In grad school I had a writing teacher who’d completely cream my essays. Cross-outs and tracked changes. He took me at my word When I said I wanted to get better. But when he liked something, he’d point to what was working: More of this, please. Did I mention he was British? This is important because lately, whenever something is really working, I tend to think to myself, in a British accent: More of this, please. A lunch date turned dinner date with a dreamboat who is slightly embarrassed his eyes water in cold weather. Him looking like he’s tearing up at Shake Shack. More of this, please. A toddler turning to me at the park holding her hair tie, asking me to fix her ponytail. Her grandmother nodding to go right ahead, my hands collecting wisps of yellow. More of this, please. Any time my family is honest about mental health, what my grandparents were up against. This. Cough-drop wrappers that say, Bet on yourself. Pop-up concerts in the city. Stevie Wonder playing Songs in the Key of Life at 10am on a Monday, hundreds of people stopping midcommute in button-ups and blazers belting out every word to “Sir Duke” and “Isn’t She Lovely,” saying, “My boss is just going to have to understand!” The subway tiles under Carnegie Hall with names of performers who played there: Lena Horne, September 29, 1947. The Beatles, February 12, 1964. Dance classes with live drummers. An editor saying, “I’ll pass this on,” instead of, “I’ll pass on this.” A stranger falling asleep on my shoulder for several stops. Staring at dates in authors’ bios: Ruth Stone, 1915-2011. Larry Levis, 1946-1996. Recommitting to living as much as I can. Realizing the dash between the year you’re born and the year you die is smaller than your smallest fingernail. It’s smaller than a strand of saffron in a bottle the size of a thimble in a spice shop across the street.
*sleeps for 9 hours* *wakes up and checks email* *sleeps for another hour* *wakes up and takes pills* *works for 2 hours* *sleeps for 2 hours* I don’t think I’m doing WFH correctly
Apayauq Reitan, the first trans women to run Iditarod, finishes last and wins the “Committed Through the Last Mile” award. The award, given by Lynden, honors Apayauq for her perseverance and commitment to finish the race through unexpected challenges. The last half of the pack of those running Iditarod faced sudden and extreme weather that caused many competitors to have to scratch and be rescued by race officials.
Apayauq had seven dogs in harness at the time of her finish and although this was not her rookie Iditarod, this was her first one she ran out and proud as an Indigenous trans women.
this is one of my favorite onion articles because it is so real
like the premise seems so absurd but then you start to read it and
Gibson’s descent into the depths of mustard obsession started innocently enough, when he got involved in an Internet exchange about
the best kind of mustard to use on a grilled bratwurst. When someone
posted a link encouraging him to “click on this if you really want to
spice things up,” he took the stranger’s advice and suddenly found
himself on MustardMonster.com, a discussion group devoted to the
cultivation, preparation, and enjoyment of the table-side condiment.
“I
immediately realized I was out of my league,” Gibson said of his first
encounter with the Internet’s do-it-yourself mustard community. “At that
point I had maybe three different kinds of mustard in my refrigerator,
but when I looked at their forum topics, these guys were talking about
the strengths of unique varieties of imported mustard seeds, brewing
your own vinegar for mustard-making, ways to improve store-bought
mustard when you find yourself in a pinch. That…that was the start of
what I now call my ‘lost year.’”
It was only when Gibson started getting angry, even enraged, by mustard-related issues that he started realize he had become entangled
in a dense, thickening web of mustard obsession.
“I saw my wife
putting French’s mustard on a bologna sandwich for our 5-year-old son,
and I just lost control,” Gibson said. “I said things—awful things that
I’m not proud of—and the two of them were clearly shaken. I can never
take those words back. When I looked in the mirror and barely recognized
that livid face staring back at me, I finally understood that these
mustard people weren’t really my friends.”
100% not haunted teapot and sugar bowl (I think?). Found at St. Vinny’s, where the clerk, upon seeing them set down in front of him said, “oh good, they’re leaving.” I brought them home, then lovingly wrapped them up and tucked them at the bottom of a care package I’m sending to my MIL. I have no doubt she’ll someday return the favor.
weirdest thing on ghost hunting shows is when people say like “I feel something in this room.. bad energy… I don’t like it in here…” like yeah you’re feeling scared because its a creepy room and it’s night time and you believe in ghosts
L+ you mistook my flippant statement for genuine sentiment + you’re explaining to me why I’m incorrect + i’m so sorry that we are in this situation together
