Timing Is Everything

It’s no secret I am not a trump fan. And it might also be obvious that I am an Obama groupie.

So Tuesday night when I went with my sister to Bunco (a game the ladies in her neighborhood play once a month), I found it quite ironic and sort of hilarious that we ended up seated at a table before the game started to chat with a woman who was going on about her “trump tree” for Christmas! When we first sat down I thought I must have misunderstood her. I mean, my right ear is completely plugged up from a cold and she was on my right side… “Surely it must be a ‘jump tree’ or a ‘bump tree’…” I thought. But no – she went on. It turned out she had purchased red, white, and blue trump ornaments to adorn her tree. Then she put ribbons all around it. And of course, no mere star would be bright enough to top that beauty off, so gracing the tippy top was a MAGA hat. Yes, a trump “Make America Great Again” hat was the piece de resistance of her holiday décor!!

I tried not to let my disgust and amusement show on my face (but I was tired, plus I have sort of an expressive face, so I am not sure how well I did at hiding it). My sister and I looked at each other and exchanged what I hoped was a secret, “What the actual f….” glance and tried not to giggle. The trump tree woman turned to us and said, “You do like Donald trump, right?”.

Wellllll – that doesn’t fly with me. I am past the point in my life of smiling and nodding, thereby making myself complicate in the nonsense and plain evil that is the current administration. My sister and I both replied, “No,” to the question. The woman awkwardly turned back to the 4^th person at the table and carried on the conversation about how lovely her themed tree is. Then she proudly added, “I even got my husband some tRUMP SOCKS!!”.

It was then that I remembered something brilliant – for the first time in 2 weeks or so I was actually wearing my BARACK OBAMA SOCKS!!!!! So, you know what I had to do. Why, I pulled up the leg of my skinny jeans right then and there, smiled, and said, “Wow! Would you look at that? I am wearing my Barack Obama socks today!!”. And my sister added proudly, “Yes! We went to the Obama inauguration!”.

It was a hilarious scene and we giggled about it when we got home later.

But I hadn’t planned on sharing it here. It was just a funny little thing that happened at Bunco.

Until the next night.

Our other sister (who has GBM) is doing much worse. She is nearing the end of her life and we spend much of our time by her side at the hospice, sad and crying at the fact that we are losing her. Well, Wednesday night her daughter gave me a gift that she found in her mom’s things. My sister had squirreled it away with a note saying “Susan”, planning to give it to me sometime, maybe for Christmas or my birthday.

And the gift was…

OBAMA SOCKS.

More Obama socks.

Thanks for the socks, sissy. I love you.

The irony of it all is beautiful. I love that she thought of me when she saw the socks. I love that just last night I “flashed” my other pair of matching socks. I am sorry that my sister didn’t get the chance to give them to me in person, but I am so thankful to have them.

In fact, I’m so thankful that I don’t think I will ever put my stinky feet in them. I may hang them as a reminder of a few things:

- My sister is an amazing gift giver

- Obama was a rock star of a president

- I should never be afraid to stand up for what I believe in (even if doing so results in cricket chirps and awkward Bunco moments)

We Ride At Dawn

I can’t be the only one feeling down. And stressed. And nervous. And angry. And confused. And just about every other negative emotion that could be listed. There is just so much ANGST in the world right now, especially with the upcoming elections in the US. And sometimes (at least for deep feelers like myself) it just feels like a little too much to bear. But then I get a reminder. A reminder that even in the midst of all of these sleepless nights and fret – there IS good in the world. I got 2 reminders recently, and I thought I should share them in case you haven’t had any. I don’t know, I guess with the hopes that the reminders I came across will help boost your spirits a bit, too. Here’s the first one. This hat. We came home the other day and this was hanging on our front doorknob. Now, we have had a LOT of things left on our porch over the years – rusty cans of soup, brand new snow boots, and everything in between – ...

Separation of Church and Donuts

Blessed. Ugh. I have had issues with that word since before I can remember. Blessed. It makes me feel so, I don’t know, cringy. To me, it signifies that I, as the “blessed”, am in a better position than someone else. More elevated. More healthy. More rich. More children. More talented. Whatever IT is – I have more of IT – because you see, I. Am. Blessed. Because when you think about it, for someone to qualify as “blessed”, someone else has to be lower, beneath them, “unblessed” you could say. Because if we were ALL blessed, then we would be equal, and then that sort of defeats the purposed of blessed , right? I dislike the term so much that once my sister gave me a tacky hot pad from the Dollar Tree that said “blessed”. Only, because she knew my opinion of the word, she used a black Sharpie to cross that out with a circle and a slash, signifying “unblessed” I guess. I liked it. ...

The Girl Who Can't Ride a Bike

I am “the girl who can’t ride a bike”. I guess to be accurate, I should say that I WAS “the girl who can’t ride a bike”. But it was such a big part of my identity growing up, that the never formalized (but often teased about) nickname stuck in my psyche. You know how most kids love to jump on their bikes and pedal around the neighborhood once they have figured out how to balance, brake, and GO? Yeah, that wasn’t me. I wasn’t that kid. I am not sure WHAT really happened. The one thing I do remember is being on a bike in my family’s garage in Omaha, Nebraska trying to ride my bike. It must’ve been winter, otherwise, why wouldn’t I have been outdoors?? But I think my foot slipped off the pedal and I know for sure my knee hit the handlebar. It hurt. I remember crying. But I am guessing that it hurt my pride more than it hurt my knee. I think I was already past the age where kids were “supposed” to ride a bike. ...

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