Countdown to my “It’s ABOUT me” class about writing a great “About” website page. (Wow-three “abouts” in one sentence. Shame on me.)
Sat., June 22, 9-2:30 p.m., at Cowork Frederick, 122 E. Patrick St., Frederick.
One of my goals is to help people learn to write visually, an art form in and of itself. Another goal is to push folks to be “other-oriented.” It’s critical to “engagement” but also to everyday life.Truly.
Join me if you can and/or spread the word. Thanks!
Hubby Joe and me
I just found this essay in one of my laptop folders. Although I wrote it two years back, it still holds true. (FYI: Evil Child is my older daughter, Julia.)
So, there we were in the kitchen, watching Hubby Joe open his Father’s Day gifts. Jenna, 17, gave him a month’s cable subscription to the Tennis Channel. Julia, 25, baked him cupcakes. I got him underwear.
Julia looked at the underwear and said: “Is this my life 30 years from now? Getting my husband underwear?”
To which I said: “I hope you’re lucky enough to have a relationship that lasts that long, and even luckier to know when your husband needs underwear. That’s intimacy.”
Yeah, underwear isn’t romantic. Yeah, it’s boring. So what. After 30 years, I’m willing to let a few things slide. But not friendship. Hubby and I are best buds. We’ve grown up together; we’ve grown each other.
Which is not to say we don’t travel separate paths at times; I’d like to think that’s a sign of a good, or even good-enough, relationship. The key, indeed hope, is that our paths be parallel, with lots of crossover. And that when we look over, we smile. We remember our friendship and what the other needs. Even if it’s only underwear.
Would you date this man?
A while back, I was in Macy’s, thinking about buying a summer outfit. To justify the expense, I decided to get something I could wear for numerous occasions (e.g., a wedding reception, tractor-pull, etc.).
As always, I looked at the price tag first and item second. It’s a good approach because it greatly limits the number of items I bring into a dressing room.
I despise trying on clothes. The whole on-off, off-on business. Struggling into and out of those definitely-not-my-color-or-style-or-size-but-it’-on-sale dresses; examining myself in a funhouse mirror that makes me look 10 pounds fatter. And the fluorescent lighting! It’s like being in a gynecologist’s office.
Not surprisingly, I didn’t find anything that looked great or even good on me. Apparently, the mannequins had trouble too that day. Alas, not having a head or limbs can make shopping a challenge.
Beats having to shop for bras.
Lucky girl! Doesn’t have to think about how something looks on her.
I am an addict, addicted not to drugs or Downton Abbey reruns but to pens. I wake and reach for them. Gotta write, gotta write, gotta write. Catch that thought, catch that thought, catch that thought. Every morning. Every morning.
But why that thought? Surely there will be others, zillions. But there’s something about that one that compels me. It comes to me complete, wrapped in ribbon, straight out of the box. Perfect. All I’ve got to do is capture it. I need my pen.
Goodbyes aren’t morbid. After all, there can be no goodbyes without hellos.
Hellos get good press. They’re pleasant sorts of things: Hello, morning! Hello, my love! Hello, new adventure! But goodbyes also have their positives, depending on circumstances: Goodbye, extra pounds! Goodbye, crummy boss! Goodbye, polygamist you! It’s a matter of perspective.
So this is what I see: Read more
You were born on this very day 27 years ago at 8:25 a.m. (BTW — Happy Birthday) That morning I woke up about 5 a.m. because I had to pee. (But of course. Pregnant women do two things during pregnancy: knit and pee.) I went into bathroom and my sac broke. And because the only other experience I had had with sacs was at the grocery store, I wasn’t quite sure if this was significant.
Ah, but then, my first labor pain. Holy shit! Fuck! Women in labor are truck drivers only with fouler mouths. I waddled back to the bedroom and gently screamed at your Dad to wake the fuck up.
“I think my water broke,” I said, and God’s truth, this was his reaction: Read more
My Jenna Girl, circa age 4
One night, several years after my dad died, he popped into my mind. (He believed in reincarnation, and I’ve often imagined him popping up all over the place.) I was feeling a quiet sort of sad, the kind too personal to talk about. So I slipped into my bedroom, turned out the lights and sat in my rocker, looking through the window and into the past.
Suddenly the door burst open. “Why’s the door closed?” It wasn’t a question, really. It was more of an accusation. Jenna, my youngest, was only four and had yet to grasp the meaning of closed doors.
“I’m thinking of my dad,” I said.
“Why?” Another accusation.
“I miss him.”
She walked over (more like grumped over). “Are you crying?”
She frowned as she studied me. This was new, perhaps confusing. Crying was something kids did, not mommies. And then, sweet thing, she softened and slipped into my lap. Read more