More Ageist BS

America’s precipitous slide into hell has all but silenced my ability to analyze, comment or even think about the issues. Too many.  Too much.

Yet, every once in awhile some random thing can still become enough of a burr under my saddle to incite me to throw down a line or two out of extreme frustration.  Here’s today’s offering:

Two years ago, I posted this: You Can’t Have It Both Ways 

It was a “ I’m so fed up with boomer-bashing” post, brought on by conflicting diatribes I had come across online, castigating boomers for either downsizing from their old, family-sized homes, or for NOT doing that. Seems either way we went, we were depriving aspiring millennial home-buyers of…whatever we had.  I concluded that perhaps what we were supposed to do was hand our stuff to our kids and grandkids and just…disappear. 

Well, now it appears that we’re not even supposed to do THAT:

Due to paywalls and other various road-blocks associated with the internet these days, I was unable to access the actual Business Insider article  associated with this headline.  But the click-bait header was enough to fling me headlong into the world of  “What the fuck?!?” 

Sigh…

Just when I think boomer-bashing has reached its zenith…

…it rises to a whole new level of crazy.

And insulting.

You whiney younger generations can fuck ALL THE WAY off.

This is It

I’ve become invisible on social media (I “upgraded”  my Instagram account and have apparently been obliterated by the algorithms…)

I posted this there, and am not happy that no one seems to see it…or maybe they just…

Well, whatever.

It’s important. So…

Here.

(Context: Trump attacked Iran today…)

Is Minnesota Our New Fort Sumter?

 

One Word

There is always talk about resolutions, self-improvements, soul-searching and analyzation swirling around the first days of a new year. I’ve lived through plenty of New Years—at least 65 that I can remember. And all the resolution-ing and starting afresh is more than I can, or want to, handle any more.  I came across this New Year post, and its stark simplicity greatly appealed to world-weary, cantankerous old septuagenarian (!) me.

I can do one word. 

Okay. So…what is the word?

How about…

“Re-connect”?

Backstory:

The last five years have been…taxing, personally as well as globally. In 2020, there was COVID, of course, which destroyed about eighteen months of “normal life.”  The husband finally retired in May of 2022.  And lest we get too excited about living the stress-free life of comfortable retirees…in April of 2023, he was diagnosed with prostate cancer. Just as we emerged from THAT nightmare, he fell and broke his foot in April of 2024. The last almost three years of our existence have been largely dictated by facilitating HIS needs…which not only meant schlepping to medical appointments and working on treatments, but also trying to keep him active and keep his spirits up.  

Fortunately,  we have managed to do all those things pretty successfully.  In 2025, as the disability of  the cancer treatments waned, and he regained as much mobility with his foot as he is ever likely to (he can walk without a cane, he can drive, he can putter around with home improvement stuff…) the brief has been to find HIM a community of men friends, and activities that he can enjoy. And the more things he has found to be involved in, the more I have been left to my own devices. 

And therein lies the problem. 

With all the focus on him for the last several years, I have completely forgotten how to be alone. And now that I AM by myself, more than I have been in a long while, I feel sullen and peevish and lonely, and I tend to blame everybody but myself. 

There was a looong period of time in my life, and in our marriage, that I was pretty much on my own.  We lived a hundred miles from my family, and my husband was married to his job. I’ve never been an overly social person…never had more than one or two friends at a time, and definitely never was part of a community or social circle. Faced with being on my own, I found things to do by myself.  I got involved in photography, haunted wildlife areas with my camera at the ready…even went on camping trips (and one aborted vacation) by myself.  I developed a unique spiritual life that has no name or congregation.  I started a blog and shared secrets with the ether, even after no one came to visit anymore. 

I thought I was doing those things to keep myself busy and engaged when I had no one in my life who wanted to share them.  But, you know what?  It turned out I really enjoyed those things.  And I miss them. In fact, I crave them.  And nothing I’ve invested time and effort into for the last five years has replaced my need to have and do those things…MY things…that I have just…lost. Or almost lost.

Thus…the word.  The one word I would like to guide me through this new year.

Re-connect.

To my things.

To my philosophies.

To my writing.

To the wealth I possessed when I didn’t realize how wealthy I was…

…which I intend to cinch around me like clothes of the finest gold, and luxuriate in for as long as I possibly can.

 

As For Me, I’ve Welcomed the Dark

 

To go in the dark with a light is to know the light.

