A local mom was shocked this morning to discover that she’s an asshole.
Local mom had been too busy to read the news for the past decade, due to soccer, chess club, math Olympics, gymnastics, travel, and volunteer work. Today, she picked up a newspaper. You could have knocked her over with an Evite.
“Oh my god,” she said. “I’m an asshole.”
While reading about families of 12 having to share one case of water, during a pandemic, during a power grid outage, when the refrigerator was warmer than the house, local mom spits out her Nespresso coffee.
I miss the memory of my grandma. Or shall I say, the non-memory of her?
It can be frustrating talking to someone who cannot keep track of the conversation you're having with them. It harder for them, but it’s hard for everyone once dementia kicks in. There’s not a lot of flow.
When I used to talk to my grandma, it was hard to figure out what she was grasping and what was floating by her. Sometimes 1924 was clearer than five minutes before. …
Boobs. When you’re young, you flaunt’m. When you get older, you push’m up.
On my walks along the lake, I always see college-aged girls wearing tiny tops and mom jeans. It’s a cute look. The appearance of so much flesh is jarring at first, but then it reminds me of when I wore two bandanas tied together as a shirt to my college classes. Whoa girl. Youth is bold.
I purchased the tied-together bandana shirts for five bucks each, from a store located on the first floor of my apartment building. A woman named Sue owned the store. She was…
What’s the deal with salads? Why are they so fucking hard to make? Why do they have to be such dicks? I’m sorry if I’ve offended dicks, but that’s what salads are. Just a bunch of dicks.
“Why dicks?” You may ask. “Is this gender bias? Can a salad be a vagina?”
No, a salad cannot be a vagina. Thanks for asking. A salad can only be a dick.
“Why are you comparing dicks to salads?” You may ask.
Good question. I’m not. I’m using the word dick as an insulting word, like “Gosh, Marcie, don’t be such a dick.”
I don’t know about the rest of you, but I plan on getting rich on Medium. Why not? Better place than any. I like the neighborhood. The people who live here read books and watch old movies, I think. People here aren’t afraid of talking about politics, religion, or sex. Why not get rich here?
Yet, you write articles telling me that I will not make money on Medium.
I don’t want to be rude, but you’re killing my dreams, Smalls!
Stop telling me I’m not going to get rich on Medium! You sound like my mother. …
In a work Zoom meeting, someone made reference to a “squatty body.” Everyone got in on the conversation. They were laughing, bantering, using squatty body in a sentence like it was the most normal word combo in the universe.
WTF? When did people start saying squatty body? It sounded mean. I could only see people’s Zoom faces and torsos, but at least one of us had to have a squatty body. Not everyone had traffic-stopping legs and a Michael Phelps wingspan.
Was I hanging with a cruel Zoom crowd who made fun of people’s bodies? It felt litigious. …
The awesome thing about going viral is you get paid. The rough thing about going viral is people want blood. Some people have written me long explanations describing in wonderful detail why I suck. Other people are briefer, like the one I got his morning. “What a disparaging waste of my time.”
It makes me think about a restaurant I know that closed because of a couple of bad yelp reviews. Someone wanted blood. They ripped the place to shreds in bad reviews. They didn't die of food poisoning. A waiter didn’t punch them in the face or visibly spit…
I’m still working out the kinks, but one thing is certain. I need to write to make money. I need to write a lot. It’s like poker. I’m not going to win on the first hand. And that’s not what the game is about anyway. The game is about showing up, writing, and reading. You gotta play the game to win the game. Tourists don’t get rich on Medium. You gotta move in.
I’ve written a few hundred essays so far and two have made 99% of my Medium money.
I got a text from my mom earlier that she was stuck in an elevator. It’s her building elevator, and it happens now and then. So, I wasn’t massively worried, like if she’d called me from the four hundredth floor of some random skyscraper, but it was unnerving.
It’s a strange feeling, knowing someone you love is stuck in an elevator and not being able to do anything about it. Talk about not being God.
The ancient Greeks made the first elevators, by using pulleys and winches, so they’ve been around a while. They’re an old tech. …
My kid’s a gamer, so we haven’t had physical toys around for a while. Gone are the Pokemon cards, the Thomas the Trains, the Rescue Bots, the pullback cars, and the fidget spinners.
My friends and I used to complain about the constant purchasing of plastic toys. We joked that toys were a line item on our budgets. We joked we could make landfills in our backyards and use them for sledding. It was no joke.
Some toys held our kids’ interest until we left the store, causing us to turn around return them immediately. Some toys held their appeal…