Spotted

A little kid, just barely walking, toddling around all bottom-heavy. A mother watching, coffee in hand, caressing her baby's back.

I will never be the same.

Time, recovered

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.

The lost

Wesley Gibson died last weekend. Amongst a group of amazing people at St. Mary's MFA program, Wesley was the one who had the most direct effect on me and my career.

He was the first person who knew about BEARDED LADY. That includes Adam.

When I told him my idea, I could barely look at him. He said only one thing:

"Sweetheart, go for it."

He died alone. No one should fucking die alone. Wesley, damn it, why?

Just written to Marcus

So yeah, I think I am feeling more strongly than normal, and there’s only so much I can lay on politics. I think I just don’t suffer fools the way I once did. Be Coolio or be gone.

Election of a demagogue

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.

Telling it online

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.

Suck it, haters. I'm here to stay.

Lately

Poway people will recognize this

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 break.

Vegas

Then the text message gives you this

Back where you don't want to be

Think about the times you've cried. The hardest, the longest, the most intense, the worst. The times that left you pallid and shaking, changed.

Then write about it.

Shit. It's Friday night. Can't I drink instead?

Dispatch from home

"Time to bang our head and scream because it hurts." - Adam

Sunday

Amazing book

He was no longer sure, he in fact had never been sure, whether he liked his life because he really did or whether he liked it because he was supposed to. - Chiamanda Ngozi Adichie, "Americanah"

July 2009: Overland Park, KS

Who the hell are they?

Exhausted

Being the primary caregiver for a toddler is draining. There's really no way around it. Especially for someone like me, who never planned or prepared for it.

I love my son. I also love my free time, quiet and chaos-free moments. How can I reconcile the two? I haven't the slightest.

But I'm sitting at a cafe now, and instead of bitching, let's put that energy into writing.

Lately