Well, I’m writing a book. I’ve been writing it for, oh, five months, and I have nearly one month to go, and whoa, that is soon, isn’t it? I will not stop blogging. Writing in these wee hours of the morning is the best thing for me, it is just the best thing for me.
I don’t know; it’s just that I should probably tape it all to my fridge: When you feel hungry, but nothing sounds good, you’re actually just thirsty. Drink some water, lady. Good gracious. Everyone yells. There is grace for today. Do not order the jeans online. They will not fit, and jeans are not on
Bee. Last week, you played with Barnacles, Peso, Shellington, Kwazii, Dashy and Trick (whom I am mispronouncing, you tell me). They are your friends in Ecuador, and they are found in the treetops, but sometimes they move to the fish pond and you must call them each, one by one, until they float to the
A few years ago, Ken and I hosted our family Christmas. We had 16 mouths to feed and a handful of picky kids, so the menu chose us: a pasta bar. To the voices of Bing Crosby and David Bowie, we stir butter noodles and simmer heirloom tomatoes and begin to prep the star of
1. Turn off your phone. 2. Head straight for Otavalo and book a room at Casa Mojanda. Room 1 is rad because it has a fireplace and is closest to the food. Also, the llama. If you’re coming in around midnight on a Saturday, you might catch an indigenous rave and smile at the baby
I am easily overwhelmed. It takes only a perfect trickling of events for me to retreat to the shower for deep breaths and some rosemary shampoo, which is where Ken found me a few days ago – heavy eyes and sudsy hair. It was Saturday morning, and our little trio was home – in the
Bee is 3. We’ve spent the week in tiny, intermittent celebrations – a slice of cake at one grandmother’s house, a trip to the ice cream shop with another. It has been quiet, with joy. It has been sweet. Yesterday, she ran around with the fly swatter for an hour, challenging herself to exterminate all
While brushing my teeth, a realization arrives so quickly that I spit, fast, wipe the errant toothpaste on my bath towel and tiptoe in my moccasins down the hall to the office, and I write this: I have been evaluating my good days all wrong. Nightly, I write a simple daily recap in my journal.