Jun 15, 2026
I have one of those brains that remembers things – good, bad, indifferent things; not everything, but stories I’ve heard, endless odd bits of trivia, for sure, and stories like this one, published who knows where (now that I’ve forgotten!) about Joseph Heller after or around his death in 1999:
Kurt Vonnegut was once at a party – hosted by a billionaire at this palatial home on Shelter Island – with Joseph Heller, the author of Catch-22; Vonnegut asked Heller, “How does it make you feel to know that our host only yesterday may have made more money than your novel ‘Catch-22’ has earned in its entire history?” Heller responded, “I’ve got something he can never have.” Vonnegut persisted, “What on earth could that be, Joe?” And Joseph Heller responded, “The knowledge that I’ve got enough.”
What constitutes enough? Each person must, I suppose, define that for themselves. This past week Elon Musk became the world’s first trillionaire. That he does more damage than good with his money is debatable, I suppose. It is, however, inarguable that Musk openly encouraged, with his huge platform, protected by his massive wealth and what one safely assumes is an army of security, the violence that also, this week, engulfed parts of Belfast in flames. Consequence free living is a perk of great wealth combined with whiteness and the male gender.
We learned about the Robber Barons in school, but if we were taught that they were bad, or good, or somewhere in-between, I don’t remember. When is enough enough? And are we on the verge of another revolution against the monied classes? I hope so. Watching and reading about the grifting and outright theft of public monies by the current administration is making life harder for me right now. I am listening to fewer pods, reading less of the news, and when one of my friends asked me if I had seen such-and-such report on Maddow, I laughed, responding, ‘No! Good Goddess no. I can’t. I simply can’t watch it anymore, for mental health reasons!’
Funny, that. Because to this freaking libtard, wealth is health, both mental and physical. Wealth is watching a red-breasted hummingbird outside sipping at my iris and poppies and early flowering blooms. Wealth is a pile of books to read (right now, Kimberle Williams Crenshaw’s Backtalker and oh it’s good and, despite many differences, very relatable) and time to read them in, as well as time to write and write and write s’more. Wealth is friends to laugh with and good food to cook.
What constitutes enough? I don’t think these bottom line insecure dweebs (Musk, Zuck, Altman, Thiel, Bezos, etc.) will ever be satisfied, will ever know or feel what it means to have enough, to be satisfied and content with what they have. Maybe one day they’ll practice philanthropy and decency at the same level to which they’re practicing grasping, manipulating, and perverting power. However, knock wood, I hope I hope I hope the majority of us have had enough, enough of the greed and arrogance running rampant through our businesses and government. We’ll see.
Gandhi’s Seven Social Sins are as follows (often referred to as the Seven Deadly Sins) Wealth without work; pleasure without conscience; knowledge without character; commerce without morality; science without humanity; religion without sacrifice; politics without principle.
*Ye Olde Poste Scripte: I know I’m a petty bitch, but watching the Orange Buffoon’s name come off the Kennedy Center gave me so much joy!!!
Jun 14, 2026
The key to getting comments
and engagement, so I’ve heard,
lies not in rage and insults
but in using a wrong word
so that people will correct it.
This should be a piece of cake!
I’ll just write a simple poem and
insert one small mistake.
*a poem by A. Harris a.k.a. Poem Boy. Harris, whose first name is Aled, is an English teacher who writes relatable, simple poems for us all. I can get behind that. I can also deeply relate to the typo thing, on all sides, as restraining myself from commenting to correct word usage, spelling, and other minor mistakes once took a boatload of self-control. That has changed as I have “mah-toored” but also while I have maintained this blog, wherein I often find my own typos, a good reminder of a. how easy it is to miss things, and b. to get over myself. The typos here that bother me are committed by SPELL CHECK making ‘corrections’ which are anything but! Odd names for people or my quirky word choices are the main targets of unwanted correction, but – I could re-read and re-read again slowly. I could. Sigh.
Jun 13, 2026
Shadows on the wall
Noises down the hall
Life doesn’t frighten me at all.
Bad dogs barking loud
Big ghosts in a cloud
Life doesn’t frighten me at all.
Mean old Mother Goose
Lions on the loose
They don’t frighten me at all.
Dragons breathing flame
On my counterpane
That doesn’t frighten me at all.
I go boo
Make them shoo
I make fun
Way they run
I won’t cry
So they fly
I just smile
They go wild.
Life doesn’t frighten me at all.
Tough guys fight
All alone at night
Life doesn’t frighten me at all.
Panthers in the park
Strangers in the dark
No, they don’t frighten me at all.
That new classroom where
Boys all pull my hair
(Kissy little girls
With their hair in curls)
They don’t frighten me at all.
Don’t show me frogs and snakes
And listen for my scream,
If I’m afraid at all
It’s only in my dreams.
I’ve got a magic charm
That I keep up my sleeve
I can walk the ocean floor
And never have to breathe.
Life doesn’t frighten me at all
Not at all
Not at all.
Life doesn’t frighten me at all.
