire truck (metaphorically speaking, of course) these fires will never be extinguished.

Spoiler Alert! Have you seen Backdraft? That movie from like, 1991 or so? Starring Kurt Russell, Robert DeNiro, and Donald Sutherland (he's Kiefer dad). Also one of the Baldwins (not Alec). Lots of cool stuff happened in that movie, including this one scene--right in the middle of a fire!--when Not-Alec-Baldwin figures out Kiefer’s dad is secretly the arsonist they’ve been tracking the whole movie. DUN-DUN-DUN! And there’s this perfect line about firemen too: “The funny thing about firemen, night and day, they’re always firemen.” And this one other totally perfect line about fire: “It’s a living thing. It breathes, it eats, and it hates. The only way to beat it is to think like it.”

So true! Whoever wrote that was like, in my MIND.

The funny thing about putting out fires, is that if it's your job to put out fires, night and day, your'e always doing it no matter what. For example: I saw these particular fires ignite at 9:30 p.m. last night, and I considered letting them smolder. Then I thought better of it. That's not what a good fireman does! He doesn't just let the whole fucking place burn to the ground! See, email and voice mail are living things: They come off the server. They lay in wait in your in box with a little red blinking light or bold-faced "unread" font. They gobble up all your time. And they definitely--definitely--hate you.

The only way to beat these fires is to think like them. WWME&VMD? (What Would My Email and Voicemail Do?) They would not give two hard shits if I was already three sheets to the wind, blatantly not on the clock, and in absolutely no position to address them. They would leave themselves at my doorstep and say "Here I am! I am a fire! Put me the fuck out! NOW!"

So again, sorry. But that's what I'm doing. I'm putting out fires. I'll call you later, m'kay?

The Baby Journal Fail

"Write it down!," the journal screams urgently. "Memories are all that's left." Really? That's a bit melodramatic, don't you think?  Regardless, the "Mother's Journal" in the photo below is one of literally dozens of similar journals I've come to possess in the past decade, and none of them--not ONE--documents a single moment past either of my children's infancy.

Sometimes when I'm feeling particularly masochistic (i.e. frequently), I like to imagine conversations between my kids and their future therapists in young adulthood. And because I'm a narcissist, these imagined conversations are always about me.

"I don't understand it," they'll say hopelessly, tears welling in their eyes. "She was writing ALL the time. She wrote a million embarrassing things about us on her stupid blog and all over Facebook and Twitter. And when she wasn't doing that, she was coloring like a six year-old in "adult" coloring books. [Here they will make air quotes with their fingers]. And when she wasn't doing THAT, she was dicking around on her iPhone. She couldn't have kept ONE journal? I mean . . . it'd be one thing if she was actually spending TIME with us, but she WASN'T! I'm NEVER doing this to my kids."

The therapist will sit there with her blinky, therapist poker-face. She'll cross her legs and fold her hands in her lap, leaning forward just a little. A fish tank will burble quietly behind her, a few brightly-colored fish swimming in lazy circles among the plastic rocks and coral. She'll offer a box of tissues and ask earnestly, "Why do YOU think she didn't keep a journal?"

And of course they won't have an answer, which is why I'm providing one now.

My kids are now five and eight, and to say I'm behind on journaling their childhood milestones is a profound understatement. I was doing great at first. When Paige was born, I wrote down every little detail from the moment she came home until about ten months, when I somehow lost the will to journal, along with other, arguably more essential activities of daily living such as regular showers and shaving my legs.

You can see this from the paper record. The first few months of her life are chronicled in excruciating detail: "Nursed for 20 minutes on the right side today," or "Six weeks: first smile!," or, "Rice cereal! First solid food!" And a photo, carefully selected from an online library, printed on photo stock, cut to size, and lovingly affixed with double-sided tape to a pre-drawn box positioned on the page at an angle and meant to look whimsical.

By the time Isaac came along three years later, I was over it. I maybe wrote down his first word, but I couldn't tell you where if my life depended on it. I suppose I could doctor, fabricate, and back-date a couple of journals like those crooked cops on Making a Murderer, but somehow that seems even worse?

