In January, Baz will begin attending day care two times a week. Two days to myself! Holy shit. I'm going to get to write, work out, and generally enjoy times when I can leave the house without sippy cup at hand.
Will I miss my boy? Of course. But Wednesdays and Fridays are mine from 8:30 a.m. to 3:30 p.m. No one better fuck with that.
We sat on the floor at Kristen and Sean's last night and it was so very different from their election party four years ago when we cheered the re-election of a decent, kind, articulate and wholly classy man as our leader. My heart particularly went out to Marcus, who put boots on the ground in his hometown to stump for Hillary last weekend, walking the sidewalks, knocking on doors.
I learned way more about my country than I ever wanted to know last night. Do we stay or do we go? Adam was joking about going home and sewing our yellow fabric Jewish stars. I told him to shut the fuck up, but if I suspected that anything at all like that was coming down the pike, I'd be out before you could say boo.
I try not to hate. It's bad for the skin. But Trump, you're pushing me.
I've never taken so much shit as I have for writing about marriage, finance and the good fortune I've found in my partnership with Adam. Witness my latest publication, this one in the Guardian US. While I've chosen to largely ignore the comments, I understand there are a few angry ones to say the least.
Why is this? Am I just not representing my marriage in a way that's palatable to people? Am I pissing readers off for some reason? Or (and I never even like bringing this idea up) is it a gendered thing wherein a woman who expresses an opinion online can get hit with a ton of shit?
When I wrote my Washington Post article, I heard how ugly I was, how stupid and immature. I was ungrateful, they say. I should get divorced, they said. They fried me and crucified me and every other -ied you can come up with -- 500-something-odd comments' worth.
Fuck my pretentious
fucking neighborhood. Fuck it right in the eyeball.
In fact, fuck Tina’s neighborhood while we were at it, all the places where
people thought they needed to hole up as if other people were the goddamned
apocalypse. You couldn’t walk to the fucking Seven-Eleven without a lunch
I'm a writer and storyteller in Berkeley, CA. If you're wondering where that is, follow the smell of patchouli and skunkweed. There you'll find me with my kickass husband, gorgeous little boy, and manic Lab-Australian Shepherd mix pups. I'm represented by Miriam Altshuler of DeFiore & Co., but of course, my views are my own.