I’m no longer into you.
The rumors about a New American Migration are true. Scientists warn Florida will lose approximately 7 million residents fleeing the effects of climate change in the next 20 years.
Plenty of time to win me over.
Instead, you make jokes, calling this fake news.
Look, let’s be honest, I don’t have twenty years. I don’t want to wait until property values plummet and hurricanes wipe out the places I cherish. I want to leave before we start hating each other.
You know plenty of people who want to live here and love you. …
I’m a middle-aged empty nester and have yet to go sky-diving naked. I don’t spend evenings raising hell at the local pub nor do I have any desire to purchase a brand new Jeep.
I haven’t even scored a boyfriend so young he’s never heard of Monty Python.
Instead, I’m going back to school, writing humor columns, and drinking white wine in moderation. I spend my days perusing various clinical trials available to me on my Facebook feed, indicating Mark Zuckerberg’s algorithm knows me better than my own husband.
I really spiced things up recently and quit being vegetarian after…
It’s been a while since I’ve felt so young. I want to thank you for that.
Just last night, while moisturizing various dry spots, I thought to myself, “Girlfriend, accept it. The days of eliciting anger from strange men are behind you.”
And then you happened along in your F-150 and soiled tank top as if to say, in between swigs of beer: not so, m’lady. Not so.
I may be a middle-aged woman maneuvering through days filled with vein treatments and Hemwell Clinic appointments, but you see something else, don’t you?
You see a confident woman in need of…
What I Thought Then: Baby helps people and now that she knows how to dance, she and Johnny will change the world together. Her father’s such a tightass. Relax old man!
What I Think Now: In the span of a day, her father discovers he not only financed a felony, but his teenage daughter is sleeping with a grown-ass man she just met. Give him a minute, Baby.
Revenge of the Nerds
What I Thought Then: The smart kids beat the jocks through superior intelligence, wit and a bitchin’ new wave rap song. Way to go nerds!
After meds and coffee time, the children are hilarious.
Weighted blankets are not a scam.
When Mommy’s Lizzo shirt can walk around by itself — that’s when it’s laundry day.
Low-sodium pasta sauce is passive-aggressive bullshit.
An executive-level decision no one agrees to is fascism.
“Woah, pump the brakes there, pal” makes you sound like a douche.
No one hears you unless you knock.
“I read it somewhere” is not an acceptable source.
Trickle-down economics is a goddamn lie, whether we’re talking about national policy or family finances.
Audible digestion is a choice.
It is only when we don’t understand…
The year before quarantine, my fiftieth birthday loomed large.
I wondered how best to celebrate.
A spa day?
A themed party with black and white balloons and Sassy Handpainted Wine Glasses® filled with my favorite Orange varietal — wine of choice for my new demographic, according to r/menopause.
Or maybe hide under a weighted blanket and buy editing software to finally do something about my headshots on Instagram.
Lighting and three different filters only go so far.
I’d been reading books and articles about the benefits of psychedelics.
They’re not for everyone, but people suffering from trauma, addiction, medicine-resistant depression…
No one’s arguing.
No one’s cousin is butchering the lyrics to Down in the Ground Where the Dead Men Go.
No one mutters “’tis herself” in a slightly aggressive way when you show up late.
No one bans green beer.
No one’s mother asks why you have a face on you.
No one’s smoking while coughing up a lung.
No one says “Jesus, Mary and Joseph” when Nana’s soda bread cracks a tooth.
No one pronounces Smithwick’s correctly.
No one’s aunts are in the corner debating ham vs. corned beef.
No one is talking shit about Notre Dame.
Everyone deserves a good death.
1. Restaurant owners, comedians and forensic sketch artists often say they got started in their chosen fields because someone believed in them. Said they had talent. A gift. Same here. Friends and relatives have often said that hearing me speak makes them want to die. I thought to myself, “Why not charge a fee?”
2. Act One: Writer and political activist. Act Two: Mom. Now that my children are off in college and I’ve got some extra time on my hands, I decided my Act Three needs to be just as fulfilling and twice as…
Backstory: When my son was a toddler, he didn’t like yogurt. Who the hell knows. Something about texture. I did my best, using a series of talking points, in the hopes he’d one day enjoy fermented milk blended with live bacteria. Like a normal person.
He wasn’t about it. As an adult, he feels a similar kind of way about online dating. This is me. Still trying.
1. I won’t force you, kid.
2. This is supposed to be fun.
3. You didn’t like cupcakes at first, either. Now you can’t get enough of them!
4. I would have loved…
How you been? Hanging in there?
I’m doing okay. Still self-waxing and no longer on speaking terms with my plants. Just last week I discovered the eighth stage of grief: binge-watching Cobra Kai and actually enjoying it.
On a positive note, my meds seem to be working.
I was poking around on social media recently when I saw an old friend acting a bit nutty. He’s posting in support of white supremacists, their conspiracy theories, bad haircuts and Nazi-inspired symbols like the stage this week at CPAC. …
I’m a writer and activist. In my spare time, I investigate missing socks. (1287 found since 1995) Follow me on Twitter: @cdurkinrobinson