So, hair. Can I just say something? I love you guys. You let me chat about politics one day, tension on another, and then – haiiiiiiir. I mean, we’re all over the place in these parts, and do you yet have a glimpse into what it’s like to be Ken? We’re doing a good job
For a brief spell last year, I stopped reading books. (It was terrible, as you can imagine.) I don’t know, I haven’t figured it out really. It’s just that I was writing a lot and felt spent, so I wanted to fill up on something really, really good but couldn’t get into anything, not really,
This election, man. We’re crumbling, aren’t we? The tower we’ve built for ourselves – America the beautiful, America the great – is beginning to crack in the corners and really, we all know it’s not going to take much to knock the whole thing over with our heels. I’m trying to choose careful words here,
You know, you take one lovely spring walk on a 64 degree day to carpe diem or whatever you want to call it and – boom – you wake up the next morning with swollen eyes and an itch in your throat. Alllllllergiess!!!!!!! Tis the season. Ken and I get crazy allergies every.single.year, and yet,
When Bee was a baby, I’d sit down during her naps and write long-winded letters to her: personality peeks, successful milestones, my own parenting fears/doubts/triumphs. It was a beautiful practice, and I always imagined bundling them up to offer her on the day she’d perhaps decide to become a parent, too. But as she grew
I married Ken for his heart and his mind, sure, but a close third was his chili recipe. For chili or for worse, I say, and listen, it is just not every day a guy wrecks the kitchen to make 85 quarts of chili and then cleans up after himself. Who is this man? Where
Why yes, I do happen to be super reliant on the 5 minute pick-me-up method. When my mood starts blending into the sky – bluesy, gray, blah – I reach for the Official Winter Blues Cure jar. But I’m always cheating, putting back a few slips of paper (jumping jacks – feeling lazy! build a
Ken and I met in college. We’d both been selected for a semester-long project that all-too-closely resembled The Real World in those days: 15 students were filmed as we worked/napped/ate together in a towering mansion off campus producing and directing three documentaries for PBS. There were fights and tears and new love, and I still