Spotless

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The thing I remember best about my grandma – the one I met, not the other one – was her vacuum.
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And a Pony.

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Pony was a chicken. I’m about 99% sure she was a Barred Rock, because we had those and Rhode Island Reds and she definitely was not a Rhode Island Red. Continue reading

Dożynki

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Last year, I planted food for the first time. I mean, beyond my scrubby blueberry bushes and the blackberry I’ve given up and embraced. It seemed like the thing to do, in 2018, to spend the days following former Attorney General Jeff Sessions’ announcement of a “zero tolerance” border policy, the days in which children were officially, rather than surreptitiously, taken from their parents and caged in makeshift shelters, in Walmarts and tent cities, to spend those days buried to my wrists in the soil, giving something, at least, a chance to grow. Continue reading

In which children don’t come installed with software designed to maximize your UX

So, I grew up with parents who wanted me to call them by their first names, I didn’t have a lot of refined sugar until I was like ten, and I still think carob is kind of a treat. WHATEVER. I also developed a healthy love of the outdoors and a healthy respect for how much geese and chickens hate us. But there were a few times my hippie upbringing and the real world collided, hard, and one of those times was in the matter of, well, cookies. Continue reading

Fuck you, metrics

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So my writing partner (do we say bookwife now?) is obsessive about her metrics. She knows exactly how many views she gets per day. She knows if someone’s been through her whole blog. She knows what posts are performing how. She doesn’t do anything with this information, or change anything about how her posts are structured based on it, but she knows it. Continue reading