There is a species of post that is being shared an awful lot on the social medias. Often, it’s a screenshot purported to be from a Teacher, or the Friend of a Teacher. Attributions are stripped, it’s been shared from public posts of people the sharer has no personal knowledge of, multiple times. They resemble nothing so much as “glurge” as defined by Snopes – back in the day (like the 90’s), before the social medias, these were emails forwarded multiple times (you could tell by the number of >>> in front of the plain-text body of the allegedly inspirational or cautionary story). Half of these seem to have been lifted wholesale from some “Chicken Soup For The Soul” book, or regurgitated from 70’s or 80’s era urban legends. They are designed to elicit anger, fear or smugness and are emotionally manipulative in the extreme.

The latest subgenre I’m seeing are in response to the epidemic of school shootings and mass violence we have in this country. In it, a teacher or someone who knows a teacher says the real basis for young men who assault women and purchase weapons of war to slaughter multiple people is actually a lack of respect for authority. To which I have to say FUUUUUUUUCK YOOOUUUU.

Look, I could take one of these delightful sermons and deconstruct it line by line, but honestly I just got my blood pressure under control and I’d like to keep my more effective birth control pills, so I’m just going to address some of the absolute bullshit reasoning I’ve seen in these posts.

Number One: Respect is EARNED. I have never run into a person who immediately demanded respect who was not later revealed to be a lying, ignorant sack of shit. I have met plenty of people worthy of respect, who led by example, who proved to know what they were talking about. Kids are not stupid; they may not know the mechanisms by which power is earned and exercised, but when they see you say one thing and do another, they learn what a hypocrite is even before they have the vocabulary for it.

Which leads me to the next point…

What authority, exactly, should kids learn to respect? The serial sexual assaulter, deadbeat, racist, slumlord and tax-evader who, with the help of a foreign power, has been elected to the highest office in the land? The various other criminals and rapists that the GOP has been attempting to get elected to lower offices? And by all means, for anyone composing these posts and screen-shots, please do not say “government” or “politicians” won’t do anything about mass slaughter when it is One. Single. Party.  That is responsible for the lack of change in this case. They have held the legislative branch since 2010 and now they have the executive as well. During the 2016 election cycle, the NRA contributed $106,000 to various Democrats – and $5.9 MILLION to Republicans. For those who may have done even worse in math class than I did, that is 56 times more blood money than the Democrats got. One party holds the reins of power, and one party has accepted the most money from a lobbying group. The people who could effect change refuse to do so.

Your kids have seen you vote for people who excoriate the poor, the weak, the stranger, the gay. You take them to a church on Sunday where the person they’ve named the denomination after says we should care for the poor, the weak, the stranger. They start to question their reading comprehension, or they learn to hate people different than they are, unless they learn they’re the different one. In that case they learn that your love may be conditional.

But even more distressing, yes – your kids pay attention to what the adults in their lives do. They hear you when you make non-sequitur comments about the appearance of women, they hear when you talk about women in sexual terms. They see you vote for these sexual assaulters. Your daughters learn that they don’t matter. Your sons learn that women are worth less than they are. They learn to be entitled to women’s bodies.

When I see the word “discipline” in a piece of social media doggerel it almost always means beating. If pressed, they might use a cute euphemism like “spanking”. You abuse your children in the name of discipline; they learn that violence is a viable option to their frustrations.

These emails often repeatedly mention prayer, which, hey, if you’re the praying type, go for it. If meditation helps you to clarify your actions, enjoy. But let’s be clear – prayer is for you. God is not Tinkerbell, who will appear if only enough people clap because they do believe in fairies, they do! God is also not a vending machine who will dispense your wishes if you put enough prayer tokens in. But prayer without action is another empty gesture that kids can see right through. Your prayer, your flag, your minute-of-silence – these are merely symbols. If you refuse to honor what they represent, you teach your children that actions are meaningless. If they see through your hypocrisy, they may begin to effect change rather than being concerned about how “respectable” they look to others.

But one of the most baffling things about these posts – has everyone over 30 forgotten what childhood and adolescence was like? I remember my friends were fairly opinionated and not actually wrong about stuff that often. I also remember the many, many adults who were not worthy of well-regard, let alone respect. Probably the same percentage as I know now that I’m an Old. The suspicion engendered by these posts makes me wonder what they’re trying to sell me.

Kids have seen your lack of action, your hypocritical support of venal abusers, your reliance on violence to solve problems, your hatred for the different, and a few of them respect that authority enough to become monsters. The rest… well, those will be the newest generation working to overthrow your tyranny.


What’s your damage, Heather?

I have two nearly identical pairs of jeans in my dresser. Both were bought in the last three months. Neither of them fits. One pair is a skosh too big, threatening self-pantsing every time I bend or shift. The other is a teeny bit too snug; I am uncomfortably aware of the zipper abrading my lower gut-flap. The jeans themselves are perfect – they are 98% cotton, which is nearly impossible to find in women’s jeans these days. They do not flare. They are meant to be worn cuffed, which saves my stumpy ass from having to hem them. They would be perfect for someone I’m not. Someone I was three months ago, or someone I may be in the future, but there are no guarantees.

My closet is filled with “almost” clothes. Brightly colored tunics with flowing lines and scoop necks that now expose my bra. Half-empty molded cup bras gaping at the top. Pants just roomy enough in the seat they look sloppy in a way you can’t pin-point. There are some dresses that are still wearable, but I estimated the size of the tights I originally bought to go with them incorrectly and now they sag at the knees and ankles. I do not have the money to replace my wardrobe. I do not have the money to replace my bras, which at around $75 apiece, are the most expensive part.

