This is Texas here. We stand united in our efforts to keep our nation running. We hear that some of our nation’s leaders are key on defunding the United States Post Office. Hogwash. No government bureaucrats gonna tell us what to do.

We southern states are proud. Remember John Wayne? Sunday afternoon Westerns? A cowboy who wore tassels with a Native American sidekick? Sure, perhaps slightly racist, but that was a different time. Well here we are, ready to save America, with the reinstitution of the Pony Express.

It’s simple, really. You just put your ballot, letter to your cousin, cell phone payment, IRS taxes due, and birthday cards in your mail box. A horse named Biscuit or Sam or Tiny Tim or Windy will ride by a week from Tuesday, or next month, or never, just as soon as we get a permit from the local municipality to allow horses on public streets and find poop bags large enough to grab all the horse excrement so the HOAs won’t sue us. We need to allow the horses to take constant breaks pursuant to animal protection laws and it’s hard to get all the mail stuffed inside of saddle bags when you’re dealing with apartments so we do our best. Plus Windy is old and a lot of people stop to feed him carrots.

However, when we overcome those obstacles, the mail will be placed in a bag, or multiple bags, or forgotten because it’s really just an aesthetic, and the rider will tip his hat to you when you walk outside to get the paper, saying “yes ma’am and “we valuable your liberty.” It will probably be Sam Elliott.

Sometimes it rains, sure, and all the bags get wet and we have to lay out all the mail in the corral to dry, and they may get lost or eaten by an animal or blown away in the wind or get stuck in hay, but that’s a small price to pay for freedom.

Here in the South, we value your opinions. Like whether you like sliced or chopped beef and whether you want the barbeque sauce on the plate or on the side. So naturally we care about your right to vote and who you vote for, as long as it’s supportive of our Southern values and doesn’t hurt the cattle industry.

We gonna come and get your mail rain or shine, unless there is a strike or the horses get sick or Sam Elliott is getting a stint put in or Clint Eastwood needs Windy for a film.

Xoxo

Texas

Today I went for a walk, tracking the miles on my phone. I could be walking anywhere. A crowded city street, a sidewalk, breezing past old white farmhouses dotting the countryside. No matter where I am, no one wonders what I’m doing on these here streets.

I looked around at the wildflowers growing along the easement.  Milkweed, dried-up bluebonnet pods, Indian paintbrush, daisies.  If I were to walk onto someone’s property and pick one, they may peer out of their large houses and see me there, stooping down and stealing from their patch of earth. But a softness comes over them.

“Look at that woman,” the man would say. His wife would come over holding a mug of tea and nod.  “I’m glad she is enjoying this weather.”

I walk along.  I’m only at nine percent, but it’s a good start.  The wind is abnormally high.  It whips at my ears and pushes hair into my eyes.  I thought of my years in West Texas where the wind raced through the cotton fields, tossing up dirt devils and sending sand into your mouth so you feel the grit between your teeth. People working in the cotton fields or inside mending hems or saying yessum I’ll get you some more hard tack and biscuits had no choice in the matter.  The work went on.

A red sports car passes. I didn’t hear him coming up from behind. We are in a rural area, not many cars. He pulled to the other lane and nodded and waved at me. There is no trouble here.  There is nothing evil to see. Look at me, a white women with designer sunglasses. I wave and nod back. Thank you for the courtesy of pulling over to give me room.

I look at my mileage counter.  Twenty-seven percent complete.  I wonder if a mother who loses a son wishes to know when they die, when they reach twenty-seven percent of their life.  Who would think six years old may be the quarter marker, one fourth of the way there? I put my mind there, wondering what mothers think when their sons go walking in a hooded sweatshirt, having committed no crime. Will they be attacked?  Will their life be cut short?  Will they be questioned for simply eating a sandwich in their car on their lunch break?  

I look up at the sun that is beating down and hold my hand up to shield the searing brightness. It was just a damn buzzard, circling.  Something must have died and it was patrolling, about to descend.  There is always something extremely sad to me about buzzards, forecasting the existence of death. 

