So Tuesday on a quote unquote short week.
Here’s a snapshot of my day yesterday.
I wake up every day at 7am. Prepare lunch for my Teenager. Discuss our respective impending Mondays. Walk my dog, it’s brisk out, he’s wearing his dog coat my friend Pauline knit for him. Prep BARB posts. Head into the office. Meetings, meetings, meetings. I realize it’s my best friend’s birthday the ass backwards way: I text him to tell him it’s our mutual friends birthday (according to Facebook) and he tells me, duh, he knows, they’re wonder-twins. I always miss his birthday; I know it’s around Thanksgiving. Even before social media made it easy to remember birthdays, I’d always mix up his birthday. Throughout most of the day, I text with a small circle of friends, a daily crew, whom I don’t see enough, don’t speak to enough, but know a lot about because iChat makes it possible to ruminate on and on. I run home (actually I take the train) at 4 to walk Rocky. Get back on the train to head downtown for dinner with my friend Amanda at Rosemary’s. She is a Lady Like Us. Towards the end of dinner, I get a text from the Teenager: This is bullshit. Ruh-roh. She’s upset about something. It’s 8:10pm. She’s still at school (she’s the Assistant Stage Manager of her High School Musical) and her days until the end of production are excessively long. I’m supposed to meet a friend at 8:30. I ask her if she wants me to meet her at school and she says yes. I text the date, tell him I am running late. We get our check, we pay our bill, we say emotional goodbyes, my friend Amanda and I. Jump on the train, meet my daughter at the appointed location, we walk home and I listen to her, I listen to her, I listen to her. I bring her upstairs, she gets under the covers, she plops her laptop on her belly, she’s sorted. I run to the bar to meet my friend. It’s 9pm. He’s had a cranky day. I listen attentively, I listen to him, I listen to him. But now, I’m distracted because I know my Teenager is also having a cranky day. About a half hour into it, I check my phone. Myriad texts from the Teenager. Mostly, she would like me to pick up cookie dough ice cream for her. By 10pm, my friend has finished his drink. We leave. I walk with him to the train, we say our goodbyes, and I run to the supermarket. But wait, I can’t find the pop tarts. And yet, I don’t break. I ask someone for help, the pop tarts are literally staring me in the face, I grab the strawberry, I pay, I go home. Now the Teenager is in an emotional state, and I listen, I listen, I listen, saved by a text from the one person who can make her smile. I sense my work is done. I walk the dog. I text with some people. And as I turn off the light, at midnight, I realize, I forgot to call my mother.
That’s a snapshot of my day. I bet I’m not the only one. It’s a lot to juggle. And I suspect, I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Here’s a BARB Up.
Say what now? This article is about a year old, but I’ve been thinking a lot about misogyny this week. Last week, and the week before that too. In particular, how it performs in the workplace. The only method in this very upbeat list that has ever worked for me was to keep a record of incidences; this helps when building a case. And speaking to a supervisor. And documenting that conversation which helps when you consult with HR.
Elizabeth Warren. You rule.” And we do not control the tools of government. But make no mistake. We know what we stand for. The sun will keep rising and we will keep fighting.”
Quell surprise. Trump is going to drop the alleged investigation into Hillary, blah blah blah. I suppose he wants us all to jump up and down with joy and gratitude. When in fact, there was never any need for him to threaten this in the first place. Ugh.
Roxane Gay is delving into the world of comic books. A really excellent series, by the way.
Daily I Heart Michelle Obama moment: her schedule for the next few days.
The Sisters Uncut have stepped up their Domestic Violence campaign, onto the Tube. You go, girls.
Beverly McLaughlin on what she learned when she discovered she had breast cancer: “I believe black women are less likely to go for screenings because the prevention work is not targeted at us.”
The New Yorker tries to explain our Gold Dust Woman, Stevie Nicks, to us. Heh.
How much of a presence is menopause in your life? Will you let me know?