The Mommy Club

I made a terrible mistake last night— I walked into a one-two punch. We had choir practice, and have been planning to go for pie afterward, as we sometimes do. Just before I walked into the restaurant, I read on Facebook the ravings of one of the horrendous white supremacists from Charlottesville who explained how the death of the 32-year-old victim who was run down by a car was no real loss because single childless women are leeches on society who’ve failed to fulfill their only reasonable function, procreation. Take my word for it if you haven’t read it— it’s not going to help you to read it. I’m pretty angry with the person who cross-posted it, I deliberately did not cross-post it, and I hope you don’t Google it. I’ve given you an accurate rendering of the high points.

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Every Breath Is a New Chance to Get It Right

A young person I love very much is struggling right now. He just graduated high school, and was very sure about what he wanted to do and how it intersected with how he saw himself. He set off in that direction, but despite some success, it wasn’t what he thought it would be, and he didn’t like who it asked him to be. With some reluctance, he turned away from what had been a dream he was sure was right for him. He was confident that we’d all be disappointed, but many (I hope all, but I won’t speak for all of the many people who love and support him) of us care more about who he is than what specific vocation he chooses.

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Toastmasters Preview: Leader of the Band

I’m speaking a week from today, 5-7 minutes of an entertaining story about someone else’s experience. This is running just a touch long (and I have to figure out if I’m going to sing the segment of the Dan Fogelberg song [at 7 a.m., through my speaking nerves, a capella. Piece of cake. I only forget how to breathe when I sing solos in public.] or try to play it, but if I play it, it eats about 30 seconds of my speaking time, so I think I’m going to try to sing it and speed it up.) I welcome your thoughts. It’s a first draft, and though I’m painfully close to it, I’ll try to hear constructive criticism.

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An Especially Good Dinner

We’re down to the last five days or so of the great Arbonne experiment, as I mentioned, and I’m still trying to keep things fresh. Yesterday, I did spicy pulled pork, based on Pioneer Woman’s recipe. I did it before work and was trying to go quickly, so I didn’t bother with the processed onion etc., and I skipped the brown sugar because of our food restrictions. I quartered some onions and put them in the bottom, and threw in vinegar, chicken broth, and did the spices on top. I used some of my fresh spicy oregano instead of dried. I had Mom check it in the afternoon and add a little water, and I squeezed limes over it as it rested after I shredded it. We didn’t bother with turning it, and it turned out okay— more done on one side, but the Dutch oven is a little heavy for Mom, and we both like the crispy bits.

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Heartless

I have always thought of myself as a pretty sensitive soul— I’ve always been easy to move to tears. Just Monday, in choir practice, we were singing and tears were running down my face, in a particular song. I’ve also always been empathetic to a fault— I’m going to get used by people who play on my sympathy, I’m going to bankrupt myself emotionally. Look at the situation with the flaky friend: She cancelled an outrageous (to me) third time on plans she asked for and whose terms she has always dictated, last night. I expected that she would, and texted her three hours in advance to establish that, so I could plan my evening without having to factor that in. Instead, she cancelled with less than 30 minutes to go. And I didn’t yell. I didn’t make the plans again, but I’m not going to cut her out of my life.

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