I am bearing down on Sixty-Four percent, rounding the second half, looking at the grand oaks.  They have seen so much over the years, stolen kisses and lovers quarrels and the chatter of the squirrels. I always think of trees as having thoughts about humanity but keeping their opinions to themselves. What did they think when ropes were swung over their precious limbs?  When men hung from such ropes? I bet they wanted to cut off parts of themselves. I trust trees have a good inner conscience. But they are silent as I walk, revealing nothing. 

I hear in the distance the sound of a kid squealing. I assume there is a trampoline and joy involved. There are birds chirping and leaves rustling up next to each other.  I hear the cadence of my own legs, plodding along on the pavement. There is something soothing about one foot in front of the other, a safety in the daily routine of jogging, running, walking.  No one came up to me and asked why I was there, ruined my thoughts, interrupted me with a gun. No one was waiting for me like a damn steel trap.

Eighty-one percent. I round the final corner toward my house. I think about the mother this Sunday who will be hurting, who will wake up from sleep feeling she was almost there, about to grab or warn her son, but couldn’t. She will have round beads of sweat on her forehead. Her breathing will be rapid and short, and the horrors will come back to her in a second’s time. I think about the fact that my children will make me breakfast and homemade cards with cut-out hearts and crayons, alive. It is not fair.  But nothing is.  

I am at One Hundred Percent, 2.23 miles, home, a place of refuge, where my children sleep. I think of how I am not scared of life, of living, or walking or running or being.  I think about how others don’t have this same sense of safety. I stand on the side of the road and think of the luxuries I have been given, the pain that I see others endure.  I think of Ahmaud and his mother. 

Lord, Lord.  How do we begin repairing this. Let us see the dark places around us so we can shine light.  Let us all walk boldly and with confidence the entire percentage of our lives, as long or short they may be.  Let us have compassion for those who have been persecuted, and show grace in all ways.  And for the mother this Sunday who is hurting, I put my hand in yours in solidarity.  Sister, I’m sorry for your pain. I am one with you in spirit. 

I set down my phone, my water bottle, my earbuds.  I walk into my home where I smell food bubbling on the stove.  This is not fair. I can only find the energy to write this message to you today, to tell you I’m aware of this inequity.  And all I can do is teach a new generation a better way.

We all simply must keep walking forward, toward unity. Toward a new way of thinking. Toward a world that is blind to color, but not blind to love.  

I recall a time, long ago, when I had a young child and a new baby and my life was wrapped up in all the various things that accompanied childrearing.  I felt like my time of going through hard things had ended. The season of fighting cancer and nearly dying and all the things I had faced up to that point had somehow afforded me the luxury of some stillness. And I was grateful.

I piddled around the house. I made up songs with my little girl which made us both laugh and watched my son pick flowers. I wrote on my blog and plugged away at my novel.  I’d make videos of my children saying “I love you daddy” and focus on cooking dinner. My therapist said this was my emotional immaturity phase, where life hadn’t really hit yet.  I just called it happy. 

I used to bake bread every Monday. I used the same wooden spoon every time, the fat rounded one that grabbed the flour up and turned it over. A friend told me to cover my dough bowl with hot tea towels, and I would rub bread dough with water to form a harder crust. I loved every part of it, from the smell of the yeast granules to the way the molasses ran down the heap of sticky dough like dark rivers, to the moment I pulled it out of the oven and my children came rushing over, asking for butter.  I loved every part of motherhood also, where I’d make a tree out of paper and words on little apples, and I’d sit with my daughter and we’d pin the words on the tree.  Sometimes I’d just let my son fall asleep on my chest and wouldn’t move for hours for fear of waking him. 

But as life goes, you can be blindsided.  It was as if one minute I was driving to the grocery store to get a pot roast for dinner and I wake up in a ditch wrapped up in metal. I never thought the person and family I poured all my trust into would take it all so lightly, and that my guts would be ripped out onto the pavement. The whole life I knew had an undercurrent of lies, a layer of which I was blissfully unaware. I remember curling up in my closet so my children wouldn’t see me and I’d sob into dirty clothes piled on the floor.  My mother came and stayed with us for a while.  She would bring me buttered toast, begging me to eat.  I lost twenty pounds. I didn’t care, really.  I felt like I had lost everything.

But somehow I knew I had the power to survive. God had woven inside of me an inner strength to continue.  So I picked myself up and put on lipstick.  I got a job and climbed back into my power suits.  I made my own money and created my own savings account. I used to wear heels until they made my toes cramp. I would walk strongly down the hallway. My kids depended on me being okay, happy, successful, making it. 

