I write stuff down. writer • humorist • activist
My girl lost. Not supposed to call grown-ass women girls, but as a member of the female persuasion, I can take such liberties. A grown ass woman being called girl by a grown-ass woman can be an endearing term of affection. Like “GURRRRLLLLL!” My gurrrrrlllll lost our local election and damn, Newtown missed out on a good one. This time. But my candidate, Rebekah Harriman-Stites, lost, fair and square, by
“How important is it for you to finish high school in Newtown?” Just what every hormonal high school boy wants to hear, when he’s finally a varsity player on different teams, has friends, good grades, and – miraculously – just discovered girls, other than his sisters, weren’t nearly as super annoying as previously thought. Nope, not at all. But in November 2016, Trump the GOP candidate for President, and while I never ever ever thought he’d actually
It happened twice. The first was a dinner party, where the host texted and said we’d be in “mixed company” so hopefully the Kavanaugh decision didn’t come up. I told her I didn’t care about Kavanaugh. She guffawed, dismayed at my ambivalence, and asked me to bring seltzer and she’d see me Friday. The topic came up, and I shocked everyone by saying I didn’t care about Kavanaugh, I only
I recently came across something I wrote a year after my dad died. It was about his own friend dying many years earlier, and I had to be the one to tell him. Discovered the story again, and it still kicks me in the gut, but maybe, I thought, it was because it was my dad, our story. So I sent it to an editor to consider for publication, and Purple
Fight or flight? I chose flight after a fight with my rather attractive pain-in-the-ass husband and flew to Cincinnati. Just for the weekend, but that’s why I left for the National Society for Newspaper Columnists writing conference. In Cincinnati. For the weekend. That, and I was an invited guest. For reals. A couple months back, I was informed I would receive some level of recognition – yet to be determined
It’s not a midlife crisis exactly, it’s more of a life crisis. Life or death. The death of a car, a lifestyle. One chapter closes, and the roof comes off. Or at least it does on a Jeep. The family car, a used Honda Pilot, was bought spur of the moment, the only requirement being it started on a regular basis, and we all fit. It had to seat as
Reminder popped up on my calendar, and I ignored it. Then another. And another. Again and again, reminding me it was that time again: time to renew my subscription to the colonoscopy club. I’ve written before about my frequent flyer membership to the let’s-not-die-of-colon-cancer club, and you may recall the love affair I have with my ass doctor. “Stop calling me that, Kathryn,” says the ass doctor. Only telemarketers and
My kids are professional sign makers. Or at least they should be. They’ve been making signs since a mass shooting in their hometown made Newtown a household name. They made signs for Hartford to March for Change in February 2013, just two months after the Sandy Hook massacre, the pinnacle of creating Connecticut’s smart, safe gun legislation. They made signs to stand outside National Shooting Sports Foundation, don’t let
An irreverent storyteller with a foul mouth and big heart, Kathryn Mayer (aka Kathy and/or Kate) is a writer, humorist, and (former) activist writing out loud with humor and grace about little life moments with big ripples, including the space between parenting and aging parents, social issues, angsty reflections of midlife, and, sigh, gun humpers. Still. Sometimes a big deal, sometimes not Mayer is a national award-winning columnist, according to the National Society of Newspaper Columnists, and her essays have been recognized as Voice of … Read More Here...
kate[at]kathrynmayer[dot]com
xo Kate