Category Archives: Vote

Birthday, Faith, Vote

Word of the Day

My resident Carolina wren woke me this morning at 4:45 which I must say is an absolutely perfect start to another year ’round the sun. Big day, September 27. While she practiced her scales I inventoried, drinking tea and watching the sun pink up an incredible day:

I have outlived my genetic statistics by 15 years.

I have lived to see my children form deep, wonderful relationships with partners.

I have lived to anticipate a grandchild in the new year.

I am seven years cancer-free from diagnosis.

I have friends and family that I can ask anything, anywhere, anytime and they the same of me.

I have healed over and over and over and that, my friends, should be a mantra: we heal.

There is cake and chocolate for lunch.

I will survive the election season.

After my mother was diagnosed and died at fifty-one there is not one day — not one — that I don’t appreciate, rain or shine, good or bad, upright or down for the count. Coping can be as simple as taking a breath. While I am discouraged about my writing (nine months of essay rejections so far) the book — breathe — is gaining momentum. I have been blessed to be able to travel to the center of my creative hive many times — bigger breath — and I have planted a tree in my garden, made endless jams for the winter darkness and plan to begin this new year with more travel and a baby shower and best of all tonight we gather for a dinner with my family.

Trust me that I do not take this lightly, this living. Grateful to all of you who give me feedback and read my words and make me tea. I am filled with gratitude.

I struggled to find a word today when I thought of writing an update blog — something that said everything about everything. And then, honestly, this happened.

I have so much faith: in my body, my care team, my family, my friends, my barista, my hands, you. Because what is the alternative? Mine is not an angry world. Vote.

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Feminism, Pussyhat, Vote, Women, Women's March

What She Carried.

Unable to slide my datebook into my purse today, I dumped the handbag unceremoniously over on the counter. Here, at the risk of going over my strict word limit, is what I found:

3 plastic dog poop bags, 4 different Boston restaurant matchbooks, stacks of crumpled receipts, a small notebook, my  checkbook, 2016 medical card (aha), 2 used handkerchiefs, 5 used kleenex, a ziplocked bag with 3 lip balms, 4 pairs of glasses, my Fitbit (finally), 5 hair clips, ear buds, mints, a book of stamps, a comb, five post-it pads, 6 pens, 2 pencils, 6 dusty dog biscuits, and a bra.

Really.

I should be embarrassed but in a strange, distancing-myself way I am fascinated by what she carried, this woman who ran rampant over the holidays, making, baking, decorating, wrapping, visiting, drinking, eating, not sleeping, not writing, feasting on family time. She needed lip balm. And very soon got the flu and needed tissue. She lost her glasses over and over. And her favorite bra after a massage session. A lot can be said about me, where I have been and where I want to go, if you look deep to the bottom of my handbag.

The 2016 presidential election has focused an intense spotlight on women — unexpected, thought provoking and worthy of examination. Women supported Trump overwhelmingly across the country despite everything he did that might indicate a different vote. No one looked deep enough into their purses and examined what they were carrying that affected their voting choice; their specific issues on jobs, healthcare, race, feminism. Turned out, just because they carried a purse did not mean they were going to support just any female politician.

I will be walking on January 21 in Seattle at the Women’s March. Don’t think I don’t have reservations, as the organizers dictate when and where participants can be silent and vocal. Or when I read the sheer numbers that are anticipated when as a firm rule I avoid crowds. But I am interested in what we carry, us women, and I hear we will all be there, dumped onto the streets in our pink hats, shouting our views, making the contents of our beliefs and feelings seen and heard.

America the beautiful. America the brave. We the people. Me, the coward, in the midst of it all. It is a year of seismic changes, from the street to my purse. Time to understand each other, to look deep, to lock arms. Even to shout.

pussyhat

 

 

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Vote

Today Is The Day

Be part of history today. Vote. And when you are in line take the time to meet the person  next to you because, like you, tomorrow you will both be going back to work to make this country whole again.

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Hillary Clinton, Not Okay, Vote, Women

Not Okay. Again.

Last week I was making a return at a Nordstrom’s store situated in the northern suburbs of Seattle. All was very quiet on Thursday afternoon at 4:30 PM on the third floor. I was the only customer in sight. My back was to the escalators and while exchanging information with a very young saleswoman I heard it. Right behind me.

“In my day we didn’t stack women’s underwear on tables for everyone to see,” he growled. I could feel him a few feet away. Those little hairs on our neck? They really do prickle when adrenalin flows.

I smiled at the gal, got very still then heard closer behind me,

“Seriously, you bitches need to do something about this.”

I looked her in the eye, did not turn around and said, “Does he come here often?”

She continued to smile and said without missing a beat,

“Oh, thanks goodness, I thought he was with you. No. Never seen him before.”

I laughed too loudly and said “Ah. No.”

