Hogwarts’ Owl

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…waiting for my reply.

Photo by Elisabeth Crisp, taken in San Antonio, TX with an iPhone 6. Filtered using Snapseed.


A Mean Place

I’ve avoided this page for too long. I can’t any longer.

My mama wouldn’t be proud. I’m breaking her rule. I have nothing nice to say, but I’m sayin’ it anyway.

A while back, I wrote about my confrontation with my neighbor.

Here it is.

I want to walk next door and confirm that the current state of my country, my world, was what she wanted.

I wish I hadn’t been right.

I wish I could go back and grow a pair.

I’d actually put the Hillary sign in my yard.

I would’ve stopped the voter suppression I witnessed at my poling place, where the man in charge intimidated the brown people in line.

“You might as well leave now if you don’t have a photo ID.”

I knew he was wrong. I knew about the court ruling. I gripped my own drivers license and turned away, disgusted at his lie, disgusted at my inability to confront the well-dressed, middle-aged Republican in charge.

So here we are:



Climate Change,


the EPA,



the subtle implosion of my health insurance,

the racist comments my Asian-American daughters have endured at school because it’s now acceptable to chant “TR**P, TR**P, TR**P” on a school bus.

I’m using asterisks because, in this era, all press is good press. I’m not about to contribute to that sinkhole.

If my words upset you, feel free to unfollow. This isn’t a one-off and done rant from me. I’m done pretending that things are OK. I’m an American. I vote. I expect more from my government than this.


Not My Hobby

img_6421 Today, I patronized my least favorite store. All of the clerks are tired and surly. I don’t blame them. If you follow the news at all, you know that the store’s owner beats the Bible over employee heads without a thought.

And yes, for the record, I believe birth control is a right. I’m a feminist and a liberal.

And a Christian.

That’s only part of the reason why this place sucks.

When our children were young, Bacon worked there for six months. He was enticed by the sign in the front window.

  • We promote from within.
  • Management positions available.

At hiring, the manager promised to start him out as a cashier. He never made it to the front of the store unless it was with a ladder. Instead, he reported at dawn to unload a truck. Never mind that he has two college degrees, customer service skills, and spent a year in seminary. He was muscle to HL. They didn’t care that his muscles were over 50.

One Tuesday, he finished an eight hour shift and hung his blue apron on the break room peg. He was in a hurry to pick up Coco from school when the assistant manager told him to recheck the schedule. Three extra hours had been added next to his name. On a normal day, Bacon would sling the apron back over his head and clock back in, but Coco was waiting.  He tried to explain, “My nine-year old is alone at school–”  His boss put a hand up in front of his face. He wasn’t hearing it.

So Bacon left.

He was fired the next day. Two weeks later, he was denied unemployment benefits. So much for family values. Amazing Grace sounds more than a little tinny to me over Hobby Lobby’s P.A. system.

Years later, I’m still chafed about it, but it hasn’t stopped me from occasionally taking advantage of the low prices on the backs of poor Chinese (and American) laborers.

I’m ashamed.

I didn’t browse. I wasn’t tempted by acres of whatnots, by bling so flaky and intense that Bacon used to complain about glitter-in-my-crack syndrome. No. I walked directly to the picture hangers, selected a package, and carried it to the front. I got in line.  A very long line. Only one cashier was working.

I waited.

Not a bar code in sight.

Hobby Lobby uses an archaic system of ringing up purchases. There are no bar codes or scanners. Each cashier puts in an inventory number by hand. Every discount is added manually at the time of purchase. Today’s big bargain: dried flowers 50% off. The shopper in front of me bought a cart full.

The cashier brandished a bouquet of feathers on a pick. “These aren’t discounted. They’re not flowers.”

The customer straightened and stepped closer to the counter. She knew how to stand her ground in face of discount denial. “Well, they’re on the same aisle as the rest.”

The cashier rolled her shoulder toward the assistant manager, who was guarding the door (in case an octogenarian made a run for it with a set of glitter encrusted Mason Jars.) Without leaving her post, the boss decided the offer included feathers. The purchase totaled $103.49. Eucalyptus, (also not technically a flower) dried ragweed, (I mean baby’s breath), and raffia were bagged along with the feathers on a stick.

It was finally my turn.

I slapped my two packages on the counter, produced a five, and walked away with change. On my way out I said, “Have a good day.”

The cashier looked at me for the first time. “Oh. . . Thanks. . . You too.”

It’s a tough job.