My mother’s best friend lives in Orange County, and sometimes we all meet up there. The trip I’m thinking of happened when I was maybe 20. I’d driven there from college, my parents had just arrived, and my mother and honorary aunt were puttering around putting things into the fridge, exchanging books they’d borrowed, catching each other up on this and that — the kind of things that old long-distance friends do when reunited.
Then my Aunt asked my mother, “are you afraid of dying?” Her question sounded remarkably offhanded, considering the nature of it. “Oh,” said my mother. “Just something I’ve been thinking about,” said my aunt. Continue reading “Cuts Heal Slow”
Back home in LA, I find a penny on the sidewalk every week. One week, I found $30 on the street on Thursday and another $20 on Sunday. But usually, it’s just pennies.
My wife loves coins. Why? Who knows. But I live to make her smile, so when I find change on the street when we’re together I hand it over. What I find when I’m alone, I save in a jar.
I’ve been in San Francisco for work since Sunday and it struck me as remarkable that there were like no loose coins on the sidewalks. My eyes were peeled as I walked to work and then back to my hotel,on Monday, but no dice. Continue reading “The Penny Standard”
“Do Not Fucking Touch Me” is one of Dave Holmes’ tips for celebrating this St. Patrick’s Day. It reminds me of a favorite picture of me and my dad. We’re both leaning back against a table in the same exact way. I’m half his size and pinching him because he’s not wearing any green and it’s St. Patrick’s Day, which means it’s also his birthday. Growing up, St. Patrick’s day meant two things: telling your friends you were wearing green underwear, and my daddy-o’s birthday.
But now I’m an adult and I have no idea what St. Patrick’s Day means to me. I’m from California and Irish-American identity isn’t as big a deal out here as it seems to be in places like Chicago or Boston. I’ve probably celebrated Dia de los Muertos more than I’ve “celebrated” St. Patrick’s Day.
I’m not usually a humorless lesbian, but I’m kind of no fun on March 17th, because the cultural stereotypes bum me out (even when they’re also pretty funny) and I always find myself reading articles about the famine or how hated Irish immigrants were in America or how history repeats itself. Plus I suspect anyone super proud of their Irish heritage of being a white supremacist and unnecessary uses of food coloring make me irrationally furious. Green beer? Red Velvet? Bite me. Continue reading “A Bad Day for Snakes”
It wasn’t the welcome we expected. It did become funny, but only after nothing bad happened.
My girlfriend and I flew to New York City on August 27, 2011. We took a red eye and and sleeping pills, but I barely closed my eyes the whole flight. We stumbled out of JFK and got struck dumb by the humidity, because we are weather weak Californians. Somehow we made it to our friend’s 4th story upper west side walk up and she suggested we take a walk to beat the jetlag. That’s when we saw them. Continue reading “sometimes I live in the country, sometimes I live in town, sometimes I take a great notion to jump in the river and drown”
It’s hard to deny that 2016 was just a bitch of a year.
While we drove home from work the other day, my wife and I went back and forth naming as many of the year’s calamities as we could. It was a long and exhausting list of terrible things that will forever be synonymous with the year 2016. Which is why it feels weird, absurd, I’m not sure what, to have gotten married in 2016. Continue reading “Forever While the World Burns”
My favorite part of third grade was D.E.A.R. time. Drop Everything And Read. For 10 or 15 minutes after recess, we all grabbed a book and read quietly to ourselves. It was heaven for bookish little me. “Bullied” isn’t the word I would use for what I experienced in third grade, but it was something close. I didn’t fit it and my peers made sure I knew it. I wasn’t nearly as sophisticated as my classmates who were were having crushes and layering their neon socks. They wanted to gossip and dare people to break rules. I just wanted to drop everything and read. But the girls I was reading about were like me. They often had the same thoughts and feelings, and they seemed to be doing ok out there in their boxcars or dug-outs on the prairie. Reading was a coping mechanism then–a way for me to make sense of the world and my place in it–and it still is for me today.
This week it’s been comforting to read how other people more erudite than myself are expressing the same things I’ve been feeling. Here are some of the passages that have most struck a chord with me. Continue reading “D.E.A.R. Time”
I read an article about how “wellness” is the lucrative new thing to sell to women, but you’ll have to take my word for it, because I suddenly have no memory of where I read this article.
The gist of it (I think…?) was that lifestyle companies like magazines, retail, etc are always trying to find trendy new ways to convince women to shell out cash in order to level up their lives. And right now “wellness” is that trendy new way. Athleisure clothing. Juice cleanses. Fitness classes. Specialty foods. Yoga retreats. All of these are sold as solutions to problems women are told they have, and they can be pretty expensive solutions. Continue reading “Wellne$$”