And that’s when I felt a very new feeling. I wasn’t scared. I was completely enraged. Expansively enraged.

He moved next to me, fiddled with some pamphlets, commented on our vaginas. I folded my hands around my bag and turned to face him. I was seriously sweating and ready to deck him. This was not ok. Again. The language, the attitude, coming into our space — ladies lingerie for god’s sake. Like a bad movie rerun after all the news, the endless pussy jokes, the locker room talk from Donald Trump. Not. Okay. At. All.

Then he swiveled, circled the sales counter, got very close to another saleswoman and started to talk in a low voice. Not breaking her smile, my saleswoman asked for my signature, then answered a phone call.

“Yes, I did. White male, pony tail, white shirt, back of the lingerie department. Thank you.”

I looked at her in total respect.

“What did you do? I asked, keeping an eye on him.

“No need for phone calls,” she smiled. “We just have to press a button.”

I was flooded for love for this young woman, her professionalism, her smile, her calm. And deeply saddened that standing in our women’s sanctuary we had to protect ourselves. Again.

I looked her in the eye and said,

“You are awesome.”

As I headed to the escalator two men took got off and split to either side of me and headed to the back.

Not ok. Again. But here’s what is happening since Donald Trump opened his mouth: Women are not scared, we are really, really angry. We are people, not objects of filth, voyeurism, sexual predatory behavior and let me emphasize, this behavior is not acceptable anywhere. Not in a bus, not in a house, not in the street, not at my feet.

Know the difference between OKAY and NOT OKAY. Or you might get smacked by a sweating writer with a bag full of books and bras. And I guarantee it will hurt.

pussy

 

 

 

 

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Changes, Mini Cooper, Vote

Pie?

 

Funny how stress works: it wasn’t the Mini dealer that rendered my car unusable after the yearly check up yesterday with massive brake failure last night. Nor the rental car run, torrential rain or chest cold. No — it was the raisin smushed in my slipper sole that finally caused me to lean against the sink and wail this morning.

Is it just me or are we all a little touchy right now?

I feel a collective traumatic response in everimg_0221one — the stores, the street, the coffee shops. Distraction and sharpness. I have begun to turn away from the television, the radio, the newspaper. My faith in people is being tested as we head to the elections. Maybe the mechanic was listening to Fox News when he replaced my brake fluid.

As I sit and wait for the tow truck ordered by the Seattle Mini dealership I am having difficulty focusing on my work. My chair has been empty for a few days now, trying to beckon me back.

How do we get back to some sense of pride in our country and ourselves? I have no sense that whoever ends up less bloodied at the end of the November 8th Presidential elections will make me supremely happy. I just need this to be over. Having been raised in politics you will not see me make predictions, either. So what brings sunlight to this crappy run of media trolling and endless Facebook shots of Trumpkins?

You tell me. But I suspect a walk to the pie guy on Phinney and another espresso, some soothing yoga, a good movie or book reading may be the way. Self-preservation before destruction. Peace instead of danger. I am going to try removing myself from the chaos and not clicking on the updates all day long — limit reading the paper, the online sites, the running horrors under the newscasters. There doesn’t seem to be anything new.  How can any more revelations, debates or exposed tapes change who those candidates are?

You know who you are voting for– just please vote.

In the meantime, I recommend the holiday pumpkin pie with candied walnuts.  Or the bourbon butterscotch if you need more. And a scrubber brush for removing slipper raisins.

Meanwhile, my chair awaits.
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Choices, Hillary Clinton, Vote

Bite Me.

Tuesday, September 27 was my birthday. The day after more than 80 million people tuned in for the first presidential debate of 2016, a night that changed the decorum of politics forever. You can go on Facebook, Twitter, TV or NPR and listen to the debrief. Or not pay attention. Your choice.

I am going to talk about cookies.

At my daughter’s engagement party Saturday night we were served some amazing cookies.  Cut, styled and frosted imaginatively and deliciously. When was the last time you grabbed three cookies? I could not refrain or restrain. I ate a silver-leafed champagne bottle, a blushing bride and a handsome groom. Every bite divine.

Restraint is overrated at my age.

I wore a bubblegum pink dress with bell sleeves and a swingy hem. I had on flats and danced until two in the morning. I stuck to Bud Light. I didn’t care what I looked like or that I didn’t drink the Tequila punch. But when I walked in and saw those platters of cookies?

“Bite me,” they called. And I ate as many as I could.

And this election year I feel strongly about my candidate. I am making a choice to vote for Hillary Clinton and I don’t care if it is the same as your vote. America, we can either choose or snooze every four years. Which will you do this November?

Because this matters. 

I’m choosing. I’m voting. I’m talking. I’m biting into this, people.

Do it. This is not the time for restraint.

#Imwithher

She doesn’t bake, thank goodness. She needs to run the country instead.

Besides, I know where to get the best ones in town.

 

 

 

 

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