I didn’t have the luxury of playing the victim.

And when I surfaced, I realized that the life I was living before wasn’t real.  It was like a fairy tale with a wolf in sheep’s clothing, and the love I thought I had and the marriage I invested so much in was simply a projection of what I wanted it to be.  I had to find my footing. I got a nanny and I met friends for happy hours and I started to write again.  I ended up starting my own law firm and spent every free second I had with my children.  We would have dance parties in our socks and I’d braid my daughter’s hair, and my son always found a way to make me laugh.  And I cooked and cooked and cooked, as that became my outlet for anxiety. Which is how my children came to love caramelized onion tarts and coq a vin. 

One day in New York, I met a handsome man who is to this day the smartest person I’ve ever known.  He looked right inside of me.  Stories just poured out as he nodded and smiled with those sea green eyes. The world around us faded, and we were the last one to leave in every restaurant.  I was, truth be told, completely infatuated with this new type of love. It seemed mature, grounded, solid. It wasn’t based on a shared history or children, or years hunkering down in college eating cheap pasta or getting through school or punching each other to get up and feed the baby.  It was just easy. He made me feel hundred percent seen and beautiful. 

Four years later, one of the happiest days of my life was marrying this man, as I walked down the aisle to a Christmas song, in a tastefully decorated barn filled with candles and old books and wine.  I had found a friend, a partner, someone with whom I could be myself. We thought four years of dating had prepared us for what was to come. He was kind to my children.  I enjoyed getting to know his. Finally, after a searing wound, I’d found the salve that I was looking for. I had been blessed with complete restoration.

Well, it turns out that when a vessel breaks and is glued back together, there are some cracks.  One crack is that the children that I bore do not belong to this new man I fell in love with.  So the complication arises of dealing with their father.  And my stepchildren are in a different phase of life, with traditions and stories that do not always match my own.  On top of that, stepmothers face all kinds of strange and weird emotions from stepchildren; some simply embrace you more than others.  They either think “well this lady’s pretty nice” or “she’s not my mother and if she makes me one more Happy Wednesday card and leaves flowers in my room one more fucking time I’m gonna gut her in her sleep.” 

So, you know.  It can be challenging.

The disjointed nature of a blended family is difficult.  One moment you think you are making progress, then the realization hits that you’ve barely taken a step. Or you’ve gone backwards.  You can’t tell from day to day whether any love or energy or time you’ve invested in this new family even makes one tiny bit of difference.  And the goofiness that your own children find entertaining, or the lazy habits you tolerate, or the traditions you have developed as your own little team, are not as accepted on the outside. I’ll never forget the year I introduced my stepchildren and husband to my annual “Thomas Jefferson biscuits,” which are sweet potato pecan biscuits I make every Fall that my children love and beg for, and they just shrugged.

So instead of pinning words on a paper tree and baking bread on Mondays, I’m now trying to navigate this new landscape that is exceedingly more complicated. I always feel that I’m the outsider, the one who stepped in, and the one who in a moment could be out again. You make dinner and listen to their stories and wrap their birthday gifts and throw them parties, but you don’t know if you’ll ever be family.  In fact, there is a gnawing dread that you never will.  

I am human, and at times had no idea what to do or say.  Sometimes, I do or say the wrong things. In an effort to ease tension, sarcasm backfires.  I lose my temper or go around demanding that things need to change around here. Eventually, I learned to step out of the line of fire, remove my hand from hot plates, and back away. I didn’t expect all the land mines.

There is a lot of holding back in this story.  Holding back my opinions. Holding back my intentions. At times, holding back my gifts and talents.  Holding back the truth of the past from my own children. And holding back my very own heart, for fear of it being injured again. The hardest for me, a woman of words, is holding my tongue.

What I did hold on to, despite it all, was that wooden spoon. This arm has cranked out many a batch of things.  Muffins, brownies, biscuits, it doesn’t matter really.  It’s not even what I cook that counts.  It’s the fact that I have control over something that turns out well.  It ends with a product that 2 out of 5 people in this house like, but every time it seems to be a different person so that’s fun.  And every night when I cook dinner, I hear “OMG why the heavens are there so many sides.” Because making savory bread pudding with mushroom and gruyere is what is saving me right now.

