I was raised with my father’s music, so the soundtrack of my childhood is of course, flawless in quality and choice. Sunday mornings, waffle day, would often be the loudest day of the week; sometimes “Good Morning to You!” or something more mellow like Rastafari Is. He owns only one Beatles album and I support ...
All the sudden the position of the faux wicker loveseat on which I sit, doing brainless discussion board assignments for my community college classes offends me. I am deeply, personally offended by the choice someone (was it me? Was it my husband?) made to place this couch facing inward toward the sliding glass door instead ...
In the distance, a plot is hatching. How can they distract me long enough for one of them to unbury the baby mud turtle from its new home in the flower pot? ...
I’m thinking that I should be fired from this job, really-when my husband and daughter get home and it’s a little more worth it when my daughter goes “MOMMY! You made these?” and my husband goes “awww! Your first LEGO!” and then he let me build the firetruck. ...
Last week when this whole drama at the clinic was unfolding I was chanting to myself “not-now-not-now-not-now” because I was fucking BUSY and I had a race to run and I REALLY did not have time to fall into a hole and I KNEW that’s where it was all headed. Yesterday my first FB status read ...