PSST! Rantings, Musings, & "Not Your Mama's" Platitudes

My mother despised most other mothers, especially those who coddled and gushed over their children. She also disliked Dr. Spock—all that talk of treating your children with affection, pampering and applauding their every moment rather than training them properly. "Children are like dogs and heifers—what they need is discipline and a good routine," she said. "Besides, you don't want them to be attached to your apron springs forever. If you spoil them rotten, why would they ever leave home?" The year she raised a seagull from a chick in our back yard, she complained about the fishy stench and poop all over the lawn. One day, when the bird was a few weeks old, she began hurling it from our porch. "This is how a fledgling learns to fly," she explained. We watched it drop like a stone again and again, day after day, until one morning the gull spread its wings, just before it hit the ground, swooped into the air, and flew away. 

I watched Dr. Acton, co-director of the Nuclear Policy Program and Jessica T. Mathews Chair at Carnegie Endowment for International Peace, being interviewed on ABC on the evening of 6/21/25 when the US bombed Iranian nuclear facilities. I was impressed by his ability to make complex information accessible to all intellectual levels. I trusted him immediately and felt compelled to reach out to him via email. I wanted to thank him and share my thoughts, as well as ask if he had a copy or link to read the article without a NY Times subscription. He emailed me about 30 minutes later and sent a link to read it for free. I'm probably NOT supposed to copy and paste this onto a blog, but I think it should be accessible to all. So thankful for people like Dr. Acton in the world. We need them now more than ever.  We Can’t Bomb Our Way Out of This June 19, 2025 Credit... Ioulex for The New York Times Share full article By  James M. Acton Mr. Acton is a director of the nuclear policy prog...

Desire by  George Bilgere   The slim, suntanned legs of the woman in front of me in the checkout line fill me with yearning to provide her with health insurance and a sporty little car with personalized plates. The way her dark hair falls straight to her slender waist makes me ache to pay for a washer/dryer combo and yearly ski trips to Aspen, not to mention her weekly visits to the spa and nail salon. And the delicate rise of her breasts under her thin blouse kindles my desire to purchase a blue minivan with a car seat, and soon another car seat, and eventually piano lessons and braces for two teenage girls who will hate me. Finally, her full, pouting lips make me long to take out a second mortgage in order to put both kids through college at first- or second-tier institutions, then cover their wedding expenses and help out financially with the grandchildren as generously as possible before I die and leave them everything. But now the cashier rings her up and she walks out of...

I dreamed a family was split up while a red velociraptor tore through the lawnmower path in the yard. The dad ran with the last kid. He stuffed them both inside the doorway to the back of the home. He tucked the tag of the blanket in the door jamb before they were devoured. 

When I visited my childhood home last week, I could see you in the windows of our stone farmhouse with your pink glasses and tiny eyes . . . No, you weren't ever that small, but that's how I see you now, as small as Thumbelina, and our house too, and the barns where the horses and chickens slept, where the kittens and foals were born each spring. Once, when the horses kicked  their stalls and whinnied in the night, you ran barefoot in the dark, flashlight in hand, to check on them, and back in bed, unable to sleep and out of breath, you wrote, Dear Future Me  in script, imagining me now. That was the night Dad's horse, Ella, died. We phoned the vet, but by the time he arrived, Ella was dead. You tried to think of other things, like how you wanted to grow up and be a horse, or the fastest runner on earth, or the best high jumper. That's what you wished for on every birthday, star, and on every point of pie which you saved to eat last because otherwise your wish wouldn...

This is where I'm going to die A story about escape, return, collapse, and finally finding home. LAURA MCKOWEN MAY 07, 2025 ∙ PAID 434 82 27 In the spring of 2009, when my daughter was five weeks old, my husband and I moved from Boston to my home state of Colorado, into my dad’s basement. I flew with the baby, vibrating with a hangover and more anxiety than any body should be able to hold, while my husband towed a U-Haul behind our silver VW Golf across the country with our dog. Our decision to move was something like a Hail Mary attempt to save us, though we didn’t say that out loud, of course. We posited it as hopeful-yet-logical shift to a different geography, one where my husband, who’d graduated the year before a with joint JD-MBA degree had not yet saturated the market with his resume, and back to my roots, to the mountains, to a place he’d also easily feel at home as an avid skier. Also, I was working for my dad when we made the decision, so, you know, all the easier to cond...

After my dog was killed by a car my parents gave me a baby sperm whale. In a small wooden boat, father on one oar, mother on the other, we rowed past the swells. The only sound was the oars' monotonous work followed by the sigh of the ocean pushed behind. When it passed beneath mother shouted "there, there" and pointed at the large dark shape. Father took photos with an old Instamatic. On the way back to shore, the only thing spoken was by mother who asked if I named it and I had.