Sometimes my husband reminds me to look at all the wonderful things. He’s right, of course. And believe me, there are wonderful things.  The new family slowly develops traditions of its own.  The children you did not birth begin to recognize a few things they actually like about you. They ask you for an opinion.  They text you when they are scared.  They actually come to you when they are low.  They say your BLT is the best they have ever had.  They miss you. And your children start to recognize your partner as someone who is helpful to them, and loyal, and uses a whole bunch of puns.  But mostly, someone who is not afraid of questions, or failure, and is exceedingly kind.  And you are not alone.  Every night you have a person to talk to and laugh with. A wonderful person you are proud of.

And slowly, there is hope.  Not only do you start to create a home, but a place where you can breathe despite the insanity of this mixed bunch. I realize now that the hard parts of people have always been hard and have nothing to do with me personally.  My girlfriends allow me to pick them up in the middle of the day to get coffee or meet for drinks when I desperately need a friend to laugh with. I allow myself to put myself first at times, say no, or just do things exclusively with my own children without any apology.

I go out to the garden when I feel weak in spirit.  I sit with God and tell him I am sorry for being so silent.  I’m growing vegetables in a garden bed with a scarecrow, even though my son points out that “we don’t exactly have a real crow problem around here.”  In the evening I shut up the chicken coop to protect the hens from harm. I peer out the back deck at the endless sea of hills and realize we are in the middle of some of the most beautiful Texas Hill Country that ever was.  I bake brownies from scratch and text my stepdaughter to come over after school and test them.  She lets me steal a hug. I text my stepson in college about majors and life issues and he always responds and puts up with me. He tells me happy mother’s day even thought I’m fully aware I’m not his mother. I curl up next to my son and wait until he is asleep, as he says that by me just sitting there, he feels safe and happy. And my thirteen-year-old yearns for me at times and hates me at times, as all children that age do.  But she still calls me mommy at night, when she isn’t around her friends, and when she hugs me she holds on and it lingers.  I notice. I don’t let go first.  I wash the dishes and put the spoon back in its crockery holder where it belongs.

As it turns out, this is also where I belong.

As the evening draws to a close, I wait for my husband’s call, every time he’s out of town, like clockwork.  If he is here, we cuddle on the couch. His voice is patient, loving, kind.  He asks me about my day and listens to all my stories and always gives me his full attention.  He tells me about all his meetings and the people he meets.  It’s like we are interwoven together and we have become as enthralled with each other as two people can be. After all these years, when something good or bad happens I instantly reach for the phone to tell him. And our favorite thing to do is travel together, so we’ve decided this next year we would make that a priority. 

Sometimes I look up to God and think “You have a good sense of humor.  This is complete insanity.”

But this is my life, a big complicated ball of hot mess blended with love and stubbornness and creativity and adventure and decorating and baking and living. I am one to iron the napkins, set a beautiful table, decorate with specificity.  It makes me happy, so I stop apologizing for it. I suppose this is emotional maturity. Life is good because I choose for it to be good.  There is a fork in the road, one leading toward victimization and looking back at a rewritten past where things seemed more glorious than they were, or another where I can squarely look in the face of ugly things and the broken things and hard things, but also wonderful things too, and I walk down that pathway willingly.

I choose joy. Thank you Jesus, for putting friends in my world that make me laugh wild big belly laughs.  Thank you for loving me so much despite it all.  Thank you for a husband who proves to be loyal and honest through years of reassurance and patience with me.  Thank you for my parents who love me with a full rich love and gave me a stable childhood that allows me the luxury of optimism.

And in time, I learn what works and what does not work. And I learn to walk away from certain things too. Which means I’m growing.

In a way, it’s nice to be outside the bubble.  I can see the good and bad in people. I am not as shocked when things hurt as I can see them coming, and I heal quicker. I understand why people are broken, the background that creates such a void, the gratefulness I feel and the beauty of forgiveness.  I see what sadness lives inside of people, and I know I cannot fix it.  I can only pray harder, listen more. I see the emptiness that comes without faith, and it reminds me what joy there is in submission.  And at times, I even stand up more for myself and create my own joy, my own space to breathe, and my own beauty.

