My mother’s in town. She’s seventy-seven years old, a widow now. She’s never lived on her own. Not like I have. She went from her parents house, to the home she built with her husband/my father. Now she lives alone, and it’s uncomfortable to her. She doesn’t enjoy the still. Not like I do. And so, when she comes to New York, and parks herself in my apartment for how ever long she is staying (it’s never truly clear exactly how many days and weeks she is actually using my home as her parking lot), I have to practice patience, that virtue of which is necessary to uphold. Something that, with all the additional stress in my life, is a task, a battle of my own wills. I do it however. Because of the epiphany I’ve had in the year and a half that my father has been gone: that my parents will not be around forever, naive as that may be, but there it is. One is lost. The other is still quite and very much here. Lucky for me, she’s healthy. Yes, she can be a bit taxing. Yes, she shoves plastic bags into crevices I didn’t know exist in my home. Yes, she really really really would like me to get a face lift. Or some kind of facial replenishment. But beyond that, she’s quite loving. She cares. She wants to be around me as much as Rocky does. And so, practicing patience is a short ask on my psyche. Really, really short.
Samantha Bee kicking ass as usual.
Barbra Streisand has a thing or two to say about Hollywood.
Norma Kamali continues to rock.
Love Will Tear Us Apart, all these years later.
A variety of women weigh in on different ways they’ve experienced ageism.
Emily Steel, the NYTimes reporter who nailed O’Reilly.
Climate Change March happened!
Like you need more than one reason to own a vibrator, here’s nine more.
And now have a laugh with Leslie Jones.