Ordinary People

A Week in 2025

Friday, June 27, 2025

I’m on my way up north to celebrate a best friend’s birthday. We’re going camping. I feel like a real outdoorsy chick because I remembered to pack a lantern. I stop at a gas station to use the restroom, and I spy a dark blue (or black?) bucket hat printed with flamingos and banana leaves. I decide to buy it. The woman behind the cash register supports my choice.

“Have a good day,” she says, “Or, what’s left of it.”

Outside, I pass a rotund gentleman in a white, sweat-stained t-shirt. He stares at me and takes a pull off his cigarette.

“Thank. You. Memphis,” he says, emphasizing each word. I smile—because I’m wearing a crop top that says “Memphis”—and keep walking. “Have a good day,” he adds. “Or, what’s left of it.” I’m relieved to get back to my car and start the engine, because I’m afraid of what might happen if a third person tells me, “Have a good day. Or, what’s left of it.”

I arrive at the campground and hug my friends. We go down the street for sushi—because we’re real outdoorsy chicks—and when we get back, I’m shown how to build a fire. We sit around the fire, and while we don’t want to talk about politics, we still say things like, “I’ve been to the Anne Frank House,” and, “I’ve been re-watching Ken Burns documentaries,” and, “Have you been to the Civil Rights Museum? It’s in Memphis.”

Dang. I guess it is kinda far.

Monday, June 30, 2025

I read about the Big Beautiful Bill that looms large over the U.S. Senate—and, therefore, over everything. Somehow, I get through the workday. I do not exercise, I do not make dinner, but I do watch several episodes of the newest season of The Bear. Carmy should grow the hell up and go to therapy, but I still sob when he and Claire Bear finally talk face-to-face. I sob even harder when Syd breaks down about how she wishes her dad didn’t worry so much about her—or didn’t have to worry so much about her. I feel sad because I wish the same for everyone—that we could observe the world around us and comfortably say, “I’m more or less gonna be fine.”

Tuesday, July 1, 2025

A “psychic” named “Heather” sits across from me at a tiny table in a tiny room. I’m at a witchy little shop around the corner because I can’t resist witchy little shops around the corner. I think it’s fun to talk to “psychics”—even ones that are obviously full of it. I can’t decide if “Heather” is full of it. She keeps shuffling a deck of playing cards and then turning the cards over and placing them in long, vertical rows. She nods. She furrows her brow. She whispers.

She asks me a question. I say, “Yes.”

She sighs.

“Don’t do it,” she says. “It won’t accomplish anything. Plus, I don’t believe you really want to.”

She’s right. I do not want to. And it’s funny, because I already know that, but since I paid a “psychic” to tell me something I already know, the waves finally stop crashing in my head. The cards tell us a few more things (maybe—who’s to say?), and then “Heather” asks me if I’ve seen Ordinary People.

“No,” I say, unsure of what Ordinary People has to do with anything, “but my dad loves that movie.”

“You’ve gotta see it,” she says. “Mary Tyler Moore? Fucking amazing.”

“Heather” walks me out of the tiny room and I stand at the cash register. The young girl behind the counter tells me she’s been having trouble sleeping.

“It’s the chem trails,” she says. “I can see them from my bedroom window. Last week, I posted a picture of them to my Instagram and tagged the Department of Sanitation, and then my profile got shadow banned. And then? Last night? I saw an email from the USPS about my incoming mail, and it says I’m getting a letter from the Department of Sanitation. WHY am I getting a letter from the Department of Sanitation?”

“Far out,” I say, as I tuck my debit card back into my wallet.

“THEY DON’T WANT US TO KNOW!” she shouts.

I look up from my wallet. The girl’s eyes bulge like yellow traffic lights. She has so many teeth. “Who does she remind me of…” I wonder.

“But we DO know!” she shouts again. “WE KNOW. People talk about environmental activists, but that’s ridiculous—the environment is for EVERYONE, not just ACTIVISTS! We’re ALL ACTIVISTS! The environment isn’t political! HEALTH ISN’T POLITICAL! People don’t want poison in their food! People don’t want toxins! We don’t want any of this! Republican, democrat, whatever! It’s like, when you’re an empath, right? When you’re a psychic, like I am, people come up to you and they tell you what’s going on with them, and people tell me all the time, ‘I’m sick, I have all these symptoms,’ and I tell them, ‘You’re not sick! IT’S NOT COVID! IT’S THE CHEM TRAILS!”

I take an assertive, but certified organic step backward. I’m scared. My pulse pounds in my throat, but I make myself sound calm.

“I hope your sleep improves soon,” I say.