*this is the text of a children’s book by the sublime and wonderful poet, author, activist, fabulous human and resident genius Maya Angelou…
Jun 12, 2026
Never heard of her, although yes, I have long loved the mythic and real-life heroine of the Wild West Shows, Annie Oakley – so, are we talking Annie, only now she’s requesting from the great beyond that we call her the more dignified ‘Ann’? Nope. Ann Oakley. Ann. And y’know, it’s yet another instance of how did I not know how she is? How?!!
So, then, who the hell is she? Well, she is a very, very important British sociologist who, when researching a possible topic for her doctoral thesis, decided she wanted to study HOUSEWORK. This was in the late 1960s, and her field, dominated by men – male tutors, professors, administrators, and potential mentors – were simply not interested in housework as a course of study, because of course they weren’t. Sociology in the 1940s or 1950s and yes, in the 1960s did not consider what women (half the population) did to maintain and keep house to be work, making the labor that happened inside the home invisible. There were, however, respected long-term studies of factory labor, office labor, professional white collar careers, and even labor unions, including their central role in British politics.
And. There were no serious academic studies, long or short term – of the unpaid domestic labor performed daily by women and girls in households across Britain or anywhere else. Oakley would later write that the absence of such studies was not ‘just’ an oversight; it was, in her phrase, “the inbuilt sexism of sociology.” Honey, it was and ain’t just sociology.
Oakley followed her true interest and curiosity, doing her research anyway, interviewing forty London women from both the working and middle classes, all of them mothers of young children. She asked them to describe their actual days, querying how many hours did they spend cleaning, cooking, shopping, doing laundry, and managing the household? Did they like the work? Did they find it monotonous? Did they feel autonomous or constrained? The compiled findings were stark, beyond crystal clear.
The average woman in her sample worked 77 hours per week on housework alone. Some worked more than 90. This was a longer working week than almost any (and I assert every) salaried profession in Britain at that time. 70% of the women said they were dissatisfied with the work, with 75% s describing it as monotonous. Notably, the lower-paid the woman’s previous employment prior to marriage and family, the more likely she was to find domesticity tolerable. The higher her former job status and compensation, the more likely she was to describe it as a slow erasure. Oakley’s findings overturned the prevailing (male) view that women were naturally fulfilled by domestic life, an assertion I personally find hilarious, and hilariously stupid.
Oakley published her data in 1974 as The Sociology of Housework; it was one of the first serious academic studies of unpaid domestic labor in any country worldwide. Two years earlier, in Sex, Gender and Society (1972), she had introduced a distinction that would reshape an entire field: she separated biological sex from socially constructed gender. The terminology had existed in scattered psychological literature, but Oakley was the one who placed it at the center of sociology. Her framework became foundational across women’s studies, public health, anthropology, and policy in the decades that followed.
Her argument about housework was sharper than mere monotony versus fulfillment, and more impactful for that reason. She posited that when work is described as natural, flowing automatically from love, instinct, or maternal/female feeling, three things tend to happen to it: 1. its hours are not counted 2. its skills are not named and 3. its absence is noticed only when it stops.
Why this matters then and now is because what is not named cannot easily be paid for, what is not paid for cannot easily be shared and what cannot be shared falls predictably on the same people, decade after decade. I would add to her findings only that what is unpaid – all those volunteer hours women have done for a millennia – is (“women’s work”) not valued. And, where women volunteer, or even work for money – is also not paid as well ergo, not valued.
The work Oakley studied has not gone away, thankfully. The most recent time-use surveys show that women in nearly every country in the world still perform about two to three times more unpaid care and domestic work than men. The U.N. estimates that if global unpaid care work were valued at minimum wage, it would add roughly 9 percent of global GDP to the world economy — about $11 trillion a year. Career interruptions for care responsibilities remain one of the largest drivers of the lifetime gender wage gap, the gender pension gap, and women’s higher rates of poverty in old age.
Many other female scholars have built on what Oakley began. Arlie Hochschild later identified and named the second shift: the unpaid labor women do after their paid workday ends along with emotional labor, the work of managing other people’s feelings on the job and at home. Marilyn Waring, a New Zealand economist, showed how national accounting systems were designed to exclude women’s unpaid work from GDP entirely. Silvia Federici and the Wages for Housework movement made the case that the invisibility was not an accident of economics but a feature of how economies extract value. It is how the system was designed, and the design was built by men, excluding women, assigning women and their work no value.
No value = no respect. No value and no respect = men ain’t gonna do that nonsense, sister, which is where we get man ‘babysitting’ their own children like they’re doing someone (unpaid mom or underpaid domestic help) a favor.
Oakley identified a pattern, which is that a society that depends on care to function rarely asks (or rarely allows the question in truly conservative cultures) how to share, support, or compensate that care. It asks instead who loves or should love enough to provide it for free. Must provide it for free. Should. The harder question — the one Oakley’s tape recorder picked up forty times in living rooms across London — is what changes when the people who have been providing free labor for decades decide to stop performing the work as instinct, and start counting the hours, or stop performing it, altogether?
