CALL IT the "People With Uteruses Who Hate Donald Trump March" . . . Or the "Birth Control, Not Self Control March." Or the "LGBTQI-Want-To-Buy-A-Vowel-Vanna March." Or, as my good friend Tania Gail suggested, the "#MeanGirlMarch2017."
I DON'T USUALLY live my days according to a particular theme. No planning goes into them, unless I'm celebrating a birthday or some other exceptional event. But every now and then, in a sort of strange serendipity, the day comes together around people, places and ideas that have a strange symbiosis. So it was Tuesday.
YOU KNOW WHY I despise the whole idea of hate-crime legislation? Because it validates the repellent idea that some victims are more important, more valued, more deeply mourned or cared for than others. You have two people, one white, straight and Christia
LAST WEEK, I wrote a column about paying attention. I asked us to pay attention to the tragedy occurring in Aleppo because we had a moral obligation to focus on something beyond our narrow domestic interests. I might have come off sounding preachy and pretentious because a lot of people emailed to say that dead Syrian children "weren't our problem" and accused me of being a clueless liberal.
I grew up with "Saturday Night Live." When it debuted in 1975, I was a high school freshman and looked a little bit like Emily Litella with her eyeglasses and unkempt hair. For that reason alone, she endeared herself to me. "Never mind" became a favorite part of my lexicon, indicating what I thought was cool nonchalance. You can imagine the social life of a girl who thinks Emily Litella is an aspirational figure.
FIDEL CASTRO was a very accommodating fellow. He died just a few hours before I did my weekly radio program, thereby giving me the great gift of his demise as topic No. 1. I made the most of it. Most of the show was devoted to wishing him a speedy trip to hell, hoping his flesh would be sizzling for eternity, and sprinkling in a few "attaboys" to St. Michael the Archangel, who most certainly gave El Lider Maximo an introductory tour of his new lodgings.
ON NOV. 9, 2012, these are the words I wrote for this newspaper: "When I woke up Wednesday morning, it was dark. There was something ominous about that midweek morning, something that I hadn't felt in many years, something that I hadn't even felt when my father died decades ago. It was sense of intangible, yet visceral, loss."
LIBERALS ARE FICKLE. One minute, they love you, rushing to air-kiss your sweet face, secure in the knowledge that you are either no threat to their overarching agenda or that you actually agree with them. Yes, John McCain, you might think you're a conservative, but they know better. At heart, you're one of them. Just don't fall asleep because there's a pod out there with your face on it.
IT TAKES SO LITTLE to offend us these days. "Bad hombres." "Nasty woman." "Baby." During Wednesday night's debate, all sorts of people got their sombreros, bra straps and pacifiers in a twist over comments Donald Trump made. Apparently, when speaking about people (including unborn people), we must use the terminology that hews most clo
MY FATHER'S MOTHER was a diehard Democrat. If Ted Bundy and Charles Manson were running on a ticket touting their record on women's rights, they'd have her vote as long as they weren't Republicans. Elsie was the kind of partisan who was incapable of seeing beyond the edges of her voter registration card. I'm sure she's still planning to support Hillary Clinton in November, assuming she can find the polling place nearest to her plot at Holy Cross Cemetery.
GROWING UP, I developed a special vocabulary to describe my body shape. "Fat" and "obese" were discarded out of hand, primarily because they were both technically inaccurate and overly descriptive. Those extra 15 to 20 pounds that settled around my burgeoning hips and dimpled thighs were annoying, but hardly Shakespearean in their tragedy.
See Christine Flowers on Channel 6's "Inside Story" Sunday at 11:30 a.m.