Proverbs and Portmanteaus

 

Years ago, I intentionally combined two sayings into one portmanteau proverb:

If wishes were fishes, then beggars would ride.

A combo of "If wishes were fishes we'd all cast nets", and "If wishes were horses then beggars would ride".

I say it a lot, so much so that my kids use it frequently.

Chicago: Where the Music Took Hold - TWICE

I am willing to bet good money that the first music I ever heard was my mother singing to me in Chicago, the city where I was born and where I lived for the first three months of my life before we moved to Boston. 

The year I was eleven, life went pretty cattywumpus. I'd been living with my mother for the previous year, and that pretty much imploded due to my special needs as an undiagnosed bipolar person. I returned to my father's home, and since he was in the middle of relocating across town and setting up housekeeping, he asked his mom, my Gramma Mary, if I could come to Chicago and stay with her for a month or two. Gramma said yes...

Impeach and CONVICT Trump NOW!

 

There is a point where a country either wakes up or sleepwalks straight off a cliff. People keep acting like this is just another news cycle, another round of political noise,or another thing to scroll past on the way to cat videos and dinner plans. But this isn't background static. This is the fire alarm blaring at full volume while half the country pretends it's a ringtone. We're living inside an emergency, and the refusal to name it is part of the emergency.

Because this is not about one moment, one headline, or one outrageous quote. It's an accumulation, a pattern, the relentless grinding erosion of guardrails and basic expectations of leadership. Every time something crosses a line, the line gets redrawn a little further out, and people shrug a little harder, and the whole thing becomes a little more normal and accepted...

The Board of "Peace" and The Threat of War

I read an article in The Guardian about how Trump sits at the head of something he is calling the “Board of Peace” and somehow manages to threaten Iran with “bad things” if they do not fall in line within ten days. Ten days. Like he is handing out a goddam eviction notice instead of talking about potential military action. He says the talks have been “good,” as if that word magically cancels out the threat hanging off the end of his sentence like a loaded weapon.

So there he is, perched on his shiny new “Board of Peace,” casually dangling the possibility of war like it's a fucking party favor. Peace, apparently, now means “do what I fucking say or I will blow your shit up.” Peace means smiling for the cameras while you rattle sabers under the table. Peace means pretending diplomacy is happening while you count down to violence like it is a goddam game show.

The fucking absurdity is so thick you could spread it on toast...

The Dogs Who Built My Life - A Poem

Connor in front, Romeo behind

I was raised in a house where dogs

were not pets but storylines.

Flockie, fierce little guardian,

patrolling the borders of childhood.

Ollie, the Wonder Dog,

half giant, half myth,

all heart,

the one who walked beside me

like he had been assigned the job by the universe.

Heidi, wild and bright,

a fugitive with sheep’s wool on her breath

and summers in Nova Scotia in her bones.

Gunther, the one puppy miracle,

proof that even small dogs

can write big legends.

And then came the ones who shaped

the in between years,

the ones who carried me forward

when life shifted under my feet.

Lulu, my heart dog,

the little dachshund who loved me

with a devotion that left a hollow

when she was gone.

Her absence was a wound

I did not know how to close

until Romeo arrived

and stitched it gently,

one heartbeat at a time.

Murphy, the tiny poodle

with the soul of a knight,

who lived twenty one long years

and would have taken a bullet for me

without hesitation.

I loved him,

but not the way he loved me,

and that truth still tugs at me

like a thread I never tied off.

Sid Vicious,

whose name was a lie

and whose only violence

was the ferocity of his fetch obsession.

A dog who believed joy

was something you chased

and brought back proudly

again and again.

And now, the pack that fills my home

and my days

and the spaces I did not know

were still empty.

Romeo, my heart dog,

the one who looks at me

like he remembers every lifetime

we have ever shared.

Cubby, my little buddy,

joy wrapped in fur,

a shadow with a wagging tail.

Connor, my sweet and fragile boy,

who learned safety in my hands

and taught me softness in return.

Rocco, borrowed but belonging,

folded into the pack

as naturally as breath.

These dogs,

past and present,

are the chapters of my life.

They shaped me,

held me,

trusted me,

and taught me what loyalty feels like

when it curls up beside you

and falls asleep.

I did not just grow up with dogs.

I was raised by them.

And I am still being raised

every day

by the ones who walk beside me now.

Not Bob: The Orange Cat Who Thinks He’s a Dog

 

Not Bob isn’t just a cat. He’s a phenomenon in orange fur, a walking burst of confidence and questionable decisions who somehow manages to charm every creature in the house. He talks constantly, a running commentary of meow, meOW, MEOW that sounds less like a request and more like a declaration of his own importance. And the dogs believe him. Romeo drags him across the room by the scruff like a beloved plush toy, and Not Bob just goes limp with the blissful trust of someone who has never once considered the possibility of danger. He lets the dogs groom him, shove him, nudge him, and he returns the favor by inserting himself into every canine moment like he was born into the pack. He isn’t a guest in the dog world. He’s a citizen. Maybe even a diplomat.