Jun 11, 2026
I confess; I did a bad thing. It was a long time ago, yet unburdening myself is a never-ending process. Plus, I have a few new insights into this error, this sin, this betrayal of self and other. In the end – and I am much closer to my actual, permanent end than I am to my beginning – it’s the self-betrayals that really sting, that are mistakes from which we cannot always entirely bounce back; self-betrayals engender regret of the deepest kind – because self-betrayals are the worst, the absolute worst, reflecting the way we feel and think about as well as defend – or not – ourselves. Ouch.
London. A year abroad as a junior in college; during that first semester I had two roommates, Nina and Gay. Nina was a dance major, Gay was a theatre major like myself. She and I had been fast friends for almost two whole years at that point, including the previous summer spent on Nantucket Island waiting tables and paying way too much in rent. We’d begun the summer chamber-maiding at a B&B called The Brass Lantern, but it was a tricky situation. Gay was restless and in search of more money and fewer restrictions. Fewer toilets to clean, too.
At that time I was very much a follower, trailing my bolder, more confident friend in her decision making process. I was also as far from home as I had been until, of course, we flew to the U.K. that fall. Another place to live, a different job on the island? Okay! Sure. I’m in, I guess.
You see, she’d fallen in love. It was intense from the get-go; she was soon spending 98% of her time with the guy, who was a decade or more older than we were (I turned 20 that summer). He, Mr. Thing, decided I was the enemy (oh ffs, not this again!!) from the get-go as well. I said, “Hey, he doesn’t know me – maybe if we had lunch or dinner together a few times, he’d see I’m not anyone’s enemy!!” I thought that was reasonable. I still think so.
He refused, and because I am my own worst enemy at times, instead of saying to them both, “If Mister Thing won’t have a meal with me, and insists on treating me like his worst enemy, you can – the both of yaz – fuck all the way off” – instead of that perfectly reasonable response I did my best to be the unobtrusive, inoffensive nothing life with my own mother (who also treated me like the enemy) had conditioned me to be.
MISTAKE.
We went to England. Mr. Thing, who was clearly the jealous, insecure type, stayed behind. Thank goodness. But I didn’t say so. The Police were just breaking through with their first hits, which played on the bus from Heathrow into London. Gosh. What an adventure! I was, oddly, a pig in shit throughout the entire time I was there, but my best friend? She was not having fun, and our relationship, already on the rocks because of Mr. Thing (obviously, she missed him terribly), seemed in danger. What can I do? What should I do?
And. What did I do? Gentle readers, I snuck into her room one day when she was out, and I read her journal. Unforgivable! Terrible! Horrible! What a grotesque betrayal of her trust!!
But then I got to the part where she wrote about reading my journal. Even now, all these years later, that fact makes me laugh so hard, I cannot begin to tell you. And then I read this, as she had written words to this effect, “I read Moj’s journal and there as nothing in it about me!! What is that about? Why isn’t she writing about me, vitally important me, me, me!!! I can’t believe it!! It’s so hurtful!” And y’know what, my dear readers – that is yet another point in which I should have confronted Miss Thing and told her to fuck all the way off.
But, I didn’t.
Self-betrayal. Learned while sucking on my mother’s poisoned teat.
In fact and in retrospect, there were many times I should have ended that friendship – many. And several times I did try, breaking it off, refusing to play along. But oh, am I loyal. Oh, do I stick with it, holding on for dear life as if the universe doesn’t have or wouldn’t have my back, providing me with other friends, less self-involved, narcissistic, fell in love with an immature baby-man friends – which the universe did many years later, in my 30s when I met my actual, to-this-day peer girlfriends, and again even later in life, when I reconnected with a few of the fan-fucking-tastic women I knew as a child.
Don’t get me wrong. I loved this woman. She was and I suspect still is brilliant, funny, kind, quirky, deep, curious, filled with humor; all of those qualities also caused me to stay friends with her for years – about 20 in all, while her boyfriend and later husband – treated me like dog shit. Not. Okay. Did he come around, eventually? Sure. But I never should’ve done it, stayed friends, stayed in touch, ate his shit. It was a betrayal of self, and I forgive myself for it, because I did the best I could.
And I regret, deeply, not expressing myself, my anger, to him. Taking the high road is good but exhausting, like the time I sincerely toasted him at his 50th birthday party; he was so surprised I didn’t slam him, he said, and I thought, oh right, because you’re that petty you would have done it, and you’re also that clueless about who I am, even after all these years. Is failing to say that another form of betrayal? Not at his 50th, although in another setting, at another time, yes. 100%.
And because even my mother’s least loved third child reaches her limit eventually, my inner rage, the fire burning hot, never allowed breath and burning, waited, waited, waited for that last bit of straw on the camel’s back to burn red hot, which it finally did a few years ago. And y’know what? No regrets. Not one.
As for the grave error and mistake of reading her journal? Oh please. I forgave myself for that almost instantly. She confessed to me not long afterward that she’d read mine, and I went all high horse on her sorry ass. Gosh, I was young and dumb. Still, we were both doing the best we could. Still, I should’ve dumped her the minute she hooked up with that hostile, controlling, sorry sunnofabitch, her true love, her hero, her chosen burden – not mine.
Maybe in my next life?