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. …
I had an epiphany as I was looking through my old boxes of papers. I realized I wrote down my life to connect with my experiences. Had I not written everything down, how much would I have forgotten?
I compulsively write. I go to concerts and take notes. I take notes in plays. I take notes in Zoom meetings and the occasional conversations with friends and family. I look back at some of the notes while other pieces are hidden between sheets of paper in boxes. I write to remember.
I first realized I had no memory in 4th grade…
I used to jog with a woman who had the calves of a Mustang. The horse, not the car. We spent months trying to find her wide calf boots. This was before Amazon, so people had to go to stores. She couldn’t Google, “Big calved knee-high calved boots.” She had to try them on and see.
She could never zip the boots up to her knees. I told her it reminded me of trying to get my big old thighs into a pair of Calvin Klein jeans. I inhaled and squeezed and wrangled myself in. …
Do you shower naked in front of your friends? Or do you change into the bathroom stall? I am in awe of the women who will stand and talk to me naked while washing their hair, soaping up their whole body, chatting away like you’re sitting in a cafe. These naked locker room people represent total freedom to me, and when I grow up, I want to be just like them.
I’ve been a server for a long time. I’ve seen children throw their food. I’ve seen adults regurgitate their food, but I have never seen adults, so bitch slapped by their kids.
I have seen men pussy-whopped enough to buy a woman three surf and turfs in one sitting, but I had never seen a grown woman send back a child’s meal because the garnish was touching his mac and cheese.
I have seen a man lick the Alfredo off a woman’s nose, but never had I seen a child say. “Mommy! …