Promises Made, Promises Broken (But Blamed on Someone Else, Naturally) Ah, the sweet scent of broken promises and $6 bread. Remember back in the golden haze of Trump’s campaign trail — when he galloped in on his metaphorical horse (named “Bull”) and declared that prices would drop “on Day One”
From Daisies to Dumpster Fires Spring Awakens (a poem to start us gently) The robin sings with joyful cheer, Soft blossoms paint the skies so clear. A breeze that smells of lilac bloom, A season born to chase the gloom. We breathe it in, the light, the grace— Hope dances
Dear Friends, Today, we pause. Amid the swirling demands of the world—emails to answer, errands to run, dishes waiting in the sink—we stop. We take a deep breath. And we turn our hearts toward the women who made us, shaped us, held us, and believed in us before
Header: You Can’t Buy a Pope (But Boy, Did They Try) Dear friends, I’m not Catholic. I’m not particularly religious. But today? Today I am positively giddy. Because against all odds, against billion-dollar checks waved in the Vatican’s general direction, and despite a desperate MAGA-backed smear
Reporting from the Epicenter of American Absurdity Well folks, I never thought I’d live to see the day—but here we are. In front of the White House, an angry, unblinking battalion of dolls has gathered, their plastic scowls pointed straight at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Their tiny fists are
Dear Friends, Tuesday night, as I nestled into my cozy chair, wrapped in a blanket and absorbed in the predictable, soothing arcs of a Netflix series, my husband was pacing, sweating, and muttering words no yoga instructor would endorse. The Pacers were playing the Cavaliers in Game 2 of the
Ah, Congress — the only workplace where you can cherry-pick your tasks, dodge your boss (that’s us, by the way), and still collect a fat paycheck with benefits we can only dream of. My dear congressional rep, bless his MAGA heart, seems to think his job description reads: “Represent only
Dear Esteemed Reader, I trust this letter finds you in good health and high spirits, or at the very least, not in the clutches of a malady that compels you to seek solace in the reading of my humble musings. Today, I wish to draw your attention to a matter
Dear Esteemed Reader, I trust this letter finds you in good health and high spirits, or at the very least, not in the clutches of a malady that compels you to seek solace in the reading of my humble musings. Today, I wish to draw your attention to a matter
Ah, the garage. That magical, cavernous space attached to our homes, ostensibly designed for cars, tools, and the occasional bag of potting soil — but which, in reality, serves as the final resting place for broken lamps, old sports gear, animal cages and the mysterious box simply labeled “cords.” Let’s
We’ve all seen it: the moment you bring up Trump’s actions — whether it’s the reckless spending, the authoritarian rhetoric, the assaults on democratic norms, or the endless stream of lies — the obvious Trump voter in the room gets a glazed look and pulls out their favorite escape
I’ve been going to the Indy 500 since I was two years old — a toddler with sunscreen-slathered cheeks and a checkered flag in hand, watching in wide-eyed wonder as the thunder of engines shook the ground and the smell of rubber and gasoline filled the air. For decades, the