Sparks Ignites

I believe I was born with social anxiety. I know we are supposed to think we’re born with a clean slate, but my slate had a few smudge marks. Probably my first thought after delivery was, “Everyone is looking at me. OMG I’m naked in a room of strangers. Hey, someone get a diaper over here. Don’t look at my folds and creases. God, already I need the Beverly Hills Nursery Diet.”   I had tiny baby hands and you know what that means.

Since the Republican debates began, I’ve been strangling my sofa pillow in shock and frustration. I’ve watched Presidential Psycho and checked into The Debates Motel. You must leave your sanity and decorum at the door. Don’t use the shower; someone with tiny hands might want to show you their national endowment. Yes, that’s what the political process in our country has become; a finger pointing, yelling match between some of the worst presidential candidates the Republican party has ever offered up. It’s the Real House Husbands of DC. A bad reality show with character slurs, profanity and penis jokes.

I always celebrated Easter when I was growing up. Both my parents were Catholic, so of course we observed the holy day. It was the special weekend when we gorged on baskets of chocolate, ate a baked ham, and watched The Ten Commandments . Sometimes we would also catch a broadcast of the King of Kings . This is the film where Jesus is a blonde-haired, blue-eyed, prophet. It seemed he should’ve been carrying a surf board for his sermon on the mount. “Blessed are the meek and hang ten.”