Everyone who reads me is someone I’d like to hang out with.
But how come no one says anything to my face? I do dozens of events per year and I’ve met thousands of readers, and every single person I’ve ever encountered has been lovely. Why is that, I wonder? Am I more charming in person, or is it that face-to-face blunt-force-trauma honesty requires a modicum of courage?
You don’t have to be a writer, though, to know that making fun of yourself is a good way to deflect being made fun of. Like many people, I am hypercritical about myself so that I beat the haters to the punch. When I acknowledge my foibles first, no one else can use them against me. I’ve taken away everyone else’s power to make me feel less about myself by doing it first.
Let me phrase it like this – do you want to live in the kitchen for the next four days, sweating your ass off while you make a meal it will take twenty minutes to eat? Do you want to attack a pile of dishes for three hours afterward? Do you want to spend a week eating old turkey and cranberry sauce because.
Although they’re doing manual labor, they’re both wearing tailored slacks and dressy leather shoes, which.
In terms of being smart, Libby is very, very pretty.
Sometimes compromise tastes like caramel macchiato.
What about my Girls Gone Mild life leads you to believe I’m a body shot shy of debauchery? Is it the pearls?
Until he started watching The Walking Dead. Yeah, AMC. Thanks for that. He keeps telling me that I’d enjoy the show, but judging from all the screaming, shooting, and breaking glass I hear from my office every.
We are middle-aged. This is what happens. All the same nonsense that comes with puberty occurs again during perimenopause – the hormone surges, the moodiness, and the hair appearing where there wasn’t hair before. Except instead of filling in under the arms and on nether regions, these coarse follicles of hate are showing up on our freaking faces.
You know what else I haven’t seen? Home stores. I’ve not passed the equivalent of Restoration Hardware or Crate and Barrel or Pottery Barn, so I get the feeling that no one’s killing themselves working double shifts so they can consume stuff to make their homes Pinterest-perfect. Maybe the Roman message is to not let your stuff own you.
This should be easy because I’ve fallen out of love with Facebook. First, I want to be the kind of friend who hears about others’ milestones in person. I hate learning about major life events buried in a timeline between photos of fresh pedicures and pictures of lunch. When someone close to me has a baby or goes through emergency surgery or suffers a loss, they deserve more than a “like.” A click should never take the place of real interaction. Plus, I almost never visit anyone else’s page.
Anyone who grew up in a household where carob passed for chocolate and apple pies were actually filled with zucchini will feel me here.
That which went wrong, and that which went right, would have been made easier if I were more focused on my goals.
I’m not one of those folks who have to face death to live life. I.
This toffee tastes like war or Lucifer’s tears. This toffee is a molten pool of broken Christmas promises. If sadness had a flavor, it would be the contents of the Pyrex.
When I’m able to slough it off, when it’s not causing physical symptoms or putting me on edge, my anxiety still pops up out of nowhere to spoil nice moments. I fear good things happening because I believe something bad is sure to follow.
The paradox of living in the safest possible time is that those who suffer from anxiety aren’t hardwired to take the win; we panic when things go too well.
While I’m happy for everyone who wants a family, I look at the notion of having kids the same way I look at people who get tattoos on their faces, like, “Hoo-boy, that’s permanent.
Shout long enough in capital letters and, eventually, people start to tune you out.
During this crisis, I’ve discovered that I would thrive under house arrest. So there’s that.