I write stuff down. writer • humorist • activist
1-2-3: There was a gal … maybe you know her. About this tall? Cute, blonde hair, blue eyes – trim, very trim – you know who I’m talking about? From Pawling. Come on, her mother — a member of Quaker Hill Country Club, could do a split. I know you know her. Ate like a rabbit –sugar, no fat, no butter. Not ever. She always asked ridiculous, redundant questions –
Apparently I can’t keep them alive, but I can help them die, with dignity and humor and grace and privacy — or at least try. After helping my Aunt maneuver the ass-suck which is pancreatic cancer, we ended up in the same place as her brother, my dad. What a genetic shitshow. And with the news of the most recent shootings* (as of this writing, Dayton & El Paso, subject
Every once in awhile Facebook serves up a writing opportunity too good to pass up. I’m not talking about the teeth-whitening strips or cool-sculpting or the never-ending bra inventory promising to uplift more than my sagging spirits. Actually, I am talking about just that, because an assignment for an essay on why people shouldn’t tell women of a certain age what they can and cannot wear – landed in my
I’ve spent the month bedside with my dying aunt because nothing says summer vacation like fighting hospital staff for more meds while your incredible shrinking aunt disappears into bed sheets writhing in pain. There’s gotta be a better way. When alone in the room, my aunt tells me how she wants me to kill her if I can’t get her more meds; use a pillow, whatever I can think of
My dad was a math and computer science professor at a local community college in Poughkeepsie, New York. A smart guy. Very smart. Unassumingly smart. The guy at Trivia Pursuit who answered correctly despite asleep and snoring across the room. Listening to a radio caller blowing raspberries with their lips and groaning over the phone over the radio, my dad would be like, yep: catalytic converter, outsmarting Click & Clack
Nobody else is flinching. They’re all breathing. In and out. In. And. Out. Eyes gently shut, all the women are centered on their mats, breathing, hands at heart center, I can’t help but think like a praying mantis. Who kill their partner after sex. via GIPHY But these women don’t seem violent at all, they’re all super chill. I know, because my eyes are wide open and I’m scanning the
My darling daughter, Kid3, is traveling the world, Southeast Asia to be exact, solo, because she’s smart, brave, exciting, and adventurous. Plus, she graduated college early, saving me a boatload of money, so before the job and cubicle and 401k responsibilities kick in for the next 50 years, she packed a bag and left on a jet plane. For a month. Which is measure by 30 odd days. And cycles.
My therapist broke up with me. He revealed his wife had cancer, and when I asked which kind, and he answered “Gall Bladder,” and I said good, immediately, with zero hesitation, probably with a smile, and suddenly his kind and peaceful face was no longer. And the thing is, is that I meant it. Tuesdays are chemo day, the day before what used to be therapy day, when I’m a
An irreverent storyteller with a foul mouth and big heart, Kathryn Mayer (aka Kathy and/or Kate) is a writer, humorist, and (former) activist writing out loud with humor and grace about little life moments with big ripples, including the space between parenting and aging parents, social issues, angsty reflections of midlife, and, sigh, gun humpers. Still. Sometimes a big deal, sometimes not Mayer is a national award-winning columnist, according to the National Society of Newspaper Columnists, and her essays have been recognized as Voice of … Read More Here...
kate[at]kathrynmayer[dot]com
xo Kate