I’ve been wracking my brain trying to think of something to write about, and my mind keeps circling back to a topic I’ve been trying to avoid. I know I’m not going to be able to move on until I purge myself of the thoughts spinning around in my head. So at the risk of putting off some readers, I need to talk about guns.
I don’t know if I have the right answer or idea. But, I know that what we’re doing now, which is absolutely nothing, sure as fuck isn’t working. And when I say “we,” I mean the leaders of our country, because they’re the ones we’re looking to to put something in place to end this insanity. They’re also the ones who continue to come up with excuses or silence on the matter. And until they care more about the lives of their constituents than they do about their standing with the NRA, excuses and silence is what we’ll continue to get. Continue reading →
Riddle me this, Batman … Why is it that when people can no longer see the tiny print in the newspaper or make out the dishes on offer on a menu, they’ll take a trip to the optometrist to get their eyes checked. Or, at least, pop down to the local drug store and pick up a pair of readers. However, when their ears start to show the same signs of wear and tear, they stubbornly refuse to acknowledge that they might need a little outside assistance in the hearing department. Or, is this something unique to my parents?
About five, maybe six, maybe more, years ago I moved into my parent’s house to help them out, as they’re getting older and, apparently, I’m not. In exchange, I pay no rent and am free to write to my heart’s content. I know. It’s a pretty sweet deal. Continue reading →
I know I’m arriving to the party late on this one. It’s a Facebook post that’s supposedly real and I’m going to go with that assumption. Although, the internet and social media being what they are, you can take it with a grain of salt or two if you choose. The post in question is dated September 22 (no year). So with today being August 1, 2019, (and excluding the possibility of time travel) that makes it at least a year old. It could be even older. I have no idea. Perhaps it’s been floating around for years and you’ll all be shaking your heads and going, “Seriously Baroness? This is the first time you’ve seen this?”
Anyway, it’s a rant from a woman whose trip to Disneyworld was ruined, absolutely RUINED (she made liberal use of all caps, so I thought I should follow along), by the presence of Millenials and childless couples — or, more specifically, childless women. But, I’ll let you read it for yourselves. Continue reading →
You know that awkward moment when you go to the ER because one side of your face swells up and you think you have an abscessed tooth or the sinus infection from hell, and then they look at you and go, “No, it was a stroke.” And then you just stare at the doctor, for what feels like an eternity, waiting for the punchline. But then you remember that not everyone has the same dark, weird sense of humor that you do. So an ER doc probably isn’t just pulling your leg when he stays throwing around words like “stroke” and “admittance” and “observation.”
So, naturally, once I realized he wasn’t going to wink, tousle my hair and say, “I’m just joshin’ with ya. You’re fine! Now get out of here, you little skallywag!” I immediately asked, “Is it serious, doctor? Be straight with me, I can handle it.” Not really. That’s what I would have said if I were in a Lifetime movie of the week and needed to move the storyline along. What I did was laugh. Continue reading →
What is it about a bandwagon? People just can’t wait to jump on it. They may let one or two go by, pretend they don’t care about a bandwagon. But give it time. Eventually, you’ll see them going by, sitting there, pretty as you please, on some bandwagon or another.
I still know people who claim to be gluten-free. Are they gluten-intolerant? Probably not. Do they have celiac disease? Almost certainly not. Yet, they continue to avoid gluten. Because bandwagon. Continue reading →
Full disclosure: I originally wrote this for another writing platform I’ve been experimenting with, but it wasn’t getting a lot of traction there. And, attention-seeker that I am, I just wasn’t having that! So, I decided to share it here with you, my faithful Baronettes, who I know will appreciate it and give me the Like and Comments I so desperately need.
I don’t feel that belonging to one marginalized group, the LGBTQ+ community, makes me some kind of expert on what it’s like to be a member of another marginalized group. Hell, I don’t even feel like I know what it’s like to be another person from my own ever-expanding group—which I believe now is formally known as the LGBTQQIAPP+ community.
For those not in the know, that stands for Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender, Queer, Questioning, Intersex, Asexual, Pansexual, and Polysexual. And, of course, the little “+” means there are still more orientations and genders not represented in the alphabet soup we’ve become. Continue reading →
At what point does being single go from a temporary state to a lifestyle to a life? If you’re a rebounder, you may never have extended periods of downtime, bouncing out of one relationship and right into the next one. Or you could be a person who prefers to take a bit of time after the demise of one coupling to regroup before you’re ready to take up with anyone new.
That regrouping time would make singlehood a temporary condition. Just a little lull in the romantical area while you reassess what went wrong in your previous relationship and strategize to not to let it happen again. This is also the time where you likely listen to a lot of sad songs, have imaginary conversations with your Ex about what you should have said during that final argument and fantasize about running into him/her/them with your new, hotter partner while they’re looking particularly lonely and desperate or hooked up with some skank. It’s not a good time to be dating.
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More than once in the very recent past I’ve seen an online comment featuring some variation of the “I don’t care what people do in their private life as long as they’re not all up in my grill with it” sentiment. In other words, “I don’t care if you’re gay, as long as you’re not all gay about it.”
Just today I was told, “You want to talk about the gay stuff be gay don’t flaunt it.” Despite the lack of punctuation, I understand what he’s saying. And I also don’t. I can see how some people would consider our Pride Parades flaunting it. I mean, some of the entries can be fairly outrageous and might be shocking to the heteronormative community. And perhaps two fellows dressed in assless chaps and short-shorts making out in the Home Goods section of the Boise, ID Wal-Mart would also be seen as flaunting it.
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I am not above engaging in an intense “discussion” with a person, or people, on the internet. Most of the time, I let posts and comments go — no matter how ill-informed or narrow-minded. People are entitled to their opinions and battles should be carefully chosen.
But sometimes, I simply cannot resist jumping into the fray. You can count on counting my two-cents if you insist on saying something blatantly homophobic. I don’t care how much “Christian” good-will you try to disguise it in.
I have no problem with people of the religious persuasion. I am not one of them, but I (generally) respect the beliefs of people who lean in that direction. However, when you take it upon yourself to start judging others—and I’m pretty sure there’s a whole deal in that book about “judging not lest ye be judged” — then you can’t probably count on a comment or two from me.
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If you’re going to get an annual update from a family, it usually comes in the form of a Christmas newsletter. Well, in 1974 my liberated mother decided to get her Erma Bombeck on and send out the update in the form of four-page article called “Dear Diary, or How I Spent My 35th Birthday.” If you’ve ever wondered how a blog-post would have read in 1974 (although, that’s something fairly specific to wonder, so likely, no one has), here’s your answer. Apparently, my mom had the makings of a blogger, long before the concept existed. She was, and still is, a woman truly ahead of her time.
And now, without further ado, I give you February 1974 and my mother’s 35th birthday …
My Actual Family, 1974-ish
“Happy birthday,” he said, as I gagged on the overpowering smell of his hairspray.
Where does it say that a wife should have to endure the noxious fumes of a man’s vanity? Where does it say that the husband has first crack at the hairdryer in the morning? I say, beware, girls, of the nice guy who fits in perfectly with your dreams of the ideal man and father for your children! I am convinced that these so-called “nice guys” are the ruination of the truly liberated woman. I’m so liberated that I find myself in a kind of oppressed liberation. With him sitting on the sidelines, full of self-satisfaction, watching my every move and thinking to himself, “You got yourself into this mess, Anita, and you can get yourself out of it.”
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