Sansa is looking majestic, my husband is looking impish. You would too, if you were holding a massive puppy. Speaking of massive puppies, I did the Can I Pet Your Dog? podcast (I come in around minute 22)! I had a really fun time, and you should listen!
Anil being great:
You have to think about what these people are saying when they scrutinize me, or every other brown person, in an airport security line. They’re clearly saying: I think you would kill me, and you, and all the people on this plane, including the children. Now, they never quite have the temerity to say it out loud. Instead, they just exchange that meaningful nod with the TSA agent, hoping to get me pulled out for a secondary screening.
And honestly, I’m pretty good-natured about it. I fly at least once a month, and they’re all round trips, so let’s call it maybe 26 flights a year—one every other week. Now imagine, if every other week a stranger said, “I think you intend to kill children.” Could you laugh it off three times in a row? Four? Eight? Because if you have the extraordinary patience to be able to ignore it, or laugh along, or quietly acquiesce to letting strangers indicate to your face that they think you’re secretly a duplicitous, lying, child murderer in waiting, then you’ll just be asked to do it again on your next flight.
The ADHD diagnosis gender gap (gender-related under-diagnosis is rampant in MANY conditions, especially spectrum-linked stuff):
Unlike boys, many of whom show hyperactivity, girls’ symptoms veer more toward inattentiveness and disorganization. Girls tend to develop ADHD later than boys. They frequently mask it in an attempt to conform to society’s expectation that they be on the ball and organized. And while some ADHD symptoms can become less intense for boys after they pass through puberty, for many girls, it gets worse.
I am a disgusting sleeper. I know this despite the impossibility of ever witnessing myself sleep. I know I am a disgusting sleeper because I often wake up in a veritable Hoover Dam of saliva on my pillow. I know I am a disgusting sleeper because my sister has taken pictures of me while I’ve slept (a personal favorite is one of me in a blue bikini splayed on a bed. I’m indulging in a post-lunch snooze, mouth agog. She titled it “partied 2 hard” and snapchatted it to fifty people.)
I know I am a disgusting sleeper because I’ve witnessed the angelic slumber of my female friends who are able, in their somnolent state, to remain almost rigidly still. Most of them look beautiful, as if crystallized mid-swoon, their lips slightly parted, their hair mussed but untangled. If I were to place a feather underneath their noses, their breaths would hardly disturb a bristle. The other night, after consuming several glasses of red wine, I collapsed into bed of my best friend. I sensed the weight of her body as she gingerly inserted herself next to me in the double mattress. The inky wash of drunk-sleep descended and I awoke to register her absence in the bed. She had fled to the living room couch. “I was snoring egregiously, wasn’t I?” I winced and, in the gentle and benevolent way in which women lie to each other, she shrugged and said she was a light sleeper.
this cat’s best friends are three huskies (there is no way to prepare yourself for these pictures)
I am going to watch the hell out of this documentary, and I feel bad about it:
“Weiner” has become a source of heightened anxiety for Ms. Abedin and the Clinton campaign. She and her husband have repeatedly pleaded with filmmakers to see the movie, but have not been allowed to do so, according to people with direct knowledge of the conversations who could discuss the sensitivities around the film only without attribution, as the project has been kept under tight control. A spokesman for the filmmakers denied this and said they would have shown the couple the film had they asked.
Ms. Abedin and a spokesman for the Clinton campaign declined to comment.
In Padua, Italy, this weekend, a woman (whose name has been kept private) showed up at her local fire station asking for help, according to Italian newspaper Il Matino di Padova. She was wearing a chastity belt, she calmly explained, and recently lost the key. Would those firefighters be so kind as to remove it?
What happens if you have a really popular blog and then you don’t want to do it anymore? (I never read home decor blogs bc they make me feel like I live under a bridge.)
By the time John came down to lunch, comments were pouring in; most were unkind: “Honestly, 5 posts a week isn’t that much for readers to expect …” wrote one. “You make big bucks from this blog (I have no problem at all with that) and IT’S YOUR JOB.” Others defended the Petersiks’ time and talents. The post ultimately got just under 2,000 comments.
That weekend, after the kids were in bed and the laundry room was finally done, they started talking about putting a match to this thing they loved so much. Sherry was ready to quit right then, but John wasn’t convinced. The YHL brand was their primary income. “I wanted us both to calm down. And I wanted to know what our next move would be.” They both made lists of old freelance clients from their days in advertising who might take them back. It felt terrifyingly uncertain, but also, liberating. In a perfect metaphor for the moment, John’s laptop promptly died.
Do not forget to pre-order the Dad Magazine book! TARPS!
I am kind of offended that this fake person has not tried to friend me? I am a real journalist! (I am not.)
A Facebook user pretending to be a Politico reporter has befriended dozens of journalists, prompting suspicion about the account owner’s motivation.
Cameron Crowe’s old Rolling Stone cover story on the Eagles (a partial inspiration for Almost Famous) is unbelievably long, but also fun:
“Servants is the answer!” Frey shouts, as if suddenly enlightened. “We should call up Abbey Rents and find someone to live for us.” He pauses a moment, then turns serious. “You know that adage, ‘For every dream come true, there’s a curse’? One of those curses is just a lifestyle . . . it’s going on all the time. When I take a look at the last year, between On the Border and this album, what have I done? Worked my ass off. You know, we went on the road, got crazy, got drunk, got high, had girls, played music and made money. If you don’t watch it, that can become your whole life.
Ursula K. Le Guin wrote a letter to a newspaper and it’s great (unsurprisingly):
Instead of parroting the meaningless rants of a flock of Right-Winged Loonybirds infesting the refuge, why doesn’t The Oregonian talk to the people who live there?
Please don’t:
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