"Why aren't there more pictures of ME, Mommy?" he asked pathetically one day while studying photos of baby Paige crammed along the frame of a mirror on my bedroom wall. 

"Because Mommy kind of lost track of space and time once Paige started walking, honey. I'm sorry about that. Let's print some photos of you this weekend."  

Of course we never do, and again my mind wanders to the therapist's office. I'm not even sure I have all of their school photos, as I seem to have lost some of those as well.

I guess in the grand scheme of things, failure to keep a journal isn't the worst parental crime. Certainly it's not inconsistent with the adequate parent theory, which holds that kids will basically turn out OK if you don't actively traumatize them by beating them with belt buckles and leaving them alone for weeks at a time in a crack house to fend for themselves. Yes, I know. It's just a "theory."

But although I view my failure to journal as a fail, I don't consider it to be a big one. We're all of us fuck-ups from the start, aren't we?  In that vein, I'll leave you with my favorite poem about parenting, called This Be the Verse, written in 1971 by the British poet and novelist Philip Larkin:

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.

They may not mean to, but they do.

They fill you with the faults they had

And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn

By fools in old-style hats and coats,

Who half the time were soppy-stern

And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.

It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out early as you can,

And don't have any kids yourself.

A Feminist Takedown of The Worst Fucking Song Ever: Cat Stevens' "Wild World"

In honor of this Saturday's Women's March on Washington (which I will be attending against my better judgment), I give you a feminist takedown of the most epic mansplaining ballad of all time, Wild World by Cat Stevens. 

I'm not the first person to point out the laughable, condescending misogyny of this song, since there's no such thing as an original idea. But I've hated this song forever, heard it playing in a coffee shop recently, and was inspired to "upend the patriarchy" or whatever by piling on, so here goes:

Now that I've lost everything to you
You say you wanna start something new
And it's breakin' my heart you're leavin'
Baby, I'm grievin'

Okay, I'm with you so far, although you're being a little bit melodramatic here, wouldn't you say, Cat? Everything? Really? I can imagine maybe like, a few T-shirts and some Velvet Underground records. Perhaps a spare toothbrush. But "everything?" Still, your heart is broken, you're grieving. I get it. I feel bad I guess. But yeah, I "wanna start something new." I'm not just "saying" that. I really do have an idea or two about my own future. MD/PhD at Columbia and a giant bed all to myself, much?

But if you wanna leave, take good care
I hope you have a lot of nice things to wear
But then a lot of nice things turn bad out there

Alright. You're really starting to piss me off here. Yeah, I DO wanna leave, and yes, I WILL take good care, thank you very much. I'm not sure if that's supposed to be passive-aggressive. And I do in fact have "a lot of nice things to wear," not that it should matter to you or anyone else. Yes, my shoe collection rivals that of Imelda Marcos. And what of it?! Your implication that I should be reduced to a little black dress and perhaps an infinity scarf and cute set of silver bangles is deeply insulting. Things "turn bad out there?" Who knew? Seriously, I have no idea how I managed to make it this far in life without your guidance. Thanks for mansplaining the world's trials and tribulations to me, Person Who Has Played Life on Easiest Possible Difficulty Level.

Oh, baby, baby, it's a wild world
It's hard to get by just upon a smile
Oh, baby, baby, it's a wild world
I'll always remember you like a child, girl

Now this is just downright creepy. If you're remembering me "like a child," then I suggest you seek therapy before you end up on an episode of that trap house show where they catch online pedophiles. I'm a grown-ass woman, and you're not my dentist. So don't tell me "it's hard to get by just upon a smile." First of all, I did Crest White Strips just this week and have received many compliments. Secondly, I'm also getting by on my wits, my education, my brains, and my tits. Don't leave out my tits, which rhymes with wits. There, I just wrote your next song for you. You're welcome. I'll leave you a P.O. Box where you can send me the royalty checks.

