I saw the video, so if you are hearing anything other than the fact that an ICE officer shot a US citizen in the face as she was trying to drive away from them you need to seek the video out to see for yourself. She’s dead now, so the immutable fact remains that ICE has killed an innocent American citizen who was only using her 1st Amendment rights.

This is all on Trump.

This is all on the GOP.

This is all on anyone who voted for him, or chose not to vote against him.

This is all on everyone who refuses to say anything beyond this point.

In many ways, we are all complicit, but some much more than others, and I’m not going to be silent about it. When history records this disgusting period of American government, my voice will be, and has been, consistently against this current administration and what they are doing. Where is your voice? What will you tell your children? What will your actions show them?

“Even when I feel like shit, they still love me.” – Madonna, ‘Truth or Dare’

The good news is that I tested negative for COVID for the second day in a row; the bad news is I have some wretched flu thing that has left me with a fever and chills and all sorts of body aches that I haven’t felt in years. It’s even left me with a headache, and I never get headaches. It’s more than a little frustrating – 2026 was supposed to be a good year for Virgos and some sort of shit, but here I type in agony and totally over it already.

And so we find solace in Madonna, who has always exhibited that age-old entertainment adage: the show must go on. In ‘Truth or Dare‘, the prototype for reality television, for better or worse, we find her high in a hotel room overlooking her throngs of fans, sipping some tea as she mutters the opening line of this post… and then she launches into ‘Vogue’, because when all else fails…

Some people wake up at 3 AM in a trancelike state to sleep-walk their way to the fridge for some ice cream.

I groggily reach over to the phone and start scrolling through fragrance reviews, signing up for the 15% off for joining some fancy department’s store mailing list, then ordering an expensive perfume I don’t need the very same night I just had a stern talk with myself about not buying unnecessary items.

Waking the next morning to a bunch of e-mails confirming my purchases is a chilly reminder that I’ll need to give up a few lunches and leave the credit card at home for a bit.

But the way I smell will make it all worthwhile…

The full Wolf Moon almost stopped me in my tracks, quite literally as I slowed my car to a stop – so stunning was its form and color against a gorgeously lavender-blue sky. I’d just turned onto the street that led to my street when it appeared directly before me, hovering right above a house on the horizon – impossibly huge when plopped into such worldly perspective. As a child, I’d have believed in the possibility of driving toward the moon, leaping over houses and trees, climbing the most gradual and languid incline as the car made its magical nighttime journey all the way to the glowing orb in the sky.

As with so many other journeys, it wouldn’t be about what was on the moon when we got there, but all the adventures we’d encounter on the way. At night, perched seriously on the border between sleep and wake, part of me still believes in such whimsy.

Anyone interested in retaining some spark of creativity should always be able to access this path to the moon.

When the tea comes scalding hot, it’s time for a new tea cup.
This beautiful one was a gift from a co-worker, where several of my cherished teacups have originated.
Some might balk or remain unimpressed by such a gift – I embrace any form of generosity, even the forced kind. In this instance, I trust it was well-intended. It was certainly well-received. Unlike tote bags, the tea cup will always be welcomed in this house.

It’s the time for tea in these parts – tea and contemplation.

Tea and meditation.

Tea and the slow waltz of winter days leading us into spring.

Our very first weekly recap of 2026 has arrived, and this one included the bridge between 2025 and 2026, year in review and all. That’s an awful lot of recapping, so I won’t belabor such an onerous proposition of links any longer – have at it.

I am a clown. And no one should fuck with a clown.

Letting there be light at the darkest time of the year.

Sometimes my friend Chris is correct. This was one of those times.

A final, hopeful gasp of 2025.

The 2025 Year in Review (boooooooooooooo).

2026 begins with The Cleaving, whatever that means to you.

Welcome to Winter Obscura.

The early sounds of Obscura.

Older obscurity at last acknowledged.

Savoring selfishness and going feral for 2026.

Render me asunder with destruction.

The price of not listening to the universe is currently going for a cool $325.

Back on fucking track.

A year of 13 full moons, just what we need.

Flying by the crotch of my pants.

The next FAFO award goes to those who voted for this Peace President (LOL).

Crocheted Speedo.

Dazzlers of the Day included the stars of ‘Heated Rivalry’: Connor Storie and Hudson Williams.

A view not unknown if you’ve seen this crazy Christmas card.

A stance not unfamiliar for a winter weekend morning.

A moment of laziness beneath one of the most deliciously soft blankets we’ve had in years.

It’s always the most cozy and comfortable mornings that require us to get out of bed before we are ready. The luxury of sleeping in happens maybe once a week if I’m lucky – there is usually too much to be done, though I find myself wasting time at many other given moments in a day. The mind travels more the older I get. It’s harder to focus, more difficult to stay engaged. Part older age, part decreased attention span, part general malaise and madness. The colorfully eccentric kind-hearted old lady with an edge I’d always fancied myself to be as I entered the latter stages of a lifetime is starting out as a basic, cranky old man devoid of passion or patience.

I dive back under the blankets for a few more minutes of not having to face the world.

