Chick-fil-A might be home to the “original chicken sandwich,” but my cash won’t be finding a home in their cash registers.
Target encourages me to “expect more, pay less,” but I don’t expect doodly-squat from an organization lead by Guido Barilla, an out of the closet homophobe.
I appreciate when someone lets me know where they’re coming from.
But I have a hard time accepting what’s right in front of my eyes. This is clearly a flaw in my nature, since I have a tendency to see the potential instead of the person.
How can you sit on the high court and still lower yourself, which is precisely what Roberts, Alito, Thomas, Kennedy and Scalia did in the Hobby Lobby Decision. It’s not a decision. It’s an indictment of the Robert’s Court.
On Facebook, when the ruling came down, shocked, I posted a link. By the end of the day, there were 124-comments, with 12-people liking it, although I get the feeling they liked my headline, not the ruling.
You Can’t Put The Word ‘Religious’ Next To The Word ‘Freedom.’
My stamina for caring gave out. My heart went kaput. Luckily, in the middle of the day, Malinda invited me over for dinner.
She made grilled salmon with corn sliced off the cob. While she nuked the corn, I nibbled on veggies and fresh strawberries, sipping on white wine. We talked casually about the day. Then I switched the topic to Hobby Lobby, launching into a diatribe of outrage with my mouth full.
We’re never going to get a constitutional amendment barring insecure men from the high court. Hence, I propose a two-thirds vote, up or down, to amend the constitution, barring all political discourse without a mouth full of food.
Back in the day, before newsfeeds, before Facebook, Malinda used to participate in message boards, chiming-in.
But she was overwhelmed by the underwhelmingness. Glancing through 124-comments on my Facebook Newsfeed, she couldn’t help but ask this: what’s the point?
Falling for someone is treacherous. I’m overcome by the desire to toss everything aside, look the other way and celebrate how lucky I am. Case in point, around midnight on Saturday, I walked into the lobby of my apartment building. I pressed the button for the elevator. Another resident, racing to catch the elevator, rounding the corner, didn’t notice when she dropped her mail. I pointed out the dropped mail, letting her know I’d be happy to hold the elevator, since there was no point in rushing.
Is there ever a point in rushing?
Anyway, we rode up the elevator together. She asked how things were. Typically, my answer is generic. But on this particular night, coming off a glorious weekend with Malinda, I was feeling it.
She looked directly into my eyes, which isn’t something you typically encounter, or invite, when riding an elevator.
“You don’t hear that very often,” she smiled. “Hold onto it. It’s rare.”
No sooner had I walked off the elevator and entered my apartment than the fire alarm went off. I walked into the bedroom, removing the 9-volt battery. No sooner had I removed the battery than the alarm went off in the hallway. I walked into the hallway, identified the alarm, stared at it, contemplating my next move.
Not wanting to get back in the elevator, I walked 7-flights to the lobby, where I alerted the doorman. He told me it was a coincidence, since all the batteries had been put in the alarms at the same time.
No sooner had he explained away the alarms than a young couple walked into the lobby, saying all of the alarms on the 8th floor were going off. The doorman leaned back, thought for a minute, then repeated his assertion, explaining away the alarms.
Encouraging us to go back to sleep.
I understand the desire to leave the big decisions to someone else. I understand the desire to feel like there’s nothing you can do, like it’s beyond your control, so why bother, what’s the point? I understand the desire to brush it off, look the other way, golf.
What I was told.
Alarms? What alarms?