A couple of New Years ago, I declared I was changing my stars. I was no longer a “pastry person.” I made up my mind to steer clear of sugar and become more of a chips, pickles, and humus person. It’s difficult to recall what stirred this proposed metamorphosis, only that I wanted to change…
There is something about Sunday that justifies the rest of the week. It’s like a reconciliation of emotion, a washing away of frustrations. Sundays soften slights, and things that ran so deep and urgent on Monday become whispers on the last day of the week. There are no regrets on a Sunday; no mess-ups or…
When I was sixteen, I went to Tower Records and asked if I could have this giant promo poster for the new Smiths album once the store took it down to make way for the next new releases. That was a thing back then. They gave them away on a first-ask basis. Anyway, I got…
Los Angeles is like the boyfriend you know is wrong for you, but the sex is good. I recently moved back to Phoenix. We bought a great little historic house near downtown. I have a gorgeous upstairs office with a brick wall. The house has creaky floors and great molding. It’s lovely, sun-dabbled, with an…
I bought this lamp on 1st Dibs. After reviewing the pictures, I decided I had to have it. It was delicate and spoke to a part of me that always longed for sophistication, if only on my nightstand. I imagined the tiny fairy lamp next to the yellow tray where I put my earrings before…
As a child, I imagined my body as a construction site. I am not sure where this originated, but I believed tiny workers in hardhats were throughout my body and in charge of my significant systems. If I had a stomach ache, I would say, “The guys in my tummy are working hard today.” Weird?…
If I were eleven, I would smell like sweat and sunscreen. I would live in a neighborhood with a windy road and a hill so I could ride my bike, the blue one with the peeling sticker, and never get bored. My bike would have a broken kickstand. I’d have to lay it near the…
I have reached this interesting place where I’m not willing to share all of myself. That may be because I am working on things that can get ugly, or I’m simply changing. Whatever the reason, more of my writing ends up in a notebook or a journal these days than online. It’s not that what…
How much more life will I live before it’s time to change the head on my electric toothbrush again? Time is visceral these days. I’m parsing out my life in an effort to make a day, a month, a year meaningful. Life-affirming. I like to think things are not just slipping by for me. No.…