To know the dark, go dark. Go without sight,

and find that the dark, too, blooms and sings,

 

and is traveled by dark feet and dark wings.

Wendell Berry

Without Comment

 

There IS No Bottom

 Every day, you think, “He cannot go any lower…”

…and then he does.

WHO Is The Pig?

In 2017, I published a post on “Better Terms,” trying to wrap my head around the fact that Americans had voted for a man who would stand at a podium during a campaign for president and mock a disabled reporter. American voters had chosen a man who had so little respect for other human beings, that he could proudly display middle-school-level debasement of a disabled person, gambling that it would appeal to his base. And it did. And they chose to elevate him to the position of Leader of the Free World. 

Fast forward to 2025. Because American voters COULD NOT bring themselves to vote for a woman for president, regardless that the other choice was a twice-impeached convicted felon racist/rapist, we have once again handed the keys of the kingdom to a man with no respect for anyone or anything, who continues to showcase his sixth-grade-level mental capabilities. Being the card-carrying misogynist he is—the man cannot abide any human with double x chromosomes who does not fuck him, want to fuck him, or act as if they want to fuck him—women are his favorite targets for his juvenile name-calling and schoolyard bullying. His go-to insults have up til now been words like “stupid“ and “terrible”. If he wants to be particularly articulate, he uses “low IQ” and “awful,” and most female reporters he chooses to bully work for “fake news” (How I wish to god that no one had ever popped the lid off THAT Pandora’s box…!) Last week, in a clear demonstration of his cognitive collapse, he admonished a female journalist on Air Force One to “ Quiet, Piggy.”  Piggy. Really? Now he sounds like a five-year-old. 

I have repeatedly found myself wondering, how in the HELL has he managed to get away with this for almost 2 decades? Why does nobody call him on this? But it just occurred to me: Trump rose to power on the ladder of social media. And what dominates the culture of social media? Insults, bullying, snarky comments, even threats of violence.  Too, think of the culture of right-wing media.  Very much the same, but throw in stacks of bold-faced lies and...dare I say it...fake news.  Of course Trump struck a chord with his sixth-grade bullying and name-calling (not to mention the lies that pour out of his face every time he opens his mouth) in the run up to his first administration. There are legions of folks out there who have been steeped in that crap for half, if not all, of their lives. No mystery, I suppose, that they would see Trump as a perfect example of themselves helming the nation.  

Granted, during his first administration, there were still one or two Republicans who realized what a disaster an unfettered Trump would be to the nation and the world.  There was a string of advisors,  chiefs of staff, cabinet members and ambassadors who made vain attempts to be "the adults in the room."  Trump shook off every one of them with impunity, while his "base" raised their fists and cheered.  They wanted Trump unfiltered.  If it hadn't been for COVID, I'm pretty sure we would have seen that in his first administration. 

Now, in Trump 2.0, the GOP has completely capitulated to the Trumpian persona.  Heck, it got him re-nominated and re-elected.  It MUST be the key to gaining and retaining power in 21st-century America, so anyone within spitting distance of Mango Mussolini has piled into the clown car right behind him.  Not only do they not call him on his boorish, moronic behavior, they do their damnedest to emulate it, because they believe it will get them what they desperately crave: power, riches, and the license to do whatever the hell they want with zero consequences.  

So, yeah…I can see why the  battalion of sycophants that comprise Trump’s inner circle would turn a deaf ear to his vocally adolescent diatribes and disrespect for…everything. But what the hell is wrong with the rest of us, particularly the White House press corps?  What could possibly be the reasoning behind letting the overgrown toddler-cum-leader of the free world verbally abuse and disrespect their colleagues? Why in the world would the female journalists themselves put up with it? Please do NOT tell me it’s “out of respect for the office.” Respect is earned, not commanded by those with power. Trump has repeatedly shown that HE has as much respect for the office of POTUS as he does for anything or anyone else that isn’t HIM—which is zero. He deserves every bit as much in return.

I don’t know what misguided adherence to norms and traditions associated with the office of POTUS is keeping members of the press from calling Trump on the carpet and standing up for their profession and their personal dignity. They aren’t doing Trump, the American people or journalistic integrity any favors by letting him act as no adult human being, much less the President of the United States, should act toward other people in a civilized society.  

Those of us who oppose the disaster that is Trump with every fiber of our beings are told to resist, to march, to be allies to our fellow citizens who are being endangered by Trump’s fascist policies.  But 99% of us will never get anywhere near the man himself. These journalists—the ones he bullies and flagrantly verbally abuses on a daily basis—THEY have the opportunity to hold their hands up to his face and say, “No. No more. You may not treat us like this. NO ONE may, but least of all the President of the United States.” 

