Dear Diary: Musings of a Leftist Soccer Mom

(The “Louder-Weinners” are a fictitious family of rich, white, woke leftists. Carrin, Stan, and their daughter Krista Clare live in LaLa Land. Although their stories are fictitious, their adventures are based on years of observing people like them. Any resemblance to actual wokesters is completely coincidental.)

Dear Diary:

Stan and I were on our way to the BLM anti-racism event on Saturday. I was fully prepared to get yelled at for our systemic racism and white privilege, but I wasn’t prepared for what happened next.

The display panel of the Tesla flashed a text from our daughter Krista Clare. All it said was: “911.”

I turned to Stanley in horror, my eyes showing way too much white. “OMG! Stan, our baby is in trouble!”

Stan turned white, and I, again, felt ashamed of our whiteness.  He had the same look on his face when we saw that poor, beached whale on Catalina last year. Plus, there were people on the sand with no  masks on. Too many to bear. With so many people willing to kill us, we were helpless. Stan’s look of utter helplessness had returned.

That’s when horrible, awful thoughts raced through my mind… had Maria let her smelly cousin into the house? Worse, did he use the pool again?  Had the Shi Tzu doo-dooed on the Persian throw rug? Had Krista misplace her new therapist’s number? Had Krista Clare, God forbid, forgotten to take her Lexapro…?

It was all too much to take. Stan seemed steady enough, but I started to hyperventilate. My hands were shaking. Just then, the Tesla’s “early alert” system warned us that Stan’s blood pressure was spiking. “Warning! Warning! Blood pressure rising.” Despite that, Stan put on his best, ACLU lawyer face and said to me, “Carrin, make the call.”  I shook my head to clear it, and regained my center.


I speed-dialed Krista. Stan put the Tesla into self-driving mode.

Suddenly, Krista’s voice filled the car. She answered with a flat “Carrin.” I instantly knew this was a crisis (when she calls me by my first name, she’s in her “adult place”). O…M…G… I didn’t want to frighten her, but, what horror had happened?!

“Carrin,” our daughter said in a lecturing tone, “You did it… again. You left me a latte… with milk. Cow’s milk, Carrin! COW’S MILK! Milk is racist and patriarchal, Carrin…how many times do I have to say it? I specifically asked for a Sugar Oatmilk Shaken Espresso!”

Krista continued, “I’m literally dying, Carrin, I consumed some of this liquid racism. Maria had to clean up the mess. I literally consumed racism, mother. And you are the one who did this to me. Your racism is so distressing. You’ve said you’re trying, but that not good enough, Carrin! Not. Good Enough.”

I said, “Baby doll, please, what can I do, what can we do to make it up to you…I’m committed to hating myself, and admitting to my racism. Sushi tonight? I can send Maria.”

Krista said, now in a soft plaintive voice, “Airhug, Mommy, airhug”… (she called me Mommy!)


Tears welled up in Stan’s eyes, as he opened his hands to receive his Airhug. I, too, gave Krista a most special Airhug.

I began sobbing, then Stan started to cry. Over the speaker, I could hear Krista’s sobs, too. We’re still racists, but we have Krista back, and all is right with the world. (We’ll be able to tell our friends this story at the fundraiser!)

I feel so “good” right now. But, I realize how wrong it is.


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