Where is this wretched winter taking us? I wish I knew – or maybe I just think I wish I knew, because to know might actually ruin my life entirely. I once read of someone who was going to a psychic medium who knew so much and was so eerily accurate that they had to stop going.

If we all knew exactly what was in store for us, how many would bother going through the motions? An exercise in futility is just another exercise of which I want no part.

That said, a little guidance is always appreciated, so I’ll heed the mystics and soothsayers, and take cues from astrological signs and events. Today is the Wolf Supermoon – one of the three supermoons for 2026, so we are starting out with a bang. This year there will also be thirteen full moons (two in the month of May) so my plan is to harness the benefits of these, while rolling with the lunacy that typically accompanies them. As Violet Newstead once proclaimed, “I’m a tree I can bend!

Granted, that came right before she thought she poisoned her boss, but the sentiment is valid.

I’d vowed to myself to be less long-winded this season on the blog, and I’ve already broken it.

Let this post put us back on fucking track.

This happened a while ago, but the justice system in our country is, ahem, slightly fucked. What can we expect with a convicted felon leading the high office? Makes my minor speeding bump seem like cake compared to a fucking insurrection (see January 6 if you’re totally ignorant). Anyway, I digress…

This story began on a beautiful October morning as I was heading out to see my friend Missy in Connecticut. I’d programmed the destination into my phone and was heading out the prescribed route along Albany Shaker Road when I decided to take an earlier left onto Osborne, as that route was prettier and I hardly ever went that way. The phone would re-route me, so I turned left and then immediately remembered I’d forgotten the requisite bag of Chex mix (in Bold, thank you). Making a quick turnaround to Price Chopper, or Market 32, or whatever that ill-thought-out switch resulted in, I picked up the Chex mix and headed back out. Once again the phone’s route wanted me to stay straight on Albany-Shaker, and for the second time I ignored it, opting for the earlier left turn along a seemingly prettier path.
Sunlight dappled through the fall foliage and I was losing myself in the old-school fall musical mix I made for the ride when I suddenly realized my toiletries bag was back at home. Turning around again, the leisurely trip was becoming a bit too leisurely. Once the bag of lip balm and fragrance was in the car, the original route on the phone was still me to stay the path on Albany-Shaker, and for a third time I dismissed the plan, insisting on going the more beautiful way.

By now a bit behind on my scheduled departure, I was going over the speed limit by let’s say approximately 18 miles per hour, and before I could slow it down, a police officer was frantically waiving his hands and pointing at me from across the street. (I’d learned the hard way that this meant pull over, as opposed to a friendly officer just telling me to pass on and keep moving, which I’d once mistakenly assumed was happening in a speed trap on the Massachusetts Turnpike many years ago.)

Officer Red Head was livid – and so unfathomably angry from the outset that I wondered if I should call Andy. These are dangerous times.

“What are you DOING?!?!” he screamed. And I mean SCREAMED. There was a time, decades ago, when I was rather accustomed to irate cops who had pulled me over, but this was extreme and out of proportion for a speeding charge. My loose plan of asking if it would help if I my husband was a cop, while batting my eyelashes, went out the window as it suddenly felt ill-advised, so I held my tongue and tried to think of de-escalation exercises in the face of this crashing out cop.

Officer Red kept going on a tirade, even after procuring my driver’s license. “You live near here!! You know there’s a school here!! You’re going 18 over the speed limit!!!” His anger seemed to be growing on top of itself, making him more and more angry, and I was unsure how to calm the shit-show down.
“I’m sorry officer,” I said calmly, not wanting to set this temperamental person off any more. He wasn’t quite done, but the yelling had turned to a stern lecture. Maybe he realized he was the only one yelling and getting upset, and at that point he told me to wait there (as opposed to fleeing the scene without my license?)

When he came back a few minute later, he seemed like a totally different person. Handing me my license and a ticket, he spoke like human being and said I could just pay it or go to court, but they were always crowded there I might just want to pay it. I said thank you because at that point it felt best to get away from this person as soon as safely possible. His over-the-top anger had shaken me a bit, haunting me for the whole ride to Connecticut.

Cut to this week. Andy had insisted on going to court and not pleading guilty in an effort to get as few points as possible. After sitting in a packed court-adjacent room at the Colonie Courthouse, the proposed four points were whittled down to zero points, and instead of speeding I’d get a parking by a hydrant citation, with a fine and court fee. Relieved and grateful for no points, we got out of there and waited for the bill to arrive. It came a few days later, and the cost of ignoring the universe after its repeated attempts to keep me on Albany-Shaker was a whopping $325. That’s a whole damn bottle of Tom Ford Cologne.

The lesson for me in all the yelling and screaming, aside from keeping within 10 miles per hour of the posted speed limit, is to listen to the universe when it gently tries to guide you – pay heed to the seemingly minor nudges it makes. In this case, if I’d following the original route after two warnings, I’d have been fine at my 48 miles per hour, and entirely avoided a run-in with Officer Crazy Cranky Pants, as well as the hefty price tag that came along with it.

(The clown show at the court might have to be a totally separate post – oh fuck it, I can sum it up by saying that a stomach-baring half-shirt doesn’t work on every body, and not for any court of law ever.)

Stay safe out there.