Life As a Pearl

I'm not a big fan of writing about controversial topics. I don't like to post things on Facebook or my blog that invite discourse. Not because I don't enjoy discourse. I do! But because I don't believe people really talk on public forums--I think they fight. I don't want to fight. Not about who should be the next president, not about gun control, not about human rights, not about terrorism. I don't want to say anything that will cause someone I care about to rear up and tear a deeper hole in the fabric of our society, just because we happen to disagree. But as I continue to process the latest casualty of hate, I can't not say that I'm devastated. I'm so sad for the lives lost and the lives forever changed by one man's interpretation of what the world should really look like. Imagine the darkness he must have lived in, that what we perceived to be freedom and beauty looked twisted and evil to him. I'm not asking you to put yourself in h...

Maybe it's kicking off the month of May with a snowstorm that made this song just randomly pop into my head twenty years after I purchased (and completely wore out) this album. I bet I even started with the single, that's how much I loved Long December . Oh hot damn, it was my jam. (And also oh hot damn, I am getting old. Twenty years? Yikes.) But I'm pretty sure it's not the snow. For the record, I'm as tired of that shit of the rest of my Colorado cohort. It's time for a little sun! But I'm not so unstable as to be reduced to tears by the weather. We do live in Colorado, guys. Snow is a thing. So no...it probably wasn't the snow. It was probably this thing that happens to me sometimes when I've been out of my head for a bit. Maybe this happens to you too? I'm just floating along, not thinking thoughts because who has time for thoughts, and a collection of words just hits me--like a sucker punch to the gut. These words--they can be from a...

Them's are the odds my surgeon quoted to me as I sat in his office, an alarmingly thick tube up my (now proven) broken nose. That's how incredibly unlikely it was that I would come to him to remove a benign parotid tumor, and he would diagnose me with thyroid cancer. One in one hundred and eighty million. His suggestion? Start buying lottery tickets, honey, because winner winner, chicken dinner. Are there better ways to tell people you love that you have cancer than write a blog post? Most assuredly. So please, all of you who are reading this and wondering Why didn't she tell me ?, accept my apology. It's not because you don't matter; it's because I haven't figured out the protocol yet. There's never a right place to drop it into conversation. You: Yeah, work was really lame this week. I was in early and stayed late every day. And now they want me to work on Saturday! Me: Man, that sucks. I have cancer. You: I'm going to get a bikini wax f...

It may go without saying that B.J. Novak is a damn genius. But let's go ahead and say it anyway. Because I already did. In concert with some other brilliant minds of our time, Novak (are you reading his short stories, people? He's so good!) has come up with an app that truly ought to curl my toes. Curl them right up like whichever wicked witch got smooshed by a house. The List App I hate lists. Like super duper hate them. Know why? Because they're always about stuff I have to do. Or stuff Eric hasn't done. Or stuff that won't buy itself or appointments that won't be canceled. Yuck! But The List App has taken that ugly reality and turned it on its head. It exists for the fun of lists. The fun of lists? What could that possibly be, you ask. Um, get on The List App and check it out for yourself. Mostly, all I've done on there so far is followed some people (B.J. Novak) and started a list I haven't finished. Also I've written this post, which...

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...