You know I've seen a lot of what the world can do
And it's breakin' my heart in two
Because I never wanna see you a sad girl
Don't be a bad girl

Sorry your heart is broken, but, um, you never wanna see me "A SAD GIRL?" Don't be "A BAD GIRL?" FUCK YOU! Who are you, Donald Trump? (I hear he's still looking for inauguration acts). Wait, please tell me--again a grown-ass woman---more about all you've seen of "what the world can do" from perched atop your stool, crooning corny melodies into a mic with your eyes closed and strumming your acoustic guitar. Your "sensitive ponytail man" act doesn't fool me for a minute, and never has. Go cruise for girls at a food co-op or something.

But if you wanna leave, take good care
I hope you make a lot of nice friends out there
But just remember there's a lot of bad and beware

Once again, I have somehow managed to navigate the planet lo these many years without your guidance and beneficence. I already have plenty of friends too, btw, but thanks for looking out for me. Remember that time we were walking in the sand together and there was only one set of footprints where before there had been two? Come closer and let me whisper in your ear: When you saw only one set of footprints, that was the time I carried you on my back to the First Aid station because you stepped on a piece of sea glass and were being a total pussy about it. So if anyone needs to worry about anyone here, it's you who should be worrying about yourself.

Baby, I love you
But if you wanna leave, take good care
I hope you make a lot of nice friends out there
But just remember there's a lot of bad and beware

I think you said that already. Peace out, ya bitch! P.S.: I faked every orgasm and I fucked your drummer.

I Will Not Be Fully Woke Until Every Square Inch of My Body is Covered in Glitter

This is the conclusion I’m starting to reach you guys. 

Glitter pits. Glitter bush. Glitter eye makeup. Glitter sunglasses. Ship your enemies glitter. Glitter glitter glitter glitter GLITTER. Fucking glitter is everywhere. According to the internet, Glitter Pits are a BFD summer 2018 style and "the latest feminist beauty trend to make you sparkle."

M'kaaaaaaaaay.

As I mentally, physically, and financially prepare for my first bikini wax of the summer season emerging from the long, dark, hairy winter, I'm forced to reconsider and just let myself turn into the gorilla that nature intended me to be. 

But first, a quick trip to JoAnn Fabrics for a gallon of silver glitter. Because glitter, my fellow bitchez, is the key to wokeness. 

So we lost the Presidency. So old white dudes with Mayflower last names, six ex-wives, and turkey neck waddle to rival your grandma's stuffed Thanksgiving Butterball are still trying to pass laws in our vaginas. So we're still getting a dick in our face at work and the dudes who whipped out their dicks only have to sit out a couple months in the #MeToo corner with a dunce hat on before everyone starts feeling sorry for them again and gives them a show on cable or a column in the newspaper or a book deal. So we still make 70 cents on the Dude Dollar™. So there are literally fewer of us running big companies than DUDES NAMED JOHN.

Let all that marinate for a second. Especially the John thing. I'll wait. Ready? Okay.

But Reba McEntire is Colonel Sanders in drag and we can dip our pubes in glitter to make them less disgusting to men and Insta-ready and Coachella-friendly and HAWT AF.

Look people. I'm the first person to admit that I have an issue with hair. A very non-feminist issue. I don't like it. Not one bit. I spend a lot of time and money depilating myself in all sorts of ways. With lotions. With razors. With wax. I do not like it on my legs. I do not like it on my brows. I do not like it in my pits. I do not like it on my face. I do not like that thick black hair, I do not like it anywhere. I could literally write the Green Eggs and Ham of hair removal, and it's all because I'm conforming to a patriarchal standard of beauty and am 100% part of the problem. I can fully admit that.

But is GLITTER really the answer? Like does glitter really advance the cause of feminism any more than just shaving in the first place? I'm not so sure.

In the meantime, I'm going to write "Black Hair and Glitter," with apologies to Dr. Seuss.

Would you like it here or there?

I would not like it here or there

I would not like it anywhere

I do not like black hair and glitter

Despite that it's a trend on twitter.

Would you like it

In your pits?

Would you call 

Your waxing quits?

I do not like it in my pits

I do not want to call it quits

I do not like it

In my pits

I will not call my waxing quits.

I do not like that thick black hair

I do not like it anywhere.

Would you put glitter

On your box?

Just to look

Like a young fox?

Not on my box

Like a young fox

Not in my pits

To call it quits

I do not like that thick black hair

I do not like it anywhere!