In my teens and 20s, I spent the better part of most evenings alternately listening to recordings of Broadway shows and crying into my pillow. Depending on the trauma of the day, I may have had a slighted ego, a face full of acne, out-of-control hair, or a broken heart. The music helped me cry, and the pillow kept the whole neighborhood from noticing.
I’m not a particularly girly girl. I wear mascara, sometimes, and I do have a pretty impressive collection of lip balm. But I’ve never been a high-heels, sparkle-tiara, fairy-princess type. I’m more of a glasses-and-unkempt hair, geeky-reader, wish-I-could-be-more-girly type.
I don’t usually get into Valentine’s Day, but I decided I wanted to make this year special. Logan and I were married exactly nine months on Valentine’s Day, and I figure that deserves more than the box of chocolates and cheesy card that I usually get him.
When I was younger, I made my best friend laugh so hard that she threw up at our friend's birthday party. She ended up being sent home because everyone thought she was sick. Oh, all the trouble we used to get into. She played the straight man to my slapstick humor and we made a fabulous pair. As we got older, we learned a great deal from each other.
I remember the exact moment when I started pulling away from my father. I was 23 years old and a senior in college. I had invited him for lunch at a Mexican restaurant a block from the rundown garage studio I shared with my boyfriend. Over a burrito, I told him how disappointed I was with my summer lit class, taught by a professor who was obsessed with Mitch Albom.
We’ve all done it. We’ve cheated on our hairdresser, facialist, makeup artist, waxer, etc. We were just curious to see what it would be like to have a different creative take on our hair, or if our friend’s facialist really was the reason she looks four years younger or if the waxing hurt less with someone else. Whatever the reason, we’ve done it.
If you are a mom, you've probably done the blue box tango. Should you buy that 52-cent blue box of macaroni and cheese because you know your child loves it, and because it's easy and cheap? What if you could recreate a dish that was fresher and healthier?
Every night, after 6:30 p.m., I am effectively a prisoner in my own house. I have a four-month-old baby who lays his little self down in my arms and closes his eyes at exactly 6:30 p.m. There are no more spontaneous trips out to see a band or late-night runs to the grocery store. My husband works late, so it’s just me and my sleeping baby boy in the house most nights.
I'd never seen a gun. That is, until I saw him.
There is a certain large purple dinosaur, who shall remain nameless, that really gets on my nerves. His cheesy co-stars sing and dance about life lessons in a setting that is straight out of the movie Stepford Wives. I know you know who or what I am referring to. His unflappable happiness is like a bad dream that reoccurs nightly.
Until a couple of weeks ago, my closet looked like a jumble sale. I had jeans in nearly every size, designer labels next to thrift-store gag gifts, and sweaters I’d clung to since high school. I felt an oppressive weight on my shoulders every morning as I waded through my over-stuffed rack, trying to find something that fit, felt good, and flattered.