A is for Ally. A is for Awesome. Aries. April. Absolutely Ass-kicking. Amazing. A is for Awfully funny. A is also for Personality Type ‘A.’ And Type A people kind of seem like assholes (also an ‘A’ word), pushing their way around, waiting to have heart attacks. At least that is what I get by reading all…
I’ve gotten heat that my use of the ‘F’ word will reflect poorly on me as a parent. One argument was that anyone wanting to find fault with my parenting and therefore get in the way of my relationship with my son, might use my social media presence (which often includes my favorite expletive) against…
Despite popular belief, I do have control over my use of the ‘F’ word. Most people wouldn’t know it because they have this assumption that I always shoot from the hip and don’t censor myself. Like I just talk and don’t think about what I’m saying. While sometimes this is true – especially in person…
Recently I was speaking to a friend and in the midst of our conversation remarked “I run my life on hope.” (You know, a car runs on gas. A parent runs on coffee. America runs on Dunkin. A.Y. runs on hope.) Though I hadn’t intended to be witty or humorous, he started to chuckle. Per…
Like everyone, there are things that scare me. Some shit that downright terrifies me. We call that Fear and Fear is kind of a dickhead. He knows what he’s doing. Getting into your head and under your skin and hoping he’ll keep you from moving forward or chasing a dream or seizing an opportunity. Fear…
If someone had said to me that attending a facilitated session called Dance, Draw, Write would overwhelm me with emotion, or that I would rediscover a part of my childhood spirit, I would be extremely skeptical. There I was Sunday morning, the last day of women’s weekend, saddened by the knowledge that in a few…
I am about to rant about thongs. I’m sure you guessed that. This post is inspired by a recent time getting ready to go and sit near the pool. I had a pair of bottoms to go with my top that I would say probably technically fit, but that I would not feel comfortable wearing…
Guess what I discovered inside my zipper? And no it’s not my lady bits. I discovered those decades ago. Inside my zipper I discovered a patch. Not that kind of patch either. (You’re dirty-minded, aren’t you?) It’s a patch of fabric running vertical that says “lucky you.” Now, I bought these jeans over a year…
Note: This post stemmed from a prompt flashback to misery. I’m writing a book and it’s a shitty long look backwards. I mean the writing isn’t shitty, but the looking back certainly is. Memoir seems to be a deliberately-written exploration of a series of miserable flashbacks. Or flashbacks on misery. Flashbacks with misery? Flashback…