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.



In Another Life

I saw this in the New York Times and had to share. I can almost see myself living in these rooms.


It’s been a long day without you, my friend

And I’ll tell you all about it when I see you again.*

The longer I’m away from anything, the harder it is to make my way back. That book on the nightstand—I put it down one night and didn’t have the nerve to crack it open the next—becomes a member of the DNF list.

Did Not Finish.

Since I’ve been gone, Coco started high school. Cherry is on the endless mailing list of college recruiters. And Bacon underwent dozens of medical tests that promised scary outcomes, but proved nothing. I’ve become a middle-aged, female  Atlas, holding our world over my head while screeching, “Don’t eat that. Eat this. Put down your phone. Finish your homework.”

My arms hurt.

My mother always told me, “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all.” I shouldn’t blame my absence on Mom. I’ve been occupied. And whiny.

I hate whiners.

My girl Hillary lost the election. Today’s news brings it home. She was robbed. We were robbed.


I kicked my next door neighbor out of my house last October. She said he wasn’t a racist. I reminded her, “My children aren’t white.” She said he doesn’t believe what he’s been saying. With my hand on the doorknob, I told her, “If it walks like a duck, if it talks like a duck, it’s a duck.” I shut the door behind her.

I’m a red state snowflake.

We made nice over Christmas. I wish I’d served duck soup.

*Wiz Khalifa