Reflections on loss: past, present, and future.
I probably shouldn’t be driving. I’m not a great driver at the best of times, but when I have something pressing on my mind, all common sense seems to leave me. I’m running red lights. I forgot to stop at the stop sign two blocks back. …
Writing through the stress…usually in a unicorn onesie.
If you need to know one thing about me, it is this: I love my name. My name is boss. To be clear, my name isn’t actually “boss,” which would be weird. But it is boss as in the slang (that dates back to the 1880s!), meaning super hip and…
I finally met my pal Arpad after months of online friendship, and it was as awkward as one might have imagined. Awkward but awesome.
I’ve been thinking a lot about my writing friends lately. Ever since the passing of a fellow writer who I met on Vocal Media, Tom Bradbury, I’ve sort of been avoiding all my online people. Despite not being as close with Tom as many, his absence in our little writing…
Or: The worst acceptance speech that never needed writing
Once again, Lucy the Dog is making me money. I don’t know what it is about this German Shepherd/Chow, but she is the exact fodder that internet people want to consume.
Maybe that’s going a little far. I mean, it’s not like she won me sixty grand or anything. …
That joke was too obvious. I see that now.
I’ve been devouring David Sedaris’ new audiobook, A Carnival of Snackery, and am falling in love with this man all over again. …
An open letter to myself.
The smell of boiling vinegar is burning my brain. I’m not even in the vicinity of the vinegar anymore, and yet it lingers in my nostrils like torched rubber.
I desperately hope that it is the vinegar people smell on me here at the Walmart and not the other stench…
Ugh. Children can be so dramatic sometimes.
Sure, I admit that sometimes I can be a tad forgetful. Like the time I forgot what my address was while getting driven home from a date. Awkward.
Or when I was having a pedicure done with my mother-in-law, and the esthetician asked how old my kids were, and for…
Or: Gifts The Universe Gives to Writers
A few years ago, we had a compulsive caller on our landline who was relentless in his quest to call at odd hours and reveal his life story via our answering machine.
Jamie and I rarely answer calls that we don’t recognize, so for two weeks straight this dude would…
Memoirs of a laundry wench
Whenever I catch a whiff of laundry sewage, I think of Carlee.
I suspect that this is the greatest opening to an article ever written. Although I admit, it may need some context.
Carlee is my work wife.
Wait. Is work wife still a thing? Like, is it still a…
