Vacation came, vacation went. I’ve spent the past few days in the post-getaway rhythm of folding whites, restocking pantries, shaking sand from the car mats. This morning I unpacked my suitcase and returned an unread pile of six books to my nightstand – a welcome reminder that even beloved hobbies pale in comparison to watching
Your dogs are of the age, is what the vet had said.
There are few things I consider myself an expert in, but truth be told: if recharging one’s energy with littles underfoot were an Olympic sport (missed opportunity, Greece), I like to think I’d at least take home a bronze. Whatever you call it: recharging, resting, Introvert breaks, “me” time — it can all feel so,
Few will be surprised to hear I take baby proofing as simply as they come.
I use the word becoming because it’s important. Because, as in anything at all, there is no being a better writer. No arriving as a better writer, certainly no tricks to staying a better writer. There is only becoming, both on the page and off.
I haven’t written anything in a long stretch. It wasn’t intended, never is, the blinking cursor abandoned for house projects like clean garages and a re-carpeted bedroom. Yesterday, I gave up an attempt to patch a hole in the rubber hose in favor of a water balloon toss. This, the beat of our summer –
When I lived in L.A., pre-HGTV.com days, I worked as a fashion stylist and production assistant for a series of high-end sample sales. We’d phone our carefully-culled list of independent designers and rescue their leftover garments from end-of-season demise, then rent out a boutique hotel ballroom to display the gathered merchandise over the course of