Today as I was having a mid-afternoon nervous breakdown accompanied by a snack of English muffin toast topped with peanut butter & a side of pineapple orange juice I got to thinking. I get to thinking a lot, but today my thinking had an actual linear quality. As I crunched my toast I thought: my 20s could probably be summed up as the quest to get drunk. My 30s were a quest to get laid. Now I’m in my 40s…
I have discovered two things about myself since Uncle George died. 1.) I have a mourning routine. 2.) I am a person who needs the closure of a funeral/service/wake. My routine seems to involve spending the first day crying, pretty much all the time at everything death related and not. The second day is spent in a numb haze that involves swollen, puffy eyes that feel like they’re full of potato chips and at least two but no more than…
My Uncle George died last night of a heart attack. In that picture up there, a picture of a Polaroid from Christmas 1982, he’s the one with the glasses. My mom scrawled “Mom kids” on the bottom of the picture, in case we forgot who all those people were. George was my mom’s older brother, older than her and her twin brother, Danny, by thirteen months. Maybe? I can barely remember how old I am anymore, much less my multitude…
When you come from a large family with lots of boisterous voices you are used to conversations bouncing back and forth through a variety of topics, often at the same time. It’s kind of nice when this happens because you can tune out of the social work talk (which there is a lot of with three social workers in the family) and tune into something else. Tonight we spent a lot of time talking about music and the upcoming festival…
When I was a precocious, annoying, twenty-year-old I took a Women’s Lit class. It was awfulmazing, equal parts awful and amazing all at the same time. It was a summer class with maybe a dozen young women around my age and one guy. The class was exhilarating and frustrating. It was the first time in my life where I spent time talking about books with other women. We read The Bluest Eye, The Yellow Wallpaper, and maybe even The Awakening….
[icon icons=”icon-clock-1″ align=”left” size=”icon-2x” color=”#8A9B0F”] 8:08 a.m. Willie Nelson is singing “Sad Songs and Waltzes” on the radio at the moment which makes this pre-coffee time in the morning a bit more bearable. Even though I stayed up way past my bedtime last night shotgunning the last three episodes of Season 4 of “The West Wing,” I woke up well before the coffee maker. I hate waking up before the coffee. Of, course it’s 8 a.m. and the coffee is…
