What a week. What a day. I lost my cool with a store manager today who said he couldn’t require his employees to keep their masks on. “What if they also took their shoes off, hung them from their ears, and walked around the store barefoot? Would you ignore that also?” I wanted to say but just walked out instead as the mouth breathing MAGAs in line looked at me like I was being hysterical – Guess what, I was! – and I felt bad for losing my cool with someone who was probably doing his best just showing up when even grocery shopping has become a partisan theater of sneers. Memo to all who continue to support or remain silent about our impeached president and his bigoted politics of division and death: It’s working.
Entries from Tucson
I am grateful for my parents' examples – good and bad – and the lessons I continue to learn from them.
I said oh, you’ll know him when you see one of his prints. His stuff was everywhere in the eighties. I image searched him then went to his Wikipedia page. Standing at the sink, still in our pajamas and the pairs of magenta and powder blue latex gloves we wear while washing dishes together, we learned the artist died of a heart attack while doing aerobics in 1984, the same year I took up the sport.
Some fun with what's left of this year's poppies
Today makes my back hurt just thinking about it. We have started building our raised garden beds. I was feeling pretty good about the weekend-long effort, then Hiram said something about geometry and the square footage we’ll have for plants when we’re finished being less than I thought. How can four smaller beds using all of the same pile of the wood we had be less than our original plans for two bigger beds not using everything? The answer is: Whatever. I’m still stoked.
Nothing says home of the brave like hoarding toilet paper.