Friday in Fragments
If you Google "Trump / Mommy Blogger," only one name shows up. At first, I found it irritating. Now, I like it— probably because The Times tacked on "Trump’s love."
No one multitasks like a mother.
Motherhood is attached to my branding. Not intentionally, on my end. But the media seems stuck on it. To me, it makes perfect sense. Moms are the best detectives. They have the most patience. They know how to handle people in all phases and states. They forgive. And they dedicate themselves to the better evolution of everyone around them. Politics requires all of that.
My Friday started slow, but ended up packed. I slept in past seven—something I never do. The morning drive was dreary, rain arrived, but the commute along PCH in any weather is always a pleasant escape. At my office, I started out with live news but got stuck watching Anatomy of a Scandal—a show I’ve technically seen before, though only in disjointed spurts of broken attention. I can’t say I know how it ends. Every time I watch, I end up resenting Sienna Miller’s perfect ponytail.
From my desk —for three hours — I bounced between Netflix and White House briefings. My day was filled with phone calls. In between, I culled my favorite photos from Tulsi’s hearing for a post this weekend, turned off notifications, ordered supplies for fifth-grade science camp, organized a friend’s birthday party, and rearranged my tiny fridge with an array of beverages to suit every type of person.
When I got here a gift bag was hanging on the door with a handwritten note and a pair of owl socks inside. Kind strangers often leave me little things. I’m note sure how, but my office space was added to Google business listings, so it’s become it’s own local tourist point for knowing fans. Sometimes, they swing by and leave long printed warnings in envelopes detailing the dangers of 5G and chemtrails. Usually it’s gifts and handwritten cards—which I tack to the bulletin board by the front door.
Today, I sorted through newly provided trial transcripts to help prove Nick Tartaglione’s innocence, then took his call from prison—right before jumping on with a D.C. lobbyist. I learned a lot in that hour, then walked to the beach for a 15-minute break.
My oldest son called hoping I had connections to get him into the VIP suites at the Waste Management golf tournament. My middle boy wanted Apple money for snacks after school. My youngest asked if he could have a girlfriend—"hypothetically."
Overnight, Kanye went nuclear. I woke up to that madness. That, and the missing plane. In less than 24 hours, he managed to declare love for both Diddy and Hitler, defend his exhibitionist wife by insisting she needs his permission to be naked in public (never mind that neither of them were invited to the Grammys), and clear his name regarding a tryst with Candace Owens—while weirdly implicating Ivanka instead. Over 300 tweets resulted from a grossly manic explosion. Last I checked, his newest post is claiming Kobe was killed in a helicopter crash as retribution for past rape charges. The rants have grown exhausting—chaotic even by Kanye standards. Who knows what another night will bring.
Everything and everyone is crazy at all hours of every day, and there are no days off. I can’t tell if Trump has been president for two weeks, two months, or two years. But I find it amusing—the way my attention is stretched between all of these drastically different demands. Home life still takes priority in its scattered form. I’m stationary much less, but so are the boys.
By late afternoon, the sun showed up after the rain, and I wrapped up a handful of tasks despite fraying focus. The weeks I’m home I struggle to fall back into routine and local obligations. Last night we ended up at a new hotel some friends opened, designed for out-of-town surf crews. Tonight, I’ll go with Mike to see his friend’s band play at a hillbilly bar I’ve long outgrown mentally but will tolerate for an hour. Tomorrow, an old friend’s funeral. Sunday, Super Bowl with school moms. In between—writing, working, plotting, planning.
Yesterday, I hopped on with Sean Spicer to talk about life lately. Earlier in the week, I joined Club MAHA on X, which began with plane crash conspiracies and ended with a moving tribute to Andrew Breitbart. I could write a whole series about my affection for Breitbart, but I’m clocking out and heading home before that temptation pulls me into another deep dark rabbit hole.
Hayes, typical Taurus tendencies . . .
One of my favorite of yours from this week - felt like we are friends catching up. Thanks for normalizing life in the midst of all the awesome things you are doing.
Who needs the Marvel Cinematic Universe when you’ve got Houseinhabit 🫶🏻