The little beast has one, POSSIBLY two, brain cells...

His hobbies include locking himself in the bathroom by pushing the door shut, then immediately complaining at full volume until someone rescues him. He also has a long‑running feud with the floor vents. Not Bob has pulled them up, chewed through tape, defeated glue, and ignored every deterrent except bricks, which he is not yet strong enough to move. He would absolutely appreciate a set of weights for his birthday so he can train for the day he reclaims access to the heat‑duct underworld.

There’s no dignity in him, no hesitation, no fear. Just pure, unfiltered orange cat energy wrapped around a heart that believes every creature is a friend. In a house full of dogs and stories and history, Not Bob has somehow carved out his own legend simply by being exactly who he is: loud, fearless, affectionate, and absolutely convinced he belongs everywhere.

How the FUCK Are MAGA Followers Still Worshipping This Guy?

 

At this point, trying to understand MAGA loyalty feels like trying to explain why a goddam raccoon keeps coming back to the same dumpster fire. You’d think eventually the smell of burning garbage and shit would register. But no, they’re still there, still digging, still convinced they’ve found treasure while the rest of us are fucking gagging.

Because honestly, how in fuck do you keep supporting someone after everything that’s come out? We’re talking about a man with multiple criminal convictions, a man who’s been at the center of more lawsuits than a defective chainsaw company, a man who is all over the Epstein files (and probably guilty of pedophilia), a man whose public behavior would get any normal person fired, shunned, or at least politely escorted out of the building. But not him. No, he’s their golden calf with a spray tan and a microphone...

Time for a living wage, dammit!

On July 24, 2009 the federal minimum wage was elevated by congress, raising the rate to $7.25 per hour. This remains the current federal minimum as of early 2026. This is the longest period in U.S. history without a congressional update. This is egregious neglect and abuse of the workers and needs to be addressed.

Key details regarding the federal minimum wage:

* Duration: The $7.25 rate has been in place for over 16 years.

* Purchasing Power: The value of the minimum wage has declined significantly due to inflation, losing roughly 30% or more of its purchasing power since 2009.

* State vs. Federal: While the federal rate is stagnant, many states have implemented higher minimum wages. 

(The previous bullet list was pasted from Google.)

Texas, however does not give a hot fuck. Minimum wage here and in 19 other states is $7.25. And in Texas, if you're a tipped worker, such as a waitress or waiter, you get a whopping $2.13 an hour.

To put that into perspective, in 1982, FORTY-FOUR years ago, I was hired for my first job, waitressing in Massachusetts, where the tipped wage was $2.10 per hour. And it was not enough to live well or comfortably on. Things have NOT improved since then.

Three cents an hour. That's how much more per hour this fucked up state is paying its tipped workers in 2026 than I earned in 1982.

LIVING WAGE NOW, MOTHERFUCKERS!

FUCK Cancer! Fuck It In The EAR! I’m DONE Watching This Monster Hurt People I Love

Cancer is the one motherfucker that never clocks out. It doesn’t care how good you are, how careful you’ve been, how much you’ve already survived. It just shows up like a goddam wrecking ball and dares you to pretend this is normal. I’m fucking sick of it. I’m sick of watching people I love get blindsided by a piece of shit disease that feels like it’s everywhere, all the time, creeping into every family like some kind of outrageous cosmic joke.

We talk about cancer like it’s a statistic, like it’s a chart, like it’s a ribbon color. But when it hits your circle, it’s not a number, it’s a gut punch. It’s fear. It’s rage. It’s the helplessness of knowing that even with all our medical advances of the last motherfucking century, all our research, all our awareness campaigns, this thing still keeps taking swings at the people who deserve it the least.

And I’m tired. Tired of pretending to be calm. Tired of acting like this is just part of life. Tired of watching strong, brilliant, irreplaceable people get dragged into a fight they never fucking asked for...

Missing and/or Kidnapped - THEY MATTER TOO!

Look, I feel awful about Nancy Guthrie, I really do. No 84 year old woman (or anybody else for that matter) should be abducted.

But let's get real. Hundreds of women and men and children get abducted or go missing every single year in this country, and for the most part, we don't hear dick about them.

Here's a few missing just this year alone, and it's only mid-February:

• Virginia Parker (Reno, Nevada): 17-year-old missing since January 23, 2026.
• Cherell Brooks (New Castle, Delaware): 32-year-old missing since February 5, 2026.
• Ianna Geniyah Mondesir (Virginia): Missing since February 9, 2026, also 17 years old.
• Kara Hynd (Ohio):  Missing as of February 8, 2026.
• Sophia Barajas (California): 15 years old, missing as of January 11, 2026.
• Mara Minott: (Michigan): Missing since November 2025.

The thing MOST of these missing women and girls have in common? All but one of them is Black or Latina. And none of them are the mother or daughter of a celebrity.

Don't they matter?

Don't they?