I book it to Ye Rustic Inn to indulge in some fermented toxins. The Departed plays on the TV. I sit at the bar, and two stools down from me, an audibly drunk man yells about the Big Beautiful Bill.

“They passed the BIG FUCKIN’ BILL! We’re ALL GONNA DIE!”

“Hey, we’re not goin’ hungry yet,” says a second drunk.

“BUT WE WILL,” says the first drunk. “If we were in FRANCE, man? We’d BURN IT ALL DOWN.”

My mind wanders back to the young girl and the chem trails. I wonder if she’s heard about the Big Beautiful Bill.

“Gah, who did she remind me of?” I wonder.

And then, it hits me:

“Dave Grohl.”

Wednesday, July 2

Across a big, silver screen, Tommy Chong passes a cartoonishly large joint to Cheech Marin—a young, foxy Cheech Marin in a yellow cropped tank top that shows off his big ol’ perfect arms. The iconic comedians are in a ‘64 Impala with a faux fur interior and a vanity plate that says “MUF DVR.” The image is so irresistibly stupid and so playfully anti-establishment that I cannot stop cackling.

“Hey, what is in this shit, man?” asks Cheech.

“Mostly Maui Wowie, man, but it’s got some Labrador in it,” answers Chong.

“What’s Labrador?”

“It’s dog shit.”

“What?”

“Yeah, my dog ate my stash, man. Out on the table, the little motherfucker ate it, man, so I had to follow him around with a little baggie for three days…”

I grab another nacho cheese-coated chip.

“This,” I think, “is exactly what I needed.”

Cheech accidentally eats a bunch of acid, and a cop approaches the car. Chong struggles to eat all the dope he’s carrying. Cheech has the giggles. I think about how absurd is it that people are still serving time over a drug that makes people laugh at Cheech and Chong movies, and then I wonder about the future of Cheech and Chong movies—not literal Cheech and Chong movies, but anything that’s even, ya know, playfully anti-establishment. Anti-establishment? Jesus Chris, anti-fascist is more like it.

“They look so free,” I think. “Cheech and Chong are so fucking free.”

Tears burn in the corners of my eyes. I let them fall, and then I laugh again. I realize I’m probably the only person in the theater who’s simultaneously laughing and crying about the freedom of Cheech and Chong during the rise of American fascism. Probably. Maybe. I could be wrong.

Sheeeeeeesh, Cheech.

Friday, July 4

I step outside a dressing room in a groovy resale store and look at myself in a full length mirror.

“Would you like me to adjust the straps for you?” asks the British-accented woman behind the counter.

“Sure,” I say.

She walks behind me and adjusts the straps.

“I feel like the neckline could be lower,” she says, “but here you are.”

“I kind of love it,” I say, admiring the slinky, blue satin dress. I never wear slinky, blue satin dresses—never ever—but I might as well start. I put my other clothes back on and put the dress on the counter.

“Any big plans for today?” asks the British woman.

“I went to the Transcendental Meditation Center this morning,” I answer.

“That sounds nice,” she says. “What was that like?”

“I could tell you more, but I promised my instructor I wouldn’t. She’s a nice woman—not a creep. But I left feeling fantastic.”

“Well, we could all benefit from a little meditation right now…”

“Absolutely,” I say. “Plus, there’s nothin’ to celebrate.”

We stare at each other. Her silver hair sharpens the blue of her eyes. We both try to calculate how much we want to say about what we’re not saying (but always thinking).

“What the fuck is going on?” she says.

“Seriously,” I say.

“I hate him,” she says.

“I hate him too,” I say.

“I mean, he goes around saying he hates half the population.”

“I mean, he sent the Marines here the other week.”

“It’s ruined downtown. Everyone’s gone. People are hiding. Of course they are.”

She puts her face in her hands for a moment. I remain quiet.

“I don’t mean to go on about it,” she says, British-ly.

“If we don’t talk about it we’ll go crazy,” I say, Los Angeles-ly.

She gathers the satin dress in her wrinkled hands.

“We’ll get through it. We’ll get through it, and we’ll fuck him up on the other side.”

She folds the dress and slips it into a red paper bag. I notice an orange brimmed hat on the wall behind her—it’s got a leopard band above the brim.

“Okay, am I crazy,” I say, “or should I style the dress with that hat?”

“I’m going to vote ‘no,’” she says, “unless you pair it with leopard shoes.”

“I see,” I say. “Challenge accepted.”

On the walk home, I stop to buy a burrito.

At home, I eat the burrito, and then meditate for 20 minutes.

I open my computer.

First, I search “leopard high heels,” and then I search “stream Ordinary People.”