It’s not a fairy tale, but it’s a damn good story.  One that’s worth writing and living.  One that is worth telling.  And in time, worth laughing about. As for today, I’m making blueberry muffins with a crumble topping, and kissing my children on their foreheads, and screaming at them to have a HAPPY DAY as they jump out of the car in the carpool line while they pretend to ignore me. My daughter just rolls her eyes, which makes me laugh.  I texted my stepdaughter that I put points in her bagel account with a local bagel shop, and her response was SICK YOU ROCK. My husband is making us reservations for a food tour this weekend because he knows I’ll love it, and I’m looking at an orchid he gave me to set on my desk when he was gone for a few days because that brings me joy. 

I love my life, all the various wonderful and broken parts. Because I choose to love it, and that makes all the difference.

Quid Pro Quo, meaning “something for something else,” is the sexy Latin phrase of the moment, garnering much attention after its use in the current Presidential impeachment hearings. No one knows if it’s a noun or modifier, but an example of such phrase is when a President asks another nation’s leader for a favor and just conveniently fails to mail him a check for millions of dollars until such favor is completed.

In the 16^th century, this phrase was used to mean someone got a drug from an apothecary that was not what the person expected.  That is relevant today, as America elected what it believed to just be just a human being for President but instead it turned out to be a raging narcissist lunatic cyborb who shoots tweets instead of heroin.

“I’m not used to the fame, to be honest,” Quid Pro Quo said at a recent press junket.  “I’m a quiet little phrase.  Usually I’m just popular with the law professors.”

Carpe Diem, which means “seize the day,” was brought to fame when Robin Williams shouted it on top of a desk in the movie Dead Poets Society.  He was recently interviewed asking if he has any advice for the newly-popular phrase that has skyrocketed to success.

“Well, I suppose I’d say to not worry.  You may be a hit now.  Sure, a few t-shirts, a phrase on a notebook, maybe on a sign held up by a nutty protestor. But soon you will be forgotten like the rest of us because Americans don’t really understand our dead language.”

Semper Fidelis, meaning “always faithful,” wore a somber expression and met with Quid Pro Quo for breakfast in Washington, D.C. last Thursday.  He later commented to reporters that they had a “good discussion,” “he made me pay for breakfast in exchange for meeting with him,” and “I reminded him to put country first.”

Latin words are usually reserved for lawyers or academics, but in the recent landscape about how many crimes are being committed by our nation’s leader and his compatriots, it just sounds better to throw in random Latin phrases to beef things up a bit. For example, the list of individuals who are going to prison who are associated with the President include Roger Stone, Paul Manafort, Michael Cohen, et cetera, meaning “and the rest.”

“I really cannot comment on the current situation in Washington,” Quid Pro Quo said in a recent interview with CNN. “Unless you give me something in return.”  He cannot help it.  That’s literally what he was created for.

And there you have it.  The status quo is going to continue into the near future of random Latin phrases creating a buzz in the polls due to political turmoil, with the exception of the phrase auribus teneo lupum, meaning “holding a wolf by the ears,” which has no relevant meaning but is truly how we all feel about now.  Ah well, ad meliora.  Onto better things.

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photo credit

Listen, kids.  I don’t have time to go into the history of my Great Aunt Nancy and how I was raised by her and salt pork beans and how this particular dish reminds me of Sunday afternoons in Savanna. Our president is tweeting nonsense with wild abandon. We are in the full throttle of impeachment hearings. People are killing each other with semi-automatic weapons.  It’s just a Tuesday night and people gotta eat.

Here’s how this works: I list things, you go buy them, you cook them, you eat the food, you stop watching the news, you live another day.  Here are the specifics:

1. Prepare the chicken. Pound the crap out of it until it’s butterflied and the width of a piece of notebook paper.  Use the aggression you feel and the rage you are experiencing about the state of the country, your ex, the fact that your wool sweater is itchy, the fact that all of the advisors of the nation’s highest leader are being convicted of crimes. You know, the usual.  Be careful not to go overboard.  You don’t want pulverized chicken.  Save that for my Chicken Pot Pie for People with Anger Issues.