The members of the press can be—should be—our first line of resistance against the monster that is Trump.  They need to realize this and stand up for themselves…and for US. I swear to god, if some moron told ME to “Quiet, piggy” while I was doing my very important  job, the absolute least they would get out of me is a very loud and pointed, “Excuse me? What did you just call me?”  

I've heard many on social media criticize the men of the press corp for not standing up to Trump's continued harassment of the women.  But we actually need the women themselves to...grow a set...?  Let’s hear it, ladies of the White House press corps.  We need YOU to draw the line in the sand.

 

Please?

 

Not that we had anything even approaching a functional government before the shutdown…

What A Mess!

 

For more than a decade, I’ve been spitting out posts now and again about how lonely it is here in the blogoverse, and how maybe I should just wrap things up here on “Coming to Terms…”  But every one of those posts has ended up with the same answer:

No.

I’m not ready to say goodbye to my lonely little corner of the social media universe.

This year, with my measly 8 posts since January, it seems like I could be letting “Coming to Terms…” die a natural death.  My writing muse has all but dried up, and my connection to social media—even at Instagram, where I can be found if I’m not here—has been tenuous at best.   

I’m going to blame the ghastly dumpster fire that has engulfed the nation since the Wankmaggot stepped foot into the Oval office to begin his second reign of terror.  Only this time, things have been exponentially worse than they ever were the first time.  Which is saying a lot.

Since day 1 of Trump 2.0, there’s been a nonstop barrage of horror emanating from Washington—from masked goons in unmarked vans abducting people off the streets and sending them to prison camps, to Trump’s unfathomable, deeply destructive tariff program,  to ordering the military to attack “crime” in blue states cities (a thinly veiled effort to punish criticism of the Trump regime), to the worst, most fascist, oligarchic, totalitarian actions one could ever possibly imagine taking place in the United states of America (or not.)

While Congress cheers, applauds, aids and abets…or wrings its hands (when it’s not sitting on them) and offers up righteously indignant speechifying, depending on what side of the aisle is in focus at any given time.

Congress has become a millstone around the neck of our drowning democracy, carrying it deeper and deeper and faster and faster to the depths of fascist dictatorship.

One can hardly stand to watch, much less screw up the moxie to DO anything…  The “Resistance” has no leadership.  It’s merely a fractured collection of groups of people, large and small, milling around trying to think of SOMETHING to do to stop the fall.  Our elected officials who theoretically oppose the right wing agenda are MIA. There’s no organized rebellion.  No one gathering We The People and directing us in a concerted, effective effort to meaningfully “resist.”  Everybody parks their asses on social media and cranks out posts about getting out there and…doing WHAT, exactly?  Please…give me a clue and a sizable group of like-minded folks and I’ll be happy to show up and do the work. 

Right now, we are all just…spinning our wheels.

And a corollary to why I can’t write with all this madness going on, is that EVERYBODY and their pup seems to be doing exactly that—constructing long, angst-laden epistles about the shocking state of the nation, and what we all might be/should be doing about it.  It's a de facto demonstration that all these millions and millions of words are having absolutely NO EFFECT.  Words, words, words and more words, and things only continue to get worse.  I feel like anything I could put together would be tantamount to screaming into a hurricane. ..nothing but a fruitless, and possibly risky, waste of breath.  At my age, you really don’t want to be wasting breath. (Actually, I wouldn’t mind taking the risk if there was any hope of my words making an atomic particle’s worth of difference.)

And if I make up my mind to write about something else, I feel like I’m endorsing ignoring what’s going on in our rapidly deteriorating world.  The guilt casts a pall on anything light or “day in the life” that I try to put out there.  I hate the thought of becoming bound to either the doom-scroll contingent, or the "ignore it and it will go away" crowd.  If there is a middle ground I could feel comfortable in, I haven't figured it out yet.  So it’s been easier to just…not. 

But I don’t feel good about THAT, either.

The overriding question for the continuation of “Coming to Terms…” is,

“Where do we go from here?”

I want to write...but I feel like I don't know how any more.  

At 22 years old, it's high time for "Coming to Terms..." to figure out what she wants to be when she grows up.

But what is that, exactly?

 

Maybe some rainbows will nudge me in the right direction.