It’s inevitable. You run into your mother’s neighbors’ aunt at a dinner party and you know each other, but you don’t know know each other, so you fumble into stilted small talk until someone politely excuses themselves to hit the ladies’ room, or refill a drink. It’s enough to make you want to avoid the
Three things I know to be true: We are wildly imperfect beings. We hold a great many contradictions. We are fluid, ever-changing, ever-trying, ever-adapting. Another thing I know to be true: We are killing each other. — I have read that there are two sides here: the oppressed and the oppressor, and that to remain
A few years ago, I apologized to a chair. I was walking through the living room with a basket-ful of baby toys/blankets to clean up at day’s end and I tripped over the side of our ottoman, knocking into the armchair and sending it into the wall. Gah! Sorry, I muttered under my breath, re-positioning
She: Calling them hand fives. I’ll have done something smart like remembering to switch the laundry or googling what hedgehogs eat (cat food, go figure?) and she’ll say, Great job, Mom. Hand five. It’s been arts and crafts, crafts and arts. There is a thin layer of glue smattering everything east of the office. I’m
Well, hey. We know each other but we don’t really know each other, so let’s get down to it, yes? Yesterday, it was realized that I am passive aggressive. It was also realized that this is quite common in women, as we’ve been raised to assume a certain posture, a certain persona, a certain portrait
I’ve been craving cheese souffles. The last time I ate one, the kind I’m thinking of, my father-in-law was still alive. Ken and I had just moved home from Los Angeles and we were in a state of limbo, sleeping on his childhood sheets and searching for something that could be ours again. On Saturday