Hillary and the Lioness

I’ve been looking forward to the debates all election season, even let the kids stay up til 10 to watch. I’m glad I did, too, and not just because they fell asleep the minute we marched upstairs.

I want them to remember this moment in history.

“I like the woman,” Little A said early in the night.

“That’s Hillary,” Big A told her. “I like her too.”

I’m happy you do, my sweet A’s. Hillary is sharp, resilient, hard-working, ambitious, self-made, successful, strategic, and classy. She is a boss bitch, and I believe all women should aspire to boss bitchdom.

Aspire to be President of the United States of America one day.

It makes me proud to live in a time when you can set that kind of goal.

One of my favorite fantasies is my time machine one—where I’m the hot, bedazzled Queen of Studio 54, shimmering under the disco ball and inventing the dance moves of the future—but then I remember, no, that was a shitty period for most women; that 2016 is actually the best possible time for our gender, where opportunities abound, and girls can run the world, Beyoncé style.

The night before Leymah Gbowee won the 2011 Nobel Peace Prize for helping to lead the women’s protests that toppled Liberia’s dictator, she was asked how American women could help those who experienced the horrors and mass rapes of war. Her response: “More women in power.”

This is the Golden Age of the Boss Bitch, and Hillary is proof.

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My life is so high school

For the longest time, the biggest mystery of my life was, “Why does Anaid hate me?”

The question literally haunted my dreams. Sometimes we were friends again, sometimes not.

“Babe… Babe!” I would nudge Mr. D in the middle of the night, and he would roll over in a fog of delirium.

“Why does Anaid hate me?”

He would kiss me and tell me to go back to sleep, and eventually I would, but the question always lingered. Mostly because, what the fuck?

I watched a lot of Murder She Wrote as a kid, and I feel like I’m good at putting clues together. But when I dissect the anatomy of our friendship and breakup, nothing makes sense.

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The Green Room

I stumbled upon the most incredible discovery a few weeks ago.

The kids were asleep, the bowl was freshly packed, and 90210 was on Hulu.

It was Season One, Episode Three—“The Green Room”—and about fifteen minutes in, my jaw hung wide, the epiphany in my brain far more potent than weed.

“Oh my God,” I said to absolutely no one.

Dylan and Brandon were lovers! From the moment they locked eyes!

I felt like Brandon at the end of the show because I, too, finally knew what to write for my erotic literary salon reading.

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Half a page of scribbled lines

I.

I cried before my eldest daughter’s birth. It must have been around 1:28 in the afternoon. She had been in the breech position for months, her upright body folded in half like a nutcracker. Uncomfortable, I’m sure, but I like to believe my heart was one of the first sounds she ever heard. It beats for you. That was all I truly knew. I was supposed to be filled with love, I knew, but I had only fear, and as I lay on the hospital bed, I felt the tears slide like heavy raindrops off my cheeks. The nurse looked over and asked if I was okay, and I said yes because I knew it was too late to say I had changed my mind. My daughter was born at 1:31, just a minute past her scheduled delivery.

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Continuing Ed

I hadn’t planned to go to my commencement ceremony, hadn’t even rented a cap and gown. “Do we have to watch you ‘walk,’” my dad once asked. I probably just shrugged. It wasn’t important. Not in the way that mattered to our family.

Studying, learning—that was different.

In middle school, I once brought home a report card full of B’s. My parents offered to drive me to McDonald’s and Taco Bell to scope my job prospects. “That’s your future,” they said at the time.

The both share six college degrees, though I’ve never seen a diploma. Probably just another paper my dad tossed in the recycling bin. Education is such an obvious, natural part of life, why celebrate with pomp and circumstance?

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The Happy Pessimist

You ever notice Facebook women of a certain age always seem to thank their men for keeping them sane? I know I’m probably guilty of it too. Without Mr. D, my brain would be… ugh. I shudder to think.

It all goes back to Enrique’s universal truth: “All men are dumb; all women are crazy.”

And I’m admittedly as nuts as the next broad. Maybe more so. But I often feel like my crazy gets rebranded as pessimism when it suits Mr. D’s arguments or assumptions about me.

We even had a spat about this a few months back. I can’t seem to remember what exactly we were fighting about now, but I said that I’m too naturally happy to be negative. Mr. D said it’s possible to be a happy pessimist, that the two are not mutually exclusive.

And I’ve been thinking about that a lot ever since.

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