My mother-in-law has commented on my writing exactly once. Once. “You spelled hear wrong.” That’s it. Once. But that’s how I found out she reads me – and is an excellent proofreader. Can’t say the same about Cousin Eloise. The perfect family matriarch strikes back. Again and again. Cousin Eloise never comments on my writing, but emails directly her disapproval. Her dissatisfaction also graced the post-script of her annual, heavy linen Christmas card,
Raise your hand if you’ve ever been interrupted in the middle of the story? Raise your hand if it was me who interrupted you? Yeah, sorry ’bout that. via GIPHY I interrupt, a lot, and sadly many women do. Girls, tweens and teens especially, are often teased for talking too much, interrupting too often, speaking so fast it’s like they’re in flood waters and they’ve got to get in the whole
We didn’t intentionally get the minister’s wife stoned, it just happened one Superbowl Sunday a couple years back, that last Superbowl before my dad died. All he wanted was a party surrounded by food and friends, so we filled his house with wings and love, so he could enjoy what everyone knew would be the last party. It should have been sad, except it wasn’t. In fact, we laughed and laughed and I
I didn’t want to go to Washington. I don’t believe any of us did. Getting on a bus at 1:30 in the morning for the five-hour pussy pilgrimage to DC to march in unity against assaults on [insert female and/or marginalized community of your choice]’s civil liberties, freedom, and safety back, say 30-50-100+ years, give or take, was not on the top ten list of anyone: white, black, brown, rich, poor, educated, old, young,
Like most women, the relationship we have with our hair stylist is sacrosanct. We’d cheat on our husbands before we’d leave our stylists. This is not hyperbole. This is truth. No one, regardless of credentials and school and referrals, can do our hair like the person who does our hair. So it is written. My appointments are booked months in advance. Now that I have short hair, I had to rethink
Like most writers, I have a to-do list of goals, which waver between packing up my words and shutting down the blog, facebook, the virtual world for good, never to write again … … or, aiming high – very high – to become rich and famous, changing the world, connecting people, making them laugh and cry and think and maybe getting a beach house, yeah, a beach house. Ocean front.
I set small goals. Teeny tiny goals really, so I’m never disappointed. Or almost never. Okay, seldom. New Year’s, school year’s resolutions, autumnal equinox, Monday mornings – however and whenever you set goals, if you set the bar just yay high, you’re bound to exceed expectations. It’s how I parent, it’s how I exercise, it’s how I live. Aim low, achieve great things. But last year I did something a little different.
Once upon a time a Christmas Eve – a million years ago – the boy I lost my virginity to met the man I married, due to no fault of my own. I shared how this went down during the Three Wordsmiths at the 2016 Newtown Arts Festival, but if you missed the open mic, here’s your chance to read what it’s like to be me, published live on Good Housekeeping.com. Click here