Being offended by social injustice is Meaningless if you don’t do something about it.
Whoa! Just learned about this in boxing today.
Hi there, we need to talk. My name is Amy Moser. I have almost written this post at least 20 times and got too overwhelmed and abandoned it. Well here goes…
The antibiotics you took or are taking for your sinus infection, UTI, skin infection, laser eye surgery…ect…may have already damaged you.
Cipro, Levaquin, Avalox, nearly every generic ending in “quin”, “oxacin,””ox,”…are all part of a large family of antibiotics called “Fluoroquinolones.” The FDA finally updated their warning on these antibiotics as of July 2016. They site “multiple system damage that may be irreversible. Permanent you guys. Here is the link for the warning if you are a doubting Thomashttps://www.fda.gov/Drugs/DrugSafety/ucm500143.htm. Take a gander real quick if you are reading this with an eyebrow raised. Trust me, I wish I had been given the opportunity to soak up this information before it was too late.
In 2010, I took Cipro for…
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You probably know by now how much I love research. When I came across this photo of me on a camping trip in Colorado, I took a look back.
Notable things for me that year:
-President Carter grants pardon to American Draft dodgers of the Vietnam War
-Popular songs were the Eagles Hotel California and New Kid in Town, and The Bee Gees, How Deep is Your Love
-The first “Rocky” movie came out as did “Close Encounters of the Third Kind”
-The National Women’s Conference, held in Houston, was the first meeting of its type in the U.S. since the Women’s Rights Convention in New York in 1848.
But the best? The Medal of Freedom was awarded posthumously to Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. (to Coretta Scott King an MLK, Sr.)
For a week, the whole house feels pain of one kind or another. Delma’s in one bed crying, Dad’s moaning and cussing in his. But the only sickness Mother and I feel is a mean rumbling in our bellies from lack of food. Since Dad’s been bedridden, we don’t have any gambling money to spend on groceries.
Mother walks over to the kitchen cabinets and looks inside. No salt, no pepper, not even a lousy piece of stale bread is sitting in there. No sir, there isn’t a dang thing to eat. She goes to the last cabinet. There, all by itself, sits a medium-sized onion. She takes it out, holds it in both her hands and stares at it like she’s thinking a roast was fixing to pop out of it. At least that’s what I’m thinking, when my mouth gets all watery.
She peels that onion real slow, like it’s a prized Hereford being slaughtered for steak. She slices it up just as slowly as she’d peeled it. She puts it in a skillet and adds a little water, looks at it and adds more water.
The onion soup doesn’t taste like onion or even warm water. It tastes like cold hunger seasoned with poverty and sprinkled with fear. And the stuff that settled on the bottom of the cup? That’s anger. I drink it anyway. I feel like a Devil’s Claw, stacked up and falling back down on my own self. It’s like being slapped without even having a hand laid on me. Maybe it’s because the slap I feel is on the inside instead of the outside, a slap like a burning face just as uninvited.
Excerpt from No Hill for a Stepper, a story about my father.
Sitting on the leopard print living room couch next to Gladys, I know I’m living in an episode of The Twilight Zone. Not because Gladys sits in the exact same spot wearing the same flapper dress from when I got here three days ago. And not because Olvie hasn’t bothered to move her. I’m in The Twilight Zone because I have to spend the next few weeks living with a fruitcake.
I peek out the front window. Olvie’s at it again. Just a few minutes before, like she’s done every morning, she told me to “stay put” until she comes back inside with the newspaper. And like every morning, she won’t pick it up until she sees Elias Ford heading her way on his walk to work.
Olvie’s shuffling down her sidewalk towards the curb wearing her moo-moo and striped yellow and black socks. She bends down to pick up the newspaper. He must be getting close. Yep. I see him now. Mr. Ford has stepped into the danger zone, too close to The Property of Olvie P. Crazy.
Like always, Mr. Ford tips his shabby hat and attempts to hurry past.
Like always, Olvie steps in front of him with the familiar finger point and the poke, poke, poke to his chest.
I don’t get why she doesn’t like him. What’s the Controversy anyway?
Yesterday morning, Crazy Olvie had forgotten to close the front windows. I heard her ask Mr. Ford if she could spit on his shoes. “It won’t take long,” she’d said, almost politely.
I wonder what she’s quacking to him about this time. That his shoes need polishing? That his rusty lunch pail should be thrown off a cliff? That the only reason he still lives around the corner is because my daddy spent “too much time” repairing his house so the city wouldn’t tear it down? Mr. Ford lives in what some ignorant people call, The Black Pocket—a small thicketed area that folks like Dad fought to keep intact. Including the ten or so residents.
Mr. Ford shakes his head. I bet right now he’s wishing he’d moved after all. His expression reminds me of Tom Robinson in the movie To Kill a Mockingbird and the thought makes me sad.
I get in Gladys’ face. “Let me tell you. I’m not happy about being here either. So there.” She doesn’t respond, of course.
I must be catching her loony bug. Perhaps I won’t last a few weeks. Maybe not even day four. I ponder where to go and what to pack before I run away.
Excerpt from a work in progress.
He sent me this email. I know The Affordable Care Act has it’s issues. Still.
Here’s my response.
I should have asked him to tweet a response back. Something about blood coming out of my you-know-what. Dammit! Why do I think of these things later?!