“If I forget to ask you to donate to
Susan G Komen For the Cure
You get a Coke
I am not petty enough to call out a minimum-wage worker on a promotion like this, so I don’t have the comped bottle of soda to prove it, but I was not asked to make a breast cancer donation at Kroger last week. And no, the clerk (let’s call her “Vera”) did not forget to ask. She simply refrained from making the request because she thought I’d say no. Of this I am certain.
Before I share with you the passive-aggressive ugliness that transpired last Thursday between Vera and me, and in my own defense (with the understanding that I come off sounding like kind of a jerk in this story), let me just say that I donate to causes like this every time someone asks me. Every. Single…
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I want to tell you a story about your dog, Zoe. We found her cowering at the pound. She wasn’t barking like the other dogs. She was simply laying there, looking up at us. The tag said, “lab mix” and she was slated to be killed in a week. We fell for it, thinking we were buying a lab.
She is not a lab. She is a pit bull.
As Zoe grew, we came to realize the pound had lied. I was scared. I felt irresponsible for letting this type of dog into my home. All of the stereotypes, preconceptions and worries filled my mind. Should I take her back? What would people think of us?
She is the definition of disenfranchised. When first time guests visit we lock her in her cage, not because she is dangerous, but because of unspoken fears. She receives wary glances from strangers as…
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I admit it: I feel a bit nerdy confessing I collect stamps.
I’m not sure how it all started, but I think it’s my father’s fault. He used to travel a lot for work, so he had friends all over the planet. And occasionally these friends would send us a letter, like this one:
Within a few years I’d amassed maybe a dozen such first-day covers, and I’d saved several hundred stamps from my father’s correspondence. (I especially looked forward to Christmas each year.)
Before long I was saving my allowance for the local stamp-swaps and mail-order offers. I’m sure I got swindled a few times (I was only eight or nine). But still, it was fun.
Then my collection sat idle for a few years, largely forgotten while I attended college and married and started a career. It wasn’t until last year, in the aftermath of The Great Flood
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Photo taken by contributor Ty Fitzgerald, a man who has been diagnosed with Bipolar II. Ty has a fondness for Lo-fi and Lux filters because they intensify shadows, highlights and colors. Such photos visually represent the way he sees the world, a little brighter and darker than he imagines those without bipolar disorder see the world.
About this photo: “This photo was taken in New Smyrna Beach, FL at sunset. A father and son were fishing and I managed to get a shot with just the son in it. The tide was coming in and there was water pooling all around him. When I dropped to the sand to take the shot, it looked like he was walking on water. I like this shot a lot because it has that “decisive moment” that Henri Cartier-Bresson described, where just a split second sooner or later, it would not have worked. I like to take photos of people when…
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A note, before I start: I had to do research and learn what the hell the difference is between Holland, the Netherlands and Denmark before writing this post. So obviously I am supposed to be writing right now.
Anyway. This picture’s making the rounds:
Here’s what you’re supposed to do: you’re supposed to look at this picture and go arr wharglebargle kids these days yarr, and be all mad. In case you don’t recognize it, that painting on the wall back there is Rembrandt’s The Night Watch, which isn’t actually called that officially but whatever. The idea is that these kids– who look, to my eyes, to be maybe eighth- or ninth-graders, are in the presence of Priceless! Artwork! and instead of reverently gazing upon it they are daring to look at their phones. Horror! Terror! Decline of society! Wharrgarbl! Facebook is so angry about this, guys.
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