The text came from Ken while I was on the west coast: “Can I put the rock climbing wall in our bedroom?” The rock climbing wall, I’d thought, was a project for later, but I’ve also never been good at predicting the milestones of a child. When Bee received her big girl room, it wasn’t
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
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
As much as I talk about less, about purchasing less and striving for less and working toward less, I have quite a bit of more. My job, this brown swirly mix of writing and styling and designing and producing, creates a tornado of stuff. Daily, there are cardboard boxes arriving at the door, ready to