A book!

I almost started out this post by explaining and sort of apologizing for the title — it’s not really “my” book or anything… But I will not explain and apologize, because I am proud to be included in Full Grown People’s next anthology: Soul Mate 101 and Other Essays on Love and Sex.

 

Soul-Mate-101-coverthumbnailThe book will be available mid-September, but you can pre-order now! I am excited to be sharing space in a real book with other great writers. And Drew is excited that something that I wrote about him made the cut.

I also wanted to take a moment to welcome all of my new followers! Suddenly there are a lot more of you thanks to this post that sort of-kind of went viral. I am used to it that it’s usually my mom (hi Mom!) and my brother (Hey there!) and a few friends reading my blog. But now there’s a lot more of you. So yay! And welcome!

Retail Therapy

Tangled hangers drive me crazy. I usually don’t have the patience to untangle them, but the whole purpose of this exercise is to untangle, tidy, clean, organize.

retailtherapyI flop on the bed next to the piles of clothes and work on the hangers for a few minutes until I can line them up, all of them facing the same way. I hang them back in my closet, at the far end, so that when I need a hanger I can just reach back there for a fresh one. How very grown-up—this supply of hangers.

It’s been over a year since I moved my clothes into this closet. It’s the biggest walk-in I have ever had, but I have to share it with my husband—his shirts hang there, in order by color and day of the week. Light baby blues, some yellow, grassy green ones, a few whites. All one-color, the same conservative Oxfords. A couple of khaki pants, suits. One hanger with ties. That’s all he has. That’s all he needs.

My clothes threaten to spill over onto his side. Shoes are piled on the floor and in two shoe racks. My feet have gotten bigger since my son was born and I can’t face the fact that I have to get rid of so many pairs. The shelf running on top of the bar with the hangers is packed almost to the ceiling—once these were tidy piles of sweaters and t-shirts and jeans, but now they are a jumble of fabric, most of it unreachable.

I haven’t been sleeping well. Stuff wakes me at 2:00 a.m. or 3:00 a.m. every morning, and some days I stare in the darkness into the closet with its military precision on one side and its bohemian confusion on the other. Maybe this is what’s not letting me sleep, I think, this mess, this disorganized void staring back at me.

I drink a glass of wine every night for a few nights and that helps.

Read the full story on The Butter

Writing Revenge

writingrevenge

She hated the mornings the most.

Her muscles ached from lifting the kids, from carrying the laundry basket up and down, up and down, from sitting on the floor for hours after school, playing, pretending.

Always pretending.

All she wanted to do in the mornings was light a cigarette and get to work just like that, in her ragged t-shirt and shorts, her eyes still crusty from sleep.

But no. The children woke as soon as they heard her stir and were on top of her, their long limbs around her waist, hands in her hair, sticky, wet kisses on her mouth and cheek. She struggled to get out from under their wiggly weight, away from their giggles and sweet morning breath. She had things to do.

Read the rest and vote for it on Mash Stories!