Our country is divided not into Republicans and Democrats, conservatives and liberals, rural voters and urban ones. No. The true division in my world, the line that separates the “us” from the “them,” can be blamed on one song: “Baby Shark.”
I live a cluttered life, or so I’ve been led to believe by the barrage of emails, advertisements and TV shows reminding me that closets need to be organized, countertops cleared and drawers emptied of stuff I haven’t worn in ages.
Another holiday season successfully celebrated means one sure thing: I won’t see some of the people I most love for many weeks, or at least until I board a plane and fly across states to visit them in their own homes.
Anytime a big story breaks, one of my first thoughts is: I hope Florida doesn’t have any connection. I used to think I was the only one entertaining such selfishness until The Hubby, born and raised in the Sunshine State, voiced my concern aloud, only he made it more specific and more plaintive: “Why does every weird story have to have a Miami or Florida connection?” he asked.
For the past week or so, I feel like I’ve been living inside a novel penned by the late great Colombian writer Gabriel Garcia Marquez. The surreal has become acceptable and the absurd commonplace. Reality has turned into a preposterous three-act play.
During the predawn hours, I’ve been removing his books, one by one, from my bookshelves. (My bookshelves, mind you.) He needs to get his own space, anywhere that doesn’t interfere with my literary real estate.
The virtual world has been abuzz with this question, and people have stormed out of the Twitter woodwork and into the analog universe to opine. Yes, some say, Bert and Ernie are most definitely gay. How can anyone think otherwise?
Military planes with humanitarian aid sent by the United States headed out of Miami for Cúcuta, Colombia on Feb. 16, 2019 as part of the efforts in respond to the humanitarian crisis that exists in Venezuela.