42, according to the Hitchhikers' Guide to the Galaxy, is the secret of life, the universe, of everything. However, having recently slid through that particular birthday, 42 has yet to impart any secrets to me.
Middle-age has not come with its own guide to this particular galaxy.
We had recently moved into our first apartment in Colorado. Eric was out of town for work, and I hosted friends in our one-bedroom, so I was sleeping on the floor in the kitchen area of the tiny space when early that morning, my phone began to buzz with texts.
"Tell me you didn't go see Batman last night."
"Just checking you are ok."
Sleepy, not having listened to the news, I started checking to see what was going on, to learn that a man opened fire in a theatre in Aurora, Colorado.
A couple years later, while Eric and I were checking out the Petrified Forest, similar texts came in.
"Where are you? Are you ok?"
"Is that clinic near you?"
A man had opened fire on the Planned Parenthood clinic in Colorado Springs, which in fact, was near my primary grocery store. The police had used my bank lobby as a safe location from which to respond.
Two weeks ago, it happened again.
Dear Hollywood,
May I offer you some advice? I know that you do a lot of research to make sure that your movies are as true-to-life they can be... I mean, you put nipples on the Batman suit, so clearly your commitment to accuracy of detail should not be underestimated. But I think we might need to talk about the apocalypse movies. Having lived through this anti-utopian affair known as #2020, which apparently signed on for the #2021 sequel, I have some thoughts.
So! Story time, boys and girls!
We have been in discussions, Eric and I, about replacing HailNo. She's been a good car, but she was tripping the light fantastic toward 200,000 miles, and with a storm season coming up to coincide with a sabbatical Eric is planning, that could have meant a continent's worth of additional miles on her this spring. So he started looking, all over the country, for what's next. The smart money means you don't buy a Subaru in Colorado, as its the state car and they go for a premium here. When we got my Forester, we bought her from a dealer in Connecticut, and could have sold her for $5000 more than we bought her for after we crossed the state line.
We turned on CNN this evening to Mariah Carey self-promoting her memoir on Anderson/Andy’s New Year’s Eve special, which is about as #2020 as it gets.
My next blog post was going to be funny. And then I got busy and haven't written it yet and now I'm mad about something else entirely. So, funny is coming. In the interim, in case you happen to be female, an academic, have a terminal degree in your field in something other than medicine, or all of the above, this is for you.
I was largely offline this weekend, which meant I was a bit behind on the news when I played catch-up at o-dark-hundred this morning when I wasn't sleeping, which I hear is what normal people do at that time. So, I am slightly behind on blowing my top at the weekend's helping of sexism, but just in time for the follow-up quotes.
