Posts in Social Commentary
Have you tried white noise?

I have a stack of sleep books on the dining room table as high as my head. I’ve read every blog, posted in (almost) every Facebook group. I’ve followed “sleep gurus” on Instagram – guides on this never ending journey to figure out how to get my child to nap. And now I’m dissenting from the groupthink. 

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I'll Be Just Fine

“It’s not like you’re ugly,” she says. “I don’t understand.” I’m in my mid-thirties and unmarried. It is source of contention between my mother and me. 

I will admit that I at one time I had a wedding binder where I kept magazine cutouts of dresses, flower arrangements and so forth. I imagined my groom as 90s Denzel Washington or Brad Pitt.  My groom and I would dance to Always and Forever by Heatwave and we’d live forever in a colonial with a bright painted yellow door. I threw that binder out nearly 20 years ago. 

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Quality of Life

Yesterday evening, I bathed myself, trimmed my cuticles and my nails on both hands and feet. I thought of the podiatrist appointments that I need to take my clients to, next week...

When I am old, will I allow myself to pay for someone else to clip my nails, comb my hair, floss and brush my teeth, clean my body, shower me, wipe my ass; see me naked in order to give me personal care of the things that, at 60 years old, I still feel privileged to accomplish on my own?

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In Defense of the Participation Ribbon

The color of the ribbon is somewhat irrelevant to an eight year old. She doesn’t care if it’s regular blue (winner!) or light blue (participator!). It’s not the form of her triumph, it’s the matter - a slightly glossy strip of fabric purchased in bulk and stamped by mothers working in a small brown room that smells of chlorine. It’s okay to always see your name at the bottom of the lists taped to the dark green doors and to be the last one across the pool - as long as there’s that ribbon.

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My Irish Eyes

Right now... I am sitting in the courtyard of a stable converted to living quarters, our housing for the week. A stone exterior frames a bright blue door, one of many brightly colored doorways in Ireland, predominantly red. It feels like optimism brightening the doorway of an otherwise grey facade. It feels like her people. There’s a cheerfulness everywhere, easy going, never stressed, always a kind word or turn about into a subtle joke making me smile. Underneath there’s a vein of sadness, from where I don’t know and can only speculate.

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The Best I Could Do

I always have the television on in the kitchen while I fix and eat my meals. This morning, Saturday, my usual weekday selections not available, I scanned through the HBO suite of channels even though I did not desire to commit to watching a whole movie. I came upon a documentary in progress about the school girls kidnapped by Boko Haram four years ago.

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A Few Good Men

There is a stop sign near our house that many people feel does not apply to them. So I am often paying special attention to those assholes who sail through that intersection. Monday through Friday, there is often a lot of traffic and the left turn lanes are full. As I was driving my kids to school this morning, a man in a large pick-up truck decided that he was more important than anyone else and that other people's safety was of no concern of his.

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