we are here

Amazing how far we have traveled!

From building walls to being too ugly to be President.

How the menstrual cycle of a debate moderator most likely affects her fairness in such role.

Debating the size of a candidate’s hands versus the size of other body parts.

Accepting the mocking of a reporter’s physical disability.

Questioning the physical attractiveness of a candidate’s wife.

Borrow the speech of a First Lady word for word.

Post middle of the night Twitter rants against opponents, parents of soldiers killed in action, former beauty queens.

Candy and breath mints brands are compelled to formally distance themselves from a candidate.

Smile more!

Don’t smile!

Shout it out loud.

Stop shouting!

Don’t laugh.

Don’t stand by your man except when you are standing by your man.

And now grabbing pussies!

Yes, we are talking about grabbing pussies in a Presidential campaign one month before Election Day. We could agree that this is guy talk which is supposed to make such talk okay or that hopefully most men have evolved beyond the adolescent PE locker room banter. We might womensplain the trigger warning such talk brings about of that weird Uncle fondling hello at a family reunion or the middle aged stranger groping your crotch right before he exits the BART train or listening to a sound technician on your headset backstage discuss the size of the tits of a 16 years old GIRL on stage representing your kid’s dance team and honestly, why any of this behavior is acceptable at all….EVER!

We could. We are. We are because here we are one month before Election Day.

Meanwhile, pussies like Zelda just want to be left out of this.


hopelessly devoted

As I am writing this, I am watching our dog, Betty…AKA Betty with the Good Hair, following my darling husband all around The Big Top.






Tonight she has a good excuse because in spite of the fact that she is wearing her Thundershirt and has taken some doggy Xanax , she is stressed. Thank you every single Fourth of July Yahoo out there pre-gaming as they set off their illegal fireworks. ‘Merica! You do you, you quasi-patriotic yahoos.

If she wasn’t so stressed out she would still be by his side right now. Curled up at his feet. Likely sleeping; but with one eye open at the ready to jump up and do whatever my darling husband wants…go for a walk…get a doggy treat…go for a walk…perform her one trick…go for a walk…the possibilities are practically endless and she must be ready.

She’s devoted.

Hopelessly devoted.

I call her Betty with the Good Hair waiting for my darling husband to get the Lemonade reference because how could anyone NOT. Betty loves my darling husband. She adores him. She will use her amazing herding skills to herd me out of the way because she loves him THAT much. It is then that I flash my wedding ring and hiss he has been mine for more than 33 years years and he still is, Betty with the Good Hair! And don’t forget, I have opposable thumbs!

My darling husband chuckles.

But when it comes to absolute, complete, total devotion, perhaps Betty with the Good Hair has me beat.

I love my darling husband and I do look forward to his coming home at the end of the day; but you won’t find me where she is…waiting…pretty much all day…waiting for Bill to come home at the end of the day. She judges me if I am not as stressed as she can be if he is even just 20 minutes late because of traffic. She will pace and pause looking at the door and pace some more and whine a little and look at me with judging eyes that almost shriek, Don’t you care that he is late??? Why are you not even a little bit worried???

Sometimes I’ll answer back reminding her of the fact that I have opposable thumbs…that can text our man.


moving sucks

Did I say that just five years ago? Perhaps I was still too grief stricken over the fact that we were moving and how much the recession sucked. But yes, moving sucked five years ago…and it sucked thirteen years ago (even with the excitement of home ownership for the very first time)…and it sucked five years before that and before that and every damn time I have moved in my lifetime.

True story: I moved, or actually was moved nine times during my years in elementary school, junior high and high school which is absolutely the very best thing to do to a lonely, very shy, child in the caregiver/golden retriever role in a alcoholic, mentally ill, abusive, dysfunctional family because character building and what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger and all the rest of the bullshit. At least I know how to pack up and clean up a home with almost obsessive efficiency.

So here we are in 2016 and, yes, moving still sucks. But, at the same time, moving to a new home is the promise of a new adventure with more memories. But first we must get through the process of downsizing and packing and cleaning and motivating some clowns whom I adore who are quite literally one stack of shit away from an episode of Hoarders…REALLY!!!…and dealing with everyone’s stress and anxiety…and mine…and…

Especially the furry beasts because from their point of view, things everywhere are being boxed up and are disappearing and literally what else is going to happen and why is the food bowl half empty and how long can they survive when they are abandoned…which is exactly how the furry creatures under The Big Top are acting right now.

I swear if I clean up anymore cat or dog yack…

Moving sucks y’all…but hang in there my circus, furry and otherwise. This is part of the adventure.

clouds, love, life and other illusions I really don’t know

Ever have that feeling of complete panicky, chest crushing, I can’t breathe anxiety after agreeing to a big life decision? It’s all the more fun when you are all alone so that you can literally spiral into an out of control panic attack. Okay, not really alone because there is the dog, who currently is suffering from her own panic attack after today’s thunderstorm.

Don’t mind us two bitches while we freak out here.

We’ll be okay.

I think.

At least the rain and hail and thunder and lightning has stopped.

And the clouds…

Somehow staring at the clouds settles and calms me. I’m going to be okay, I tell myself while taking in the bright, fluffiness that was moments earlier black and scary like the anxious thoughts that raced through my mind and crushed my chest and stifled my breaths. It’s going to be okay, I tell myself.

Now to tell my darling husband. Uh-oh…here comes the anxiety again!

Clouds…look at the clouds.


The dog? The dog needed her Thundershirttime in her crate and definitely some time with Bill when he came home from work. Yeah, me too…time with the husband is what I need. And like the clouds, he reassures me that my unease over this big life decision is not wrong. He trusts. He believes. It will be okay he promises. It will.


I don’t know how, what, why or where; but I do know that today I will be okay.

I should write

I should write but…


it’s raining and we know how everything literally SHUTS DOWN in California when it is raining.

Still, I should write…


but I’m working on trying not to fall down whilst attempting Virabhadrasana II. Actually Warrior II isn’t so bad. It’s my creaky, older, achy joints that are the problem. Something else I can try to blame on the rain.


I have (as always) laundry to fold…WARM, fresh out of the dryer laundry to fold before Zelda curls up on it all spreading the glitter that is cat hair ALL OVER IT because all the freshly laundered clothes are so soft and warm and purr-rect for a kitty like her to curl up in. She thinks so.


Hollie is distracting me from writing sending me impossibly adorable pictures and videos of little ballerina girls. I should be writing but I can’t. I just can’t even!


Plus it’s raining and my backyard is literally flooded…

I should be writing but…


the struggle…

It’s real.