Sometimes, when you find yourself in San Francisco, you take a cooking class. You saddle up to a countertop with gals who have never cooked, who only cook on weekends, who cook for therapy, who cook for fun. And you all dig your hands into an oversized metal bowl and alas, something is shared. Our
I don’t know, it’s as if I am two people. Maybe three, but certainly not four because four seems a complete reference to balance, as if life is even and rational, four corners, four winds. There are days in which I am amazing, incredible, earth-shatteringly good!, and then in a moment, in a flash, a
On criticism, then. It happens, and while it generally happens in a constructive environment, it can sometimes happen amidst the public masses – shouting, pointing, laughing – and you can sometimes find it when you aren’t looking, and then you cry, at first. You go to the grocery for eggs and it follows, the criticism,
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.
