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Author archive for: Starshine Roshell

High Sobriety

Published by Starshine Roshell on October 22, 2017

Memories of a Drunk Dad, Gone Dry

When I was a little girl, my dad was more fun than anyone I knew.
He’d pick me up from grade school on his chopper and let me start up the growling beast all by myself — and rev it — as my friends watched in awe. Then he’d talk like Donald Duck and take me for ice cream right before dinner.
He loved roller coasters and food fights and making me laugh. He penned a ditty called “Turdballs on Parade,” and we’d wail it in public places, or break into a scripted repartee (“May I have a tissue?” “Kiss you?! I hardly know you!”). If I asked to wear his hat, he’d hoist me onto his shoulders and flip his black Stetson onto my noggin.
Dad was not what you’d call “a responsible adult.” I was the grown-up in our relationship—the one always saying, “Come on, cut it out. You’re gonna get hurt. We’re gonna get in trouble.” But that was okay; one of us had to be the parent, and I liked him as the lunatic.
Continue reading High Sobriety

That’s No Hurricane; It’s a Him-icane

Published by Starshine Roshell on October 22, 2017

The Gender Saga Behind Naming Storms

Hazel killed hundreds in 1954. Camille flattened cities in 1969. And Agnes cost billions in 1972. These twister-sisters weren’t messing around.
For more than a quarter century, hurricanes in the Atlantic basin — the area that recently brought us Harvey, Irma, Jose, and pals — were only given women’s names: Alma. Betsy. Cleo. Delia. Ethel. Fifi. Gladys. Hilda …
While apologists say the practice took its cue from the time-honored tradition of seamen referring to the ocean as female, more experts guess it was an inside joke by those in the male-dominated meteorology field. Some even say the scientists named storms after their girlfriends.
Continue reading That’s No Hurricane; It’s a Him-icane

Exes Co-Parenting in Peace?

Published by Starshine Roshell on October 22, 2017

Starshine Surveys the Pros and Cons of Sharing Kids

I like to think of myself as fairly magnanimous. Generous of spirit. Warm hearted and welcoming when need be. But I’m going to be honest with you: If I had to walk my precious toddler to his first day of preschool alongside his father’s girlfriend — and my child was calling us both “Mommy” — it would be hard for me not to hurt the hag with my fingernails. And, depending how quickly I could get it off my foot, maybe also the heel of my right shoe.
Continue reading Exes Co-Parenting in Peace?

Thank You, President Trump

Published by Starshine Roshell on August 25, 2017

#45’s Frequent Failings Take my Mind off my Tween

It’s a phrase you don’t hear often. His chiefs of staff don’t say it. The terrified people of Guam don’t say it. You’re unlikely to catch any endangered species cooing it. But I’m gonna say it, and I’m gonna say it loud: Thank you, President Donald J. Trump! You’ve done me a solid, and I’ll bet you don’t even know it.
Continue reading Thank You, President Trump

What Makes Dads So … Non-Mom?

Published by Starshine Roshell on June 23, 2017

A group of young dudes in Spokane, Washington, recently put an ad on Craigslist for a “BBQ Dad” who’d be willing to man the grill at their Father’s Day backyard burger roast. They told the local news station their own dads don’t live nearby and they aren’t up to the challenge of filling their shoes. Duties would include flipping patties while drinking beer, talking about lawnmowers, and referring to the hosts as Big Guy, Chief, Sport, and Champ. They got a few takers.
I’m learning there’s nothing quite like the bond between a boy and his dad. Moms get a lot of reverence lobbed our way, mostly because of the way people just spring to life right there between our hips. The truth is that when my kids need comfort — or, alternately, a taloned and shrieky advocate on their behalf — there’s really no substitute for mom. Also, I keep them alive by cramming the occasional wad of produce down their protesting pieholes.
However, when my sons get talking about their dad, their words reveal less a reverence than a rapport. Less a biological tenderness than an utterly rational fondness. Continue reading What Makes Dads So … Non-Mom?

God-Peddlers: Beware of Resident

Published by Starshine Roshell on June 6, 2017

When Jehovah’s Witnesses Come A-Knockin’ …
In an un-trafficked corner of our living room sits a humble, lumpy pet bed. It’s our dog’s safe place. When he’s curled up in his stinky, duct-tape-patched bed, no one in the family is allowed to mess with him: no tug of war, no wrestling, no stealing his ball to play fetch. It’s the only place he can claim as his own in this big ole tug-of-war world — the tiny, impenetrable corner of the universe where he can let his guard down, sigh deeply, and be at peace. Where he can let his fur flag fly.
That’s the way I feel about my home: It’s sacred, personal space where I’m protected from the hubbub just beyond, where I don’t have to make excuses for blasting John Fogerty’s “Rock and Roll Girls” and dancing through the house until I’m out of breath, or apologize to anyone for still being in my skivvies at 11 a.m. on a Saturday.

So I didn’t apologize to the cheap-suited salvation peddlers who darkened my doorstep last weekend. First, I let my dog lunge and snarl at them through the glass window of the front door. They could see inside and we made eye contact, but I made no move to answer the door because (1) I didn’t invite them here, (2) I wasn’t wearing much, and (3) I could see they didn’t have cookies. Continue reading God-Peddlers: Beware of Resident