Life As a Pearl

I realize that print journalism has either one foot in the grave or both (I have to admit I stopped visiting him years ago, at the first sounds of the death rattle). But let's harken back to a day when folks used to clip newspaper articles and send them by mail (I know, I know; Mail bought a burial plot right next door to Newspaper, and it's a neck and neck race to see whose ground settles first). But do you remember those days? Did your great aunt Margaret slip a clipping of your name (along with the names of every other graduating senior) into that envelope smelling of mothballs, stuffed with your You Graduated! card and check? I don't have a great aunt Margaret, but you may have. Or maybe it was your mom, clipping hometown articles "of interest" and tucking them into your college care packages. "Honey!" she may have written on a post-it note. "Didn't you go to school with this fellow? The death penalty! Wow! Don't forget to go to clas...

Here's a fun story for you: it's Father's Day morning and I've done nothing to celebrate Eric's dad-ness. I have not forced Ayana to make any crafts, I have not purchased any cards, I have not put a tool or a tie in a bag and pretended his daughter chose it specially for him. I haven't even cooked breakfast because, well, I also haven't shopped in weeks and unless breakfast is a stale hot dog bun and some radishes, we're probably going to have to go out. Is this the kind of wife I am? Does this lack of dedication to the holiday say something about how I feel about Eric as a dad or about Hallmark holidays? Nope. It really just says that this week was finals week. And we closed on our house on Friday. And I have a full-time job. And I've torn out a lot of carpet. And I have a broken toe. That last one may not be relevant, but I was on a roll with my whining, and this was as good a place as any to cry a little about my poor toe. Point is...

Top three things I hate: 3. Avocados (You can shut up right now; I know they're the most amazing thing your tongue has ever touched (sad for you), but I hate them. That texture is untenable.) 2. Putting my kid in timeout (Growing a good human is tough!) 1. Going to the doctor I'm sure this isn't the first time I've written about being a doctor hater; but I have to beat this dead horse if I'm going to tell this story. And you want me to tell this story because I'm pretty sure it's funny. It also has a surprise ending in which you'll find out (spoiler alert!) I have a tumor in my face , so you don't want to miss this. There's a boatload (a vessel named the C-Ward!) of valid reasons for women to hate going to doctors; but I'm going to let that  dead horse lie for the sake of this narrative. My current doctor, whose name happens to be Erik, is a lovely fellow who doesn't seem to think any health issues I have are due to a w...

It's like this, readers: I have a dirty little preference that, if admitted in certain circles, nets me some real flack. Given the choice between a book and a kindle app, I'm Team Kindle. Yikes. I feel like I've already lost you. Except for that thing where you're actually reading my  words on some hideous electronic device. So I guess your opposition is contained—sure it's fine to read  on a device. Just not read a lot. Unless it's a lot of Facebook status updates or comments on MSN articles or Buzzfeed lists. Then it's fine. But not books, OK? Books don't belong on devices! Yeah, this is one of those topics that people are weirdly passionate about. So today, Kylee and I (who are mercifully on opposite sides of this debate) have decided to fight it out. Because I'm gracious, and because this is my blog and I can do what I want, I'm going to let Kylee have the first word. But then I'm going to trounce her because she's wrong. KYLEE:...

Setup: Two friends walk into a bar. Actually, they don't have time to go to the bar because they have kids. Two friends text each other, in reality; but stories don't start that way. So...two friends. Bar. It's 100% believable that they're in a bar because they're both writers. Maybe you didn't read my blog post about writers awhile back, but spoiler alert: writers are drinkers. I even have a signature drink. It's the Dark & Stormy and it suits my temperament perfectly. Two friends. Writers. Dark & Stormys.  "I have nothing," the one says. "Literally nothing to write about." The other takes a drink of her Dark & Stormy and tries not to make a face. Why does her signature drink have to taste of anise? "Want to co-author or or guest-author a blog post?" "That sounds nice." Blah blah details blah.  In the end, two friends decide to share this blog post to talk about a day of the year th...

Here's something that's a little cute and a little unfair, all at the same time: every Sunday Eric and Ayana go out for donuts (cute), but they leave me at home because I can't eat donuts (a little unfair). I'm happy they have their little date, sad that I'm necessarily excluded, and exhausted by the sugar-high monster Eric hands off with an I- have -to-study shrug. Excluding the donut date, Sundays are usually a mother-daughter day in our house. Eric really does  have to study, and I usually like the throwback sensation of single motherhood. I know wasn't a dream lifestyle, but for a day? I'm just saying it's not hard to dredge up the fond memories.  Sometimes Ayana still lets me slip her into her sling for old time's sake. That's 38 lbs and 43 inches of kid on my shoulder, and man it feels good. OK. It feels heavy. But it's the kind of burden a mama's body never forgets how to bear. Anyway, there's a story in here and I...

You and me, reader—we're buds, right? I mean, I can tell you something—something about me—and you'll promise not to hold it against me, won't you? I'll warn you: it's not flattering. It's not really the kind of thing people want to go writing about themselves and posting all over the interwebs. But I'm not people and this isn't the interwebs (just go ahead and ignore the part where neither of those things is true): I'm a writer and this is my blog. Telling you shit about myself is just part of the gig. That's enough disclaimer for all of us, right? Good. Here goes. I am a writer . Wait. I already said that like two lines ago. I am a writer? That's it? That's my big, unflattering reveal?  Is this like one of those job interviews where they ask you what your weakness is any you say, "I'm just too goal-oriented," or "I'm a deadline fanatic." I mean, the word fanatic is a little off-putting, but you're ...