I had a dream that I was sitting at a table with my neighbors. We were planning a menu for Thanksgiving dinner. I offered to make dressing but remembered they may prefer stuffing. I offered to change it, but the daughter (who is a few years younger than me) told me to make one of two dishes that were specific to the Dominican Republic. I wasn’t sure which one to choose, and she seemed irritated that I was uncertain.  Then I dreamed I was at work and about to go for a walk with a bunch of women. One woman, Toula (who I worked with at the outpatient pharmacy over a decade ago), handed me a hair tie so I could pull my hair up. I saw two women I hadn’t seen in forever, Katherine (who also worked at the outpatient pharmacy and who thought herself superior to me) and Cerice (a girl I went to high school with). It was awkward and strange. I stood there as if I were standing by a casket in a funeral waiting to be greeted with condolences. 

I had a dream that I went on a blind date, and the man ended up being much older than I expected. We had dinner with his entire family, and he insulted me in front of everyone by saying, "You don't have a degree, right?" I lied and said, "Yes, I do. I am a nurse and I graduated from Clemson." His family was super excited to hear this and thought it was amazing. I excused myself from the table and slipped into the restroom. I left before they could look me up and verify any information. As I was driving in the parking lot, the way out turned into a cul-de-sac. I turned my car around and went back the way I came, and the only way out was for me to park the car and walk through the building again. I walked through the building and as I opened the front door to leave, someone sitting in one of the booths yelled my name and said, "Oh, there you are, _________. Bye." I caught the person's eye and he had an evil look on his face. I flicked him off and sai...

I think I thought I was no longer the same person. That the challenges I faced somehow morphed me into something else entirely. I now realize, after reading those old journal entries, that I have always been the same person. I have faced insurmountable obstacles and yet I am still me. The essence of who I am has not died. What a relief. 

You own everything that happened to you . Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better. Anne Lamott (tape this to your workstation.) **courtesy of Emily Lisker**

“The measure of love is to love without measure.” “Have patience with all things but first with yourself. Never confuse your mistakes with your value as a human being. You are perfectly valuable, creative, worthwhile person simply because you exist. And no amount of triumphs or tribulations can ever change that.” “Have patience with all things, but chiefly have patience with yourself. Do not lose courage in considering your own imperfections, but instantly set about remedying them—every day begin the task anew.” “Do not wish to be anything but what you are, and try to be that perfectly.” “Never be in a hurry; do everything quietly and in a calm spirit. Do not lose your inner peace for anything whatsoever, even if your whole world seems upset. What is anything in life compared to peace of soul?” “If, when stung by slander or ill-nature, we wax proud and swell with anger, it is a proof that our gentleness and humility are unreal, and mere artificial show.” “Be who you are and be that wel...

I removed the link to this blog from my website in an effort to make it more difficult to find. I want to feel a sense of privacy which makes me feel more in control. I want the freedom to write what I want to write without worrying what someone I know might think. I don't want to hurt anyone's feelings, and I do not want to be judged any more than I already am. I also had an issue with a man from a dating app who broke through my boundaries despite my objections. It doesn't matter if my name is attached to this blog. All that matters is that I am a human and we are all in the midst of this human experience. Hopefully someone will read this and feel less alone. That is all I can hope for. My name is not a big name in the writing world. I have been out of publication for a couple of years now. Surely the views of my blog are not attached to my name. If they are, the views are likely out of curiosity. My father gave me a bundle of papers and a journal, wrapped together with a...

As I circled the round-about, I saw a dark maroon SUV with a crack down the bumper. On the crack were about ten band-aids seemingly holding it together. I feel this is a metaphor for something.

Sunday, after work, I visited Mom and Dad for Father’s Day. None of my other siblings had come for the day. My parents had watched my nephew the evening before, and my sister did not come to pick him up because she said she was sick. My parents brought her son back to her, along with lunch they had made for everyone who did not come. Since they were in the area, they brought lunch to my other sister as well. This enraged me. My sisters could not bother to get up and come visit. My parents should not be the ones driving around catering to everyone. We ended up having a three-and-a-half-hour conversation about life and choices and parenting and disappointment and resentment and love and what it means to be alive. We all became emotional. It was a beautiful evening despite the disappointment. I emailed a friend I once loved to tell him Happy Father’s Day. I did it with the purest of intentions—a meaningful sentiment from one friend to another. He emailed me back, and he and his family are...