bcubedD 🇺🇲🦅
7.3K posts
bcubedD 🇺🇲🦅
@bcubedD
Proud Liberal Democrat....Traveller... Retired Teacher ..fearful for the world my 5 grandkids will inherit...#TheResistance... no DMs please.. no lists
เข้าร่วม Ekim 2008
1.4K กำลังติดตาม651 ผู้ติดตาม
I know a lot of folks are physically unable to protest, have to work, etc.
Show your support by sharing your favorite signs online.
If you’re out driving and pass a protest, lay on the horn to show your support!
If you’re at a protest, post pics!
Let’s make some noise!
No Kings!
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Her Closet, Their Kingdom.
by Michael Whelan
I always knew Rebecca loved our dogs and cats.
I just didn’t realize she was secretly running a full-blown fashion empire out of our house.
Kendall and I have been on a mission—cleaning and simplifying the house all week. Room after room after room. I’m keeping all of Rebecca's stuff that 'moves' me… and letting go of the clutter. Downsizing!
Today?
Today was dog and cat day.
We opened her drawers in our bedroom and I swear to you… the drawers illuminated like the suitcase from Pulp Fiction.
That glow.
That mystery.
That “what in God’s name is inside here?” moment.
We braced ourselves.
Not a few sweaters. Not a couple of cute outfits.
No.
We found… inventory.
Bins. Stacks. Layers. I’m pretty sure one of the cats had been appointed Creative Director.
Now here’s the kicker—
Rebecca was one of the most beautiful dressers I’ve ever known. Effortless. Elegant. The kind of woman who made everything look like it belonged on a runway.
So naturally… she extended that same standard to our four-legged kids.
Kendall held up outfit number 37.
“Brunch or black tie?” she asked.
“Both,” I said. “Rebecca didn’t believe in casual.”
Final count?
124 outfits.
One hundred and twenty-four.
At 11:00 tonight, I am now washing tiny jackets, sweaters, and what I’m convinced is a formal cape for a Chihuahua who had zero interest in fashion.
And somehow—
I’m laughing.
Through tears, I’m laughing.
Because every ridiculous, perfect outfit is Rebecca.
Pure style. Pure love. Purr her.
We’re donating most of it to the animal rescue.
So somewhere in Orlando, very soon…
there are going to be some outrageously well-dressed dogs and cats.
And Rebecca?
Oh, she’s smiling.
Because finally…
the neighborhood is going to be dressed appropriately.
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@mjfree ❤️ I travel a lot.. been using vote-by-mail for years. #TrumpVotesByMail
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❤️ if you want the option to vote-by-mail like Trump
#TrumpVotesByMail
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If you are on board, I want you to reply with #NoKingsMarch28 to show Elon Musk that we are not going anywhere.
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Hung new prayer flags today along with the old ones today. Lord knows, we are going to need them.
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Can you reply with #NoKingsMarch28th to get it trending?
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@Michaeljos92972 Having a bad day here...this gave me a good laugh. Thank you !
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THE FAN
by Michael Whelan
Rebecca told me—more than once, with that look that could stop a hurricane mid-spin—stop trying to fix everything.
“No ladders. No trees. And for the love of God, stay off the roof.”
When she was here to wag her finger, I obeyed like a well-trained husband.
Today, apparently, I’m feral.
The house was alive again—cleaner humming like a saint with a vacuum, my niece moving with purpose and grace—and me? I was given one sacred task: clean the top of the dresser. One job. A horizontal surface. Practically a love letter to simplicity.
But grief has a strange way of turning small things into expeditions.
So I went to the garage.
Got the ladder.
Grabbed my Lysol wipes like a man preparing for battle.
Up I climbed.
At first, it felt productive. Noble, even. I uncovered layers of dust thick enough to qualify as geological history. Ah, I thought, so this is why I sneeze like a dying accordion.
And then—I made a decision that should be studied by scientists.
I wiggled.
Just a little hip-shift. A subtle adjustment to move the ladder a few inches down the dresser without climbing down like a rational human being.
The ladder obeyed.
So did gravity.
What I failed to account for—what no man in his right mind would forget unless he was recently widowed and running on fumes—was the ceiling fan.
