and it all started with a big bang

Legos, Big Bang Theory, Batman. Can it really get better than this?

Well, yes. Yes it can.

Create your own personal mini-fig and invite yourself to the room where it happens.

…we are made of particles that have existed since the moment the universe began. I like to think those atoms traveled fourteen billion years through time and space to create us, so that we could be together…

The Matrimonial Momentum – The Big Bang Theory

 

I deserve this today, today I deserve it.

Batman – Lego Batman

nevertheless persisting

I might be entering the acceptance stage. Of course the stages of grief are fluid and somewhat circular rather than linear so acceptance doesn’t necessarily mean one is done. Consider the reality that one never does get over the loss of a loved one. You don’t. You just don’t ever. I tell you this because while I might be accepting the fact of who is currently  sitting in the White House, and on weekends in his imagined Winter/Southern White House, it doesn’t mean that I am okay with this. Dear god, no! Nor am I okay with the idea of a Winter White House or a Southern White House. It’s like fetch. It’s not a thing and it’s never going to happen so stop trying to make it happen. I do, however, like that I can insert a Mean Girls reference here.

Perhaps I am accepting what is America right now, but I won’t lie, it makes me mad. Acceptance mixed with anger. See? The stages of grief are not stages with defined, hard boundaries even when mourning the loss of America.

So I’m accepting resigned and a little mad. Okay, fine. I am a lot mad. As my darling husband explained to our son as I headed off to meet with like-minded folks here in the 209 to discuss plans and strategies to get our Congressman to have a real town meeting and talk about the issues that are important to us – which don’t even come close to what is important to his political BFF in the White House – they woke the Mama-Bear.

That’s right, Mama-Bear is woke and Mama-Bear is going to fight back hard and, thankfully, Mama Bear is not alone.

 

to the moon and back

I really didn’t want to be one of those people sharing all the romance and flowers and love notes and gifts that are Valentine’s Day. I really didn’t. My darling husband and I are basically old married people…he looks like a grumpy Get Off My Lawn old man and every waking and most sleeping hours I am now painfully aware of my swollen, achy, arthritic joints…so we basically made no plans for Valentine’s Day. It’s for the young ones we agreed.

Still my darling husband DID buy new dishes the week before. Understand that we have had the same dishes since we were potty training adult members of this circus act. We now have dinnerware for GROWN UPS; dinnerware that I noticed one time months prior as really good looking dinnerware. Y’all can have your flowers and cards and box of chocolates and wine…okay, I would like the wine too…but my darling husband and I don’t need One Day to express our love. We have every day together and five children and two grandchildren and brand new dishes. So, for Valentine’s Day, which was Tuesday, I worked so that the young ones could have the night off…and go out to dinner on a Tuesday. My darling husband and I have the weekend off when our favorite restaurant won’t be crowded at all. Oh, and we have new dishes too!

Love is in the air here under The Big Top!

Coming home, early Tuesday morning, the last thing I expected was this.

Sometimes, I think about the day we met. I think about how I was in the right place at the right time to see your face, and how you smiled a smile that told me you were someone amazing. Ever since the day we met, you’ve made me realize that true love has perfect timing.

Yeah.

New dishes, beautiful flowers and the best love note ever! There is a very good reason why I call him my darling husband.

Yeah.

I love him too, to the moon and back.

Of course I shared these beautiful flowers all over social media, as young lovers, old married people and all those other people do on Valentine’s Day.

 

 

snowflakes, snow days and winter is coming

Somedays can be so hard…like today. Chronic pain, persistent anger that simmers at a low boil and long awaited and prayed-for winter storms take their toll…and today it was just that.

Expressing frustrations socially can help except in this time of political incorrectness; which is basically code for a hall pass for bullying anyone who doesn’t agree with you. Still today was a day where I spoke my mind, because I have a mind dammit and as long as it is my social space and the First Amendment remains, I’m going to express myself. It feels good. It’s even better to bask in the warmth of the like-minded in my own circle. In church we used to refer to it as encouragement. Of course, not everyone I know thinks like me. That’s okay. Most can just agree to disagree because it’s the mature thing to do. Others just walk away, mute, unfollow, scroll past or just ignore – equally mature. I respect these choices. I honor them. I give thanks for each and everyone in my circles who do this. You all are amazing! Mad love and respect for you all because we regularly exchange ideas and challenge one another.

It’s all fine until that one person you know stops by to troll. YES, troll! We all know that one person…or two or maybe more. The ones who have nothing to say when you get that promotion at work, or your kid does something great, or when you wreck your car, or when you are lonely or afraid. But express an opinion that differs from theirs and THEY ARE THERE!

Hey there trolls. How the hell are you? Let’s talk. Engage. Trade ideas. Brag about our kids and grandkids.

Trolls respond as trolls do with shrill screeching, yelling and name-calling.

I’m a snowflake?

Okay fine, I am a snowflake.

You think that will hurt me? Oh bitch please. I have been called much worse…in fact one of you actually was one of those who called me much worse back in the day. I forgave you then. You were just a punky kid then. Today you are an adult, an adult armed with the idea that this Republican administration gives you a pass to insult and name call anyone who does not agree with your opinions, your beliefs, your politics or the Administration that you voted for. Now who is the snowflake, really?

But go ahead, if it makes you feel better about yourself, your opinions, your politics, call me a snowflake.

I’m a snowflake…one tiny snowflake alone, so delicate, so fragile, so ethereal. No wonder you feel so brave with your trolling. And yet, let a billion of them come together through the majestic force of nature, they can screw up a whole city…highways, airports, businesses and schools.

Winter is coming my friends.

So is a snow day.

Get ready.

somewhere between

Today’s distraction from the destruction of America is midlife crises, aching joints, chronic pain, osteoarthritis, old lady problems, Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition and braids.

Really! These are the bright, shiny objects that I might allow myself to focus on rather than Senate Republicans show how easily that they can be bought by a newly minted Education Secretary who has no fucking clue; and how easily offended they can be upon hearing the words of the late Coretta Scott King. Poor little snowflakes!

Arguably, these might be issues in today’s news that deserve my time, my energy, my focus…and they have had that until…

Um, over 55? This? Well, okay, yes, this IS over 55 but come on, The Times UK! I will be 55 next month. Sure, I am struggling lately with osteoarthritis and chronic pain that makes me hate life; especially when I need to get something out from those cupboards under the counter or the kitchen sink or just get through a typical day. But I can still rock the pigtails here.

Instagram Likes tell me so.

And just as I settle in imagining that I remain forever young in spite of media’s perception of what 55 and over looks like and whether or not pigtails are appropriate for women of a certain age  or the fact that I literally can not crouch down or run or walk any distance…

there is Christie Brinkley. SIXTY THREE YEAR OLD Christie Brinkley in a bikini in Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition.

Damn!