I’ve never understood this mid-90’s trend of wearing pants so low that they sag around the ankles. I didn’t like it when Murray wore it in Clueless, and I didn’t appreciate Justin Bieber’s low riding days, and I’m surprised by how much the trend concerns me now that I see it in the high schools. Mostly what confuses me about the trend is the mental gymnastics I need to do to figure out how these pants stay around the knees when someone is walking. How do these boys manage to strut when their pants clearly require a waddle?
Author: Sierra
Zero Hour
Posted onTechnically, Zero Hour, according to Google (because I checked) is the time when an operation or a coup is supposed to begin. Instinctively, I knew that. But this morning as I ambled the streets with a tired Maeby in tow, I couldn’t help feeling the phrase “zero hour” was an appropriate description for the moment. Maybe it’s because there were zero (do we pluralize zero grammatically?) other people on the streets with me. Maybe it’s because it was gentle 7 o’clock sunny with a 6 AM attitude. In my version of Zero Hour, everything’s gentle. Everything’s null.
An Unfiltered Look at my Entryway
Posted onYesterday Jeremy and I were sitting on our couch and facing the door to our apartment, and it occurred to me just how much of our life was currently represented by the debris in our entryway. Since yesterday, even more life has happened, making our entry way admittedly messy, but authentically so. Did I want to clean before photographing? Desperately! But that would have negated the time spent (or lack of time spent) flinging our coats off and casting off our boots because our radiator is hyperactive. It would have fed into the social media perfection machine. To clean would be to edit, to cover up the life that hides in the small moments. And my title promises that this is unfiltered, and it’s not clean either.
Don’t You Talk About My Momma That Way
Posted onMost of us have seen enough to know the age-old rule: no matter what someone says about their own mother, you are not allowed to agree, and you are definitely not allowed to offer your own critique—at least not publically. There’s a sacred family bond with trashtalking someone dear to you. It’s a promise that what you say doesn’t mean that you’re divorcing them. It’s a promise to continue to love, despite whatever critique you may need to expel—however violently. Outsiders can’t comment, because they haven’t made the subconscious vow to love your mother no matter what. This is a fundamental law of nature.
Oh, hey Maeby Baby.
Posted onAfter a pleasant evening and a rough morning, I came out of the bathroom to find Maeby, our newest family member, snuggled in the crook of Jeremy’s torso and knees. She was the curious kind of calm we’re coming to expect from her at this point. She was accepting Jeremy’s sleepy pats with gratitude, and, without stirring, lest she wake him too significantly, she invited me into their cuddle.
Growing Up in MultiGenre
Posted onDear Ms. Desiree
Posted onI’ve been carrying a stranger’s phone number around in my pocket all week. I doubt that I will ever call it, but it’s presence is comforting—like a foldup map to the subway when your cellphone dies.
The phone number belongs to one Ms. Desiree Jeffers. I met her during a brief foray into Brooklyn, my first real individual endeavor into a new borough. Brooklyn is beautiful, but the part of town that I was in was difficult to navigate. It didn’t have street names on every corner, leaving me constantly wondering if I was as lost as the little blue dot on Google Maps seemed to think that I was.
How to Talk to the Spiritually Wounded Soul
Posted onThis post has been sitting at the bottom of my brain basin for a long time, waiting to surface at the right moment. I actually wrote the majority of this post before the Mormon Facebook Apocalypse of 2015. Still, I’ve held onto this post. I think the time is finally right, as I confront the painful, vulnerable fact that I’ve been spiritually wounded. This is a loaded admission, one that opens up your soul to further misunderstanding, judgment, and (perhaps most terrifyingly and only in a few extreme cases) ire.
Ambuli
Posted onLast Thursday, I walked home from classes and saw traffic backup piling into an intersection. It wasn’t Times Square Status by any means, but there was a bit of kerfluffle, since it’s not an intersection that is usually very busy. It was easy to peer ahead and see the source of the commotion was a row of ambulances (ambuli?) huddled around a storefront, pulling someone out on a stretcher and loading him or her into the vehicle.
Two Dogs Dreaming
Posted onThere is a dog dreaming next to me. Her muzzle is nuzzling my thigh. Her paws are intertwined and her back is hunched. She is not a small dog, but she’s made herself small so her presence on the couch is less assuming. As if somehow I won’t notice that she’s breaking the rules about being on the couch.