2. Put the chicken in a pan. Don’t worry about what size pan, or if it’s clean.  The heat of the oven will kill any bacteria that lingers. Pour soup, vegetables of any kind, a cup of broth, and some rice over the chicken.  Actually, just randomly choose things from your refrigerator and dump them in at your discretion, depending on how much you’ve given up on life. Do you have some green beans or wilted spinach?  Leftover Chinese food?  Beer? Chocolate cake? Balls of rage?  Throw it all in. The power grid is probably next to go, unless Trump can somehow hold up the grid with the strength of his own lies.

3. Cover with cheese. Inner shame, inappropriate attacks, and quid pro quo deals with foreign governments can be masked and hidden underneath layers of melted mozzarella.  Don’t use parmesan.  That just makes everything smell like dirty socks.  Our government may be corrupt and smell of gym rats, but your casserole doesn’t have to.

4. Bake at 350 until it’s done. This means that for at least 45 min to an hour, you can’t kill yourself.  Hang on so the house doesn’t burn down.  You smell something cooking, which shows that you are indeed capable of something in life other than screaming at congressional staffers on recorded lines to do something about health care.

5. Eat the casserole. Sure, it tastes terrible.  But your life and political state of our country are equally terrible. Don’t give any of this food to your friends or neighbors, tell them you used to watch The Apprentice growing up, or that you just made a casserole filled with chopped-up eggrolls because it really does taste like the stench hole of death and they get enough of that on CNN.

6. Throw away the dish, give up, begin drinking. Nobody has time for dishes anymore. Why bother. Eat on paper plates, microwave everything, consume fried chicken that come in plastic tubs, and pack your bags for Canada.

Enjoy!

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Photo credit

I took the kids to school and said WHY DO YOU ALWAYS HAVE TO FIGHT and saw them unwrapping granola bars in the car spreading crumbs underneath the seat like new fallen snow. I was low on gas and it smelled like someone left a sandwich in there from yesterday and my hair is dirty and you can tell right then that today is going to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

I roll up to the gas station.  The woman to the left is radiating sunbeams as she pumps her gas in form-fitting yoga pants that cost more than my monthly streaming plan and the man in the sports car to my right is dressed in a suit with a botoxed forehead and is clearly off to important places and yet I keep pushing down on the lever but nothing happens until I realized I never answered the question about whether I wanted a receipt.  Damnit.

This would never happen in Paris.

I have a conference call so I turn down the air in the minivan so it won’t sound like I’m in a NASA wind tunnel and I say I am in route to a meeting but I am actually just sitting outside of Starbucks.  I stand in line and mention to the woman in front of me that I simply want a coffee.  No one moves.  I say again louder that I just want a freaking coffee.  The woman barely glances at me. I ask if I could just squeeze by super-duper quickie-poo and get this one cup of black coffee while she’s gazing at the various pre-packaged assortments of pastries as if she has nothing to do all day but she doesn’t answer.  No one is going to cheer at my restraint at not buying a milkshake for breakfast covered in loose caramel strands.  No one cares at all.

I could tell that it was going to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

When I get to my home office, I had to step over the dog, my kids’ homework from yesterday, some paper shavings because my nine-year old likes to shred things, and some random cord. There is a jar of almonds, a busted headset, some notes from a client call I can’t remember even happening, and five empty water glasses on my desk.  I get a call from a colleague who asks a question, to which I respond with “how the hell would I know?” and she says “well aren’t you an expert in this area?” and I say “potato poh-tah-to” and she asks I’m if I’m still seeing my therapist.

I hope you sit on a tack, I say in my mind to an agent who not only rejected my book but said told me to find a new hobby.  I hope that when you go to get a burger the bun falls apart.  I hope that when you look sideways in the mirror you realize that drinking beer has caught up with you and your ego is bloated and it floats all the way across the pond to Paris.

There was a job promotion for my friend Melissa and Stephanie got a book deal.  Guess whose article was rejected in the New Yorker?   To be frank, it was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.  That’s what it was, alright, because I sat still for almost two hours in my office frantically editing and writing and talking to people and acting like I have a real job when I heard the dog barking loudly and a fed-ex delivery guy dropped off some vitamins and ruined all my concentration.  Here you go, says the postal service worker, who insisted I needed to sign for a package of B-12 tablets. Next time I’ll knock louder, he says.  Next time, I say, I’ll be in Paris.

