We Don’t Need Wonderwoman….

Image result for image gemma hoskins abby schaub



We Don’t Need Wonder Woman….

All this hype about a movie…. who needs it? We don’t need cartoon characters brought to life to show us that women are powerful, that we can take on the evils of the world. Not by a longshot.

Instead, let’s just take a look at the world around us – such heroes for the asking – real women.

Image result for image kamala harris

Kamala Harris, my latest champion – just doing her job, asking questions, trying to get answers, and sending the pitiable Attorney General J. Beauregard Sessions, clutching his smelling salts, to his fainting couch. All the while being chastised for doggedly, and politely, I might add, trying to get a witness to answer a simple yes-or-no question, not even one of the have-you-stopped-beating-your-wife variety. And vilified by the conservative press –



Elizabeth Warren – standing up, campaigning for what she believes in. Strident, you say? Only if you disagree. Persistent might be another catchword.


And then there are my personal heroes – Gemma Hoskins and Abby Schaub, two women whose determined and persistent investigation into the unsolved murder of a Baltimore nun in 1969 has exposed the Archdiocese of Baltimore’s and the Catholic Church’s persistent denial and cover-up of decades sexual abuse. Featured now in the Netflix documentary, The Keepers, their work and resolve has resulted in women, and men, having the courage to come forth to tell their stories, their truths about what had been known and ignored. While the Archdiocese of Baltimore issues spin-doctored and lawyered-up denials, this is a story where, in the words of Shakespeare (and my mother) “truth will out.”

So, here are just a few heroes – real ones. When we open our eyes, we realize that we are surrounded by them. They are all around us – we don’t need to look to the screen to find them.


On Cold Pizza

Image result for image cold pizza

On Cold Pizza —

Who eats cold pizza? I do. And as I finished a leftover slice this morning, I considered just what it is that makes it so satisfying, that makes me feel so good?

Here’s what it is not – it is not flavorsome; it is not appetizing; it is neither yummy nor succulent, nor juicy (thank you, thesaurus). Just close your eyes and imagine thick cardboard topped with a congealed, slightly-chewy layer of wallpaper paste, and, every once-in-a-while, the bite of a hot pepper.

Oh, I know I could put it in the microwave. I could even use my new-found method of re-heating it in a skillet. That might make it taste better, but it wouldn’t be the same. No, cooking/heating it up would be what a grown-up would do, an adult who actually might want a slice of pizza that tasted, however faintly, like pizza.

I realized that what made the whole experience, might I say, delicious, is that eating cold pizza, right out of the refrigerator, is totally non-adult. And that’s why I like it. It’s that deliciously irresponsible feeling that I experience not nearly enough. Wicked, impish, playful, I love it.

And don’t we all deserve that in our ordered, call-or-write-your-senators days. Well, hell, yes! So now I leave these pages to make a list of more free and waggish tasks.  Oh, wait, I guess it isn’t too free to make a list. Nor to call impishness tasks. What can I say. I am a creature of well-defined habit.

So, here’s to cold pizza and drinking orange juice right out of the carton. Tomorrow the world!


On Handkerchiefs


On Handkerchiefs

This has been such a tough week — politically on a national and state level, and then the tragedy in London, I thought it might give us a welcome break to read and think about handkerchiefs.  I wrote this blog just over five years ago. Since then I have been the grateful recipient of an incredible antique lace handkerchief, as well as the beneficiary of a remarkable cache of generations-old hankies once belonging to the mother of a dear friend.

And so, dear reader, I hope this brings you a smile.

I ordered handkerchiefs to give as birthday gifts to my daughter and granddaughter. And I wonder if either of them has ever had handkerchiefs before.  Maybe my daughter did, as a little girl, the ones embroidered with days of the week.  Or was that underpants?  I know that my first hankies, seven of them, did come so marked, and I made it a point to carry them on only the appropriate days.

I still have some handkerchiefs from the old days, kept in a pink satin case, specifically made to store such lovely linens.  When my mother died, I took two of hers to remember her by, both of which were gifts from me, one still wrapped in scented paper.

No more department stores, with precious linens protected in glass cases.  No more being sure that a clean handkerchief was part of every day’s checklist before leaving the house.  It is still part of my day though, although it is not always a fresh one.

So, a set of embroidered hankies for them. Perhaps one day they will appreciate the gift, a reminder of a gentler, more delicate, refined time than today’s realism.  Always a trade-off.

I also ordered three for me.