I’m fighting a case of “the sads.” Who wouldn’t be sad for the world? The president is a (fill in the awful blank), black folks keep getting murdered just for existing, and many folks can’t afford groceries or rent. Oh, and there’s STILL A PANDEMIC and PEOPLE ARE DYING. This is depressing sh!t, which is why my frivolous little blog seems out of tune with the times. I dunno. Maybe we need something funny and stupid. “I can’t go on. I’ll go on.” I always thought that was a Chekhov quote, but I think now that it’s Beckett.

A moment of frivolity may not be out of place. So . . . eff it.

Today’s great discovery: My dress has POCKETS!!!! Y’all! Pockets!!

Dudes have no idea how exciting this is. I told my husband, and he said, “Oh yeah, I’ve heard that’s important. It’s all over the internet” Sure. Okay. My whole life, I’ve been sentenced to carry around a “handbag” or “purse” to keep my sh!t with me just in case I

1. Don’t have pockets
2. Have pockets that are purely decorative or sewn shut (a faux-ket)
3. Can’t fit all my girl items (lip balm, wallet, keys, tampons, mace, whimsy, and once upon a time, lighters and Marlboros) into my pockets.

Oh my God. I just realize why they call purses and handbags a “pocket-book”! It’s like, a, pocket. That’s shaped like a book! Because we ladies don’t have pockets!!! My purse right now is about 80% receipts and 10% trash. The other 10% is lip balms of various flavors and tints. There might be a lonely, fuzz-covered mint runnin’ around in there somewhere. That sounds like a fate the Greek Gods would bestow on an erstwhile mortal: you shall forevermore be sentenced to exist as a lint-coated mint in a middle-aged woman’s purse until the end of time. The myth of Mentos, the fresh-maker.

Side note- I bought a pair of pants at a thrift shop recently and found an old tissue in the pocket. It made me smile. My grandmother always had a tissue, or “tisha” as she would say, in every pocket. She was a magician, whipping out a Kleenex from a sleeve or pocket at the first sniffle. When I found the tisha in the vintage pants-pocket, I had this surge of nostalgia, then I thought “COVID!!!” and threw it out. Then I spend 10 minutes washing my hands.

So, my dress has pockets. This dress is so fancy. Even though it’s from Anthropologie, I look like a Manson girl who defected to the Partridge Family. I’ve just completely given in to the fact that I am a hippy-boho type, so why fight it? Long flowy dresses hide a multitude of sins, mostly in the hips and a$$ area, and those psychedelic patterns will hypnotize predators. Win-win.  

Today, as I was riding back from the grocery store where I went to get soy sauce, wine, pull-ups, and two bags of Dark Magic coffee, I ran my hands down my sides and to my surprise, POCKETS! They weren’t deep, but they were there. I nearly stopped the car. Why hadn’t I noticed this before? This was AMAZING! I want to believe this is a harbinger of good things to come. Subtle blessings, maybe? Little things.

Little things are what’s making the days good. Seeing people out gardening. Hearing Boychild say “I love you so much, mama.” Giving some money to organizations that fight racism. Hell, my pockets aren’t deep, but they’re there. There should be a saying: May you all find the pockets you need when you least expect them.