My nanny quit and I have to go pick up the kids, I forgot their snacks and I was running late and on the way I get a call from my doctor that I need a repeat mammogram. The kids blamed me for the weather being so hot and asked why I didn’t bother to bring them bottled water.  I am having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day, I told everybody. But no one even answered.

That evening, I tell myself that I will catch up on work but there is a show on Netflix about a man who is a stylist to the stars and so I sit captivated for four episodes. They visited Paris and raved about the fashion.  Naturally.

That night I didn’t sleep well because of the work I didn’t get done.  I was thinking about my kids and my husband and my mother and the decline of my overall health and my inevitable death.  Now I’m wide awake and scrolling through facebook.  I hate randomly scrolling through facebook. Gracie got an adorable puppy.  Marie is having grandchildren.  My life is a constant comparison to perfection and look, I’m failing.  I shut off the computer and roll over, poke my husband, and ask if he’s asleep.  Not now that you are poking me, he says.

I explain that it has been a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. He yawns and turns over.  He’s warm and smells nice. He says that some days are just like that.

Even in Paris.

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Photo Credit

This satire piece is of course based upon the book “Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day” by Judith Viorst, in case you thought I was ripping off her jam. 

• Use a backdrop of whitewashed wood. Do not post a picture of your dusty crap sitting on the garage floor like a commoner. Prepare for the shoot, take the shot from multiple angles, ensure it is well lit, and display it atop an antique farmhouse table.  Nothing says “take this baby bouncy seat” faster than a good filter, excellent lighting, a glint of dust gleaming in the afternoon sunlight that falls ever so gently upon the kitchen table.  It won’t hurt to see a mixing bowl and vintage towel in the background.
• Use the brand name. No one wants an old ratty picture of a dandelion unless it came from Restoration Hardware. If you got it from the Neiman Marcus outlet, shoved in the sale room on the clearance table inside of a ripped box, do not share this information.  Take it out of the ugly box, set it on old planks of wood, and simply say it came from Niemans, in that casual way rich people abbreviate fancy things.
• Use Emotions as a sales tactic. There is a myth that rich people don’t care about spending money.  That’s not true.  They want to look like they are spending a lot of money but don’t actually want to, so if you can convince them they are getting a good deal on a Gucci bag, even if it’s used and tattered on the inside, it’ll sell.  Inform people of this item’s “actual value” and how great of a deal they are getting from you, and that they are stupid to pass it up. This is not your typical neighborhood white Range Rover (yawn, I’m bored). This is an upscale, barely used, high-quality leather, tripped-out version of the Range Rover your neighbor has.  They will be more respected and loved if they purchase this particular item.
• Lie. Explain in the post you have three people already interested, that you are only keeping this open to an exclusive group for a two-hour window, that if they don’t buy it it’s their loss because THIS ITEM WILL QUICKLY GO and if they miss out, they will be shunned by their neighbors and friends and have to move to Dallas.
• Act aloof and disorganized. Mention that you are just trying to sell this before you jet off to France, because it’s your extra home and you simply forgot where all the receipts are to return the furniture, and use statements like “my loss your gain!” and “come grab it before we leave for holiday!”
• Never, ever reduce the price. This is a typical blunder, thinking that people will see the reduction in price and be motivated to buy.  Don’t make this common mistake.  It’s a sign of weakness.  If anything, increase the price if it doesn’t sell in the first fifteen minutes.  Continue to berate people and mention the brand and raise the price and urge them to buy immediately and act disinterested until finally you have no choice but to remove the item to save face because you posted a wooden bird on a wooden spindle that is now six hundred dollars.
• Pretend you don’t shop there.  Act as if this is only the place you dump your used crap online. Do not comment on someone else’s post like “WHAT?  You’re selling that headboard for $100?  That’s highway robbery.  Will you take $50, I’ll take the used mattress, and you can have this starbucks card with $7 on it?”  You have an image to uphold.  Take that seriously.  It’s all you have.  Well that and an expensive wooden bird.

