I became a brunette last week. It was not an effortless change, not a spur-of-the-moment decision as many of my ill-timed beauty experiments have been. This was not Sun-In, or perms. It was calculated, a mass text to my girlfriends, asking for explicit instructions on my next hair adventure. Go dark, roared the crowd, and
My server – the wizard behind the curtain of this corner of the Internet, what I anticipate to look like very much like an industrial Rube Goldberg machine with switchboards and buttons that glow and dim, I don’t know, I’m likely wrong here – has been down for three days. Last week, it was up
She: Ending her sentences in a high-pitched whisper, like there’s a surprise, like she’s a rainbow, her final words a pot of gold. Fighting the afternoon nap. Favoring cashews. “Reading” from my devotional at night in our bed, substituting Psalms verses for monster encounters. Memorizing iPhone passwords. Hacking said iPhones, taking 3,000 photos on said iPhone cameras. Naming her stuffed koala “Judes My Husband or Gokey or
It was this: a rusty U-Haul truck smelling of dog breath and vinyl. Six, seven years ago, maybe more? Ken and I were somewhere near Arizona, moving our hearts and our dish towels from Los Angeles to his Midwestern hometown. My father-in-law was sick, we’d learned two weeks prior. We’d need to come home soon.
I used to write gift guides. I’d write them for magazines, or websites – gift guides for the smelly co-ed, gift guides for the Ohio stockbroker cousin you see once annually, gift guides for the receptionist that, when cornered at the office Christmas party, admits that she really and truly wants to be an artist
We know that labels are for jars, and we know that we are not jars. And yet, it is an easy trap, boxing ourselves into characters or avatars, for brevity’s sake, of course. We have 140 characters, 5 minutes in the elevator, 10 minutes at a dinner party to explain ourselves, to introduce the passion
This post was written with and for Glade – thanks for reading! So, shortly after publishing this post, it snowed. It snowed and snowed and then stuck to the pavement, and the result was an extra three inches on the ground, and perhaps an extra three inches around my waist from eating my emotions. But
It happened like this. I went to bed last week with a voice – albeit a throaty, hoarse one – and I woke without one. I was in Austin, scheduled to keynote a conference with a gaggle of women who I simply couldn’t wait to meet. They were “Me, too” women – the kind that