The Battle of Waterloo

The Battle of Waterloo

Billy Joel’s “Movin’ Out” keeps running through my head today. It began with my morning micturation. I looked down into my toilet bowl, and a fly circled by in that dark hollow. Flies, you know, have those two large compound eyes. They can process visual information about seven times faster than I, which means mini Jeff Goldblum had a tremendous advantage over me, even with my tall vantage point and thunderous thighs. Wellington at the battle of Waterloo used his Royal Horse Artillery to “plug up holes in his line . . . Major Bull’s troop was brought forward in support from its original position towards the rear of the allied position.” Cannons served that army well. My unbridled hair had yet been tamed into its Zoom-Room-ponytail. But, I too brought my artillery from its original position towards my rear, up front. I jammed the wadded TP into reverse (which any OB-GYN will tell you constitutes a risky tactical maneuver) and...
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CoronaDiary

CoronaDiary

Guys. I was doing great until the coffee spilled all over the counter this morning, and then I just completely lost my shit. “Great” is relative. I woke up semi-rested. Tutoring kids in my dreams isn’t what I’d call great recovery sleep. It’s not particularly lucrative either. But no one fell down a well or anything, so we’ll call it a good night. I meditated fifteen minutes. Got all centered and you know. And then, feeling ready to greet the day and the people who left my clean kitchen with midnight-snack dishes in the sink, I woke everybody up just as sweet as those yams I popped in the oven. I emptied the dishwasher, washed dishes, rewashed sticky pan the husband washed last night, loaded laundry, sliced the fruit I’m genuinely grateful to have, made the boy French toast—I had all the balls in the air so the husband could get to his virtual school, and the son to his virtual classroom. Everyone in their place. My toast...
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I’m a Special Helper

I’m a Special Helper

The dog and I took a walk this morning to our local Copenhagen bakery to pick up a couple loaves of their rye bread. It’s not a pretty walk. It’s a Los Angeles city street. Lots of concrete. Not a lot of trees. This bakery makes me happy, though, with its clean white facade and bright orange door and signage. I know I’m getting closer to the bakery because on our walk we pass by a kid on a bench eating a round cinnamon danish “the size of his head,” his mother laughs. Lucky kid. I’ve been watching my middle-aged middle jiggle a bit more lately, so I’m sticking to the hearty loaf of rye. I’ve got dog, and we called and paid ahead. They’re handing us the bag of bread out the door. I won’t have to walk in and smell all of that deliciousness. We pass by the Islamic temple, and I read sidewalk drawings in multi-colored pastels. Hearts and rainbows: “We support you!” “We love our neighbors,” “Love.”...
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The Humor of Overactive Parents in Books for Kids

The Humor of Overactive Parents in Books for Kids

I don’t know about you, but every time I hear the term “helicopter parenting” I want to duck for cover. It’s not that I’m so opposed to the concept as much as I’m afraid something is about to swoop down and take off my head. Usually, I’m not so far off—“Ten Warning Signs You Are a Helicopter Parent (and How to Stop)”; “You Might Be a Helicopter Parent If…”; “How Helicopter Parenting is Ruining America’s Children”. Hang on now, while I grab that head of mine rolling down the helipad and try to slap it back onto my shoulders long enough to endure all this blame. Were the latch-key 80s kids really so much better off than our helicopter ones? It’s all longitude and latitude. Last year, Marine One carried Obama. This year, it carries Trump. These little soldiers of ours evidently too afraid to parachute from our laps this decade will be raising their own kids the next, hitching...
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