—

UNITED STATES DISTRICT COURT

FOR THE 14TH DISTRICT OF TEXAS

Murphy The Dog, Plaintiff

-V-

Amanda Hill,  Defendant

COMPLAINT FOR INJUNCTIVE RELIEF (AND DOG TREATS)

Plaintiff Murphy the Dog (hereinafter “Murphy”) hereby seeks declaratory and injunctive relief against Defendant & Negligent Dog Owner (hereinafter “Dog Hater”) plus makes a special request for treats based upon the following allegations:

NATURE OF THE ACTION

• Plaintiff brings this cause of action under the Mean Humans Who Never Walk Their Dog Act of 2011, a federal statute of great importance.
• Hey look! I see a butterfly dance across the room or possibly just someone’s phone reflection!
• The Fed-ex guy is here. Oh boy: that’s exciting.
• Anyway.  Dog Hater failed to perform her mandatory duty under this Act along with the negligent acts and omissions of her offspring (hereinafter “Bratty Kids”) who said “all we ever wanted was a dog” and then never do anything for said dog, including walking, scratching, throwing tennis balls, or brushing fur but do, in fact, force dog to wear t-shirts and little neckties.
• I’m so hungry. I think I smell something. Is that a piece of cheese on the floor?   Maybe a bit of ham?
• This tragic lack of action was prompted by Dog Hater, who put on her shoes and scratched Murphy under the head while saying “who’s a good boy,” which is a universal symbol that dog walking was about to occur. Yet, despite this false premise and manipulative statement, no walking did in fact occur.
• Not even a stroll around the block. Not even a “hey let’s just toss a ball in the back yard.”  NADA.
• Hold on real quick I gotta lie down and take a quick nap. Filing lawsuits is exhausting.  Also licking myself.
• This Court should be outraged at Dog Hater’s lack of all regard for Murphy.
• Did I hear a car door?  Did they bring me treats?  They are back! I missed them so!
• Focus. This is the second time in a week Dog Hater put on her shoes and acted as if a walk would occur only to say something like “maybe tomorrow, buddy.” WELL TOMORROW ISN’T GOOD ENOUGH. SEE YOU IN COURT. ALSO SEE IF THE STORE HAS THOSE PEANUT BUTTER BISCUITS I LIKE SO MUCH?  CAN YOU SCRATCH ME BEHIND THE EARS? OH YEAAAH.

PRAYER FOR RELIEF

WHEREFORE Plaintiff prays judgment against Dog Hater for damages, mental health trauma for no walking, costs incurred, attorneys fees, the awarding of an entire tub of treats, and other relief as the court determines.

By:  Murphy the Dog (dog print works as signature)

UNITED STATES DISTRICT COURT

FOR THE 14^TH DISTRICT OF TEXAS

Murphy The Dog, Plaintiff

-V-

Amanda Hill,  Defendant

ANSWER TO COMPLAINT AND COUNTERCLAIM

COMES NOW Defendant and answers the complaint as follows:

• Defendant admits that at times, walking did not occur. Because Defendant is a human being with an actual job, and Murphy is a dog who sleeps all day.
• Murphy is also supposed to go to the bathroom in the back yard, not on the rug next to the back door. So if we are really talking about breaches of any required duties, I’d say he is the negligent party here.
• Dogs don’t have rights under Federal law. Dogs don’t get to file lawsuits. I’m doing this to humor the poor thing, who actually is cute when he turns over for a belly scratch.
• WHOSEAGOODBOY
• Even if such law were real, Murphy himself violated it by sleeping and snoring in Defendant’s home office instead of warning her someone was at the front door, thus eviscerating the entire concept of having a guard dog. He licks the Fed ex guy’s hand for heavens sakes.
• If Defendant hated Murphy she would give him away, not let him sleep in her bed during thunderstorms and give him flea medicine.
• Look at that face!  Why is he doing this to us?
• Murphy reached up on the counter last week and grabbed hot dogs and devoured them in one sitting, which ruined the family barbecue. You were sick and heaving all night in the back room because you ate twelve wieners, and we forgave you. Now you cast blame at me?
• Don’t be an asshole by suing your master. That’s literally biting the hand that feeds you.
• He can’t just put a dog print on a legal document.  Wait -how do we know that’s him?  What if it’s the dog next door?
• I don’t think our precious Murphy would do this. I think his attorney put him up to it.

PRAYER FOR RELIEF

WHEREFORE Defendant asks the court to dismiss this claim due to unlawful representation by counsel. HE’S A GOOD BOY. ANYONE CAN SEE IT.

By:  Amanda Hill, Dog Lover