My body is no longer my own. It no longer wants to use its own insulin to break down glucose. I’ve given it enough delicious potatoes and pastries throughout its lifetime that it’s just given up. Sorry dude, you’re Polish and Polynesian – I thought you wanted the starches. They sure were delicious, and satisfying, and happy-making. The medication I’m on now to help it remember how to use insulin plays merry havoc with my appetite, so much so that I’ve designated various states of being: Not Hungry (food? Oh yeah. I should probably eat a thing!) Unhungry (I’m hungry, but also slightly nauseated) and Oogy (ugh. Food. Gross). I’ve stopped giving my body all those carbs it doesn’t know what to do with, and have begun developing a list of items I can consume for each state of being. Not Hungry? Here is a meal with meat and vegetables. It will be delicious as soon as you start eating it. Unhungry? Have some almonds and some protein, an artisanal lunchable with something salty to remind you to enjoy eating. Oogy? Look, if there’s anything that doesn’t turn your stomach, just eat it. Don’t even look at the nutritional info. If nothing appeals, at least have a protein drink through a straw. Food is not enjoyable. Food is fuel. I think about it constantly. What I “can” have, what I “should” have, what is poison, what I miss, what I don’t.

I was very fat. I am now slightly less fat. I am still fat. I will always be one kind of fat or another. Nonetheless, my doctor is thrilled. Because she doesn’t know the end-game of this process.

Because my body, which is no longer my own, has responded to these depredations not by shrinking, but by deflating. As if waiting for my metabolism to figure out what I’ve done to it, and deciding it can make do with the limited food intake by slowing down again. It’s leaving room. This is temporary. This is not permanent. Like me and my skosh-too-big jeans. Waiting for me to own my body again.

In Which I Determine That L.A. Is Neither Paradise nor Sodom By The Sea

“Los Angeles is deceptive, just like it’s main export – movies.”

Look dude, I know you think so. Everybody thinks so. This was a cliche when the first eastern european emigre hauled ass out here, fleeing the east coast mob, to start a chicken ranch or a movie studio. Blah blah blah, artifical, woof bark, everyone’s so fake, oogly moogly everyone’s an actor/screenwriter/waiter. You could run out your toner drum printing out these “hot takes” dating from back when women rouged their knees, stack them up, set them on fire, and they’d blaze for nearly as long as our delightful fire season, the smoke giving off an acrid whiff of the sour grapes of a spurned lover. “I never wanted you anyway, plus you’re so fake!”

What makes L.A. alarming to people who lack the self-awareness to know any better is ironically, the reason those first studio execs gave instead of “running from the mob” for their move to this remote coast – the sunshine. It’s the sunlight that makes the city incongruous to those who only know it from our main export. Camera angles and back-lots and vast numbers of crew members can do a lot to make a place sparkle. The reality is that the sun illuminates the city without the benefit of a “kicker” to fill in the shadows. Lacking a perceptible rainfall, there is rarely enough water to sluice the layers of plant matter, brake-dust, general detritus and assorted filth off the streets with any regularity. The sprawling ex-urb that makes up the “city” of L.A. never got tall enough in most places to dim the daylight here, so the Orange Death Orb seems to highlight the crud making any moment of contemplation – say, waiting for a bus in a bus shelter with an oddly useless shade-free awning – turn into a meditation on how gross everything is. Better not to have any spare moments for contemplation then, and also, this may be why no one wants to ride the bus.

I never set out to write a defense of this city; I don’t think it needs one. Neither is it a love letter. My feelings for the places I live are always ambivalent at best. But I don’t like know-it-alls, and I especially bristle at the ignorant tearing down an easy target to make themselves look superior. So, with that in mind, please consider this essay both a tourism ad and a minor warning for the lovely, filthy, sunny, happy, lonely, shallow, meditative, hard-working Town of Our Lady Queen of the Angels; we really don’t give a shit if you think we’re all fake. We’re too busy getting on with our lives.


Hey all! I’m kind of wiped out from all the physical activity the rest of the Voxxies participated in. (I’m actually fending off an allergy-cold thingie, so more prone to fatigue than normal). Please meditate on this sad story of what happens when a woman efficiently and expertly does a whole bunch of unpaid and unappreciated labor for her husband yet fails to worship his masculinity properly. I’ll be back after my nap to continue my commentary!IMG_20170506_105833081~2

Fascinating Womanhood – The Bloggening

Hey there reader(s), a few words of warning: a.) I am writing this on a blue tooth keyboard and my phone. I’m going to not worry about typos. b.) Seattle weather seems to have migrated south and it is starting to drizzle. So maybe I’ll be blogging this from the car. A little about this book. It was published in 1963, written by a woman who had a degree in Home Economics from BYU. Look, there’s nothign wrong with a home ec degree – in fact, I think those with home ec degrees should have W2    /401k type jobs. It seems to be a reaction to the 60’s feminist movement, and boy is it reactionary. Further notes will be added to the comments section. please feel free to add your oen comments if the spirit moves you!

This is just a test

I’m just practicing writing this on my phone with my bluetooth keyboard. It looks like it works (huzzah!) so I should be able to leave appalled comments tomorrow. Here is a preview of the kind of wonderful advice proffered by Fascinating Womanhood:


When woman rules, it robs her of presence of mind to do her homemaking tasks well. Generally speaking it is trying on a woman’s emotions to assume the leadership role. But if she develops capabilities which make these masculine duties easy for her – she tends to los some of her essential feminine charm.

(OK, so I can’t seem to highlight that last sentence after the hyphen so that I can italicize like the book does, but otherwise, it’s just a good reminder that trying to take charge means our tiny ladybrains can’t remember how to clean a toilet!)