On.
Spinning.
Waiting.
The blades caught me square in the head with the kind of authority usually reserved for life lessons. A blunt, spinning sermon from the heavens. In one violent second, I went from “man cleaning dresser” to “airborne cautionary tale.”
Down I went.
By some miracle—or Rebecca pulling strings from wherever she is—I landed on the bed.
Alive.
Dazed.
Humbled.
The fan? Not so lucky.
I lay there, staring at the ceiling, hearing her voice as clearly as if she were standing at the foot of the bed:
“I told you so.”
Yeah, Rebecca.
I’m listening now.
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@TheRealThelmaJ1 Bottle of Champagne has been waiting in the Fridge.
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I am planning on repurposing this one when a Double Quarter Pounder with Cheese finally sets America free.
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The Space She Left — Through Bambi’s Eyes.
by Michael Whelan
Bambi does not understand death.
She understands presence.
For thirteen years, Rebecca was not a concept or a memory or a photograph in a frame—she was warmth. She was breath. She was the rhythm beneath the covers, the heartbeat Bambi pressed her tiny body against each night as if guarding something sacred.
Bambi chose her. Not me. Not the house. Not the life we built.
Her.
I remember the moment like it just happened. The papers signed, the foster parent smiling, Bella curious, me hopeful. And then—like instinct carved in bone—Bambi leapt from my lap and ran straight to Rebecca. No hesitation. No doubt. As if she had finally found the one she had been searching for her entire life.
And she never left.
Not once.
Six pounds of fierce, unrelenting devotion. A bodyguard in a world that didn’t deserve Rebecca. If you got too close, Bambi let you know—this Queen was taken, protected, loved beyond reason.
At night, our bed became something holy. An ark of love. Rebecca. Me. Bella. Bambi. Winston. Penny. A small, breathing universe where nothing bad could touch us.
And for thirteen years, it didn’t.
Until it did.
The morning Rebecca died, something in the air changed before anyone said a word. Bambi knew. Dogs always know. She climbed onto Rebecca’s chest, gently, carefully, as if afraid to break something already breaking. She didn’t move. Not when we cried. Not when the room filled. Not when the world began to shatter around us.
She stayed.
Because leaving never occurred to her.
And then… they took Rebecca away.
The house didn’t just go quiet.
It went hollow.
Grief has a sound. I didn’t know that before. It isn’t loud. It isn’t dramatic. It’s the absence of everything that once made noise worth hearing.
And Bambi—my brave, unyielding Bambi—has not been the same since.
For thirteen years, she never missed a night. Not one. She would burrow under the covers, press herself into Rebecca’s side, and sleep like she had fulfilled her purpose.
Now?
She won’t get on the bed.
Not once in twelve days.
She sleeps alone in the living room, in a small bed that was never meant to hold this kind of sorrow. And at night, when the house is at its quietest, she cries.
Not a bark.
Not a whimper.
Something deeper.
A sound that feels like it’s being pulled from the center of her soul.
She’s calling for Rebecca.
Over and over again.
And Rebecca doesn’t answer.
I sit there sometimes, listening, completely helpless. I’ve lost the love of my life. But Bambi… she’s lost her entire world. Her purpose. Her reason for waking up and climbing under those covers.
People will say, “She’ll adjust.”
Maybe.
But I don’t think Bambi is built for replacement. Some loves are too pure for substitution. Too complete to be redirected.
I wonder if she’ll ever come back to the bed.
If one night, she’ll climb up, circle twice, and settle beside me like she used to beside Rebecca.
But deep down… I know.
That wasn’t my place.
That was Rebecca’s.
And Bambi is still waiting for her to come back.
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Look what I made yesterday. A big old pot of vegetable beef soup. Yay or Nay for you?
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When we would go to Wildwood, I always had to hit the gag shop. That’s your hint as to what it is.
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It's Caturday you all, I am a little late because I got caught up doing my plants. This is one of my babies.
Show me your furbabies, because as they said during the George Floyd protests, ACAB, all cats are beautiful. Love you all - Thelma
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If you can see this, just hit the little heart please. Something is going on and I’m trying to figure it out.
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