Life As a Pearl

When I was young, I couldn't have told you why my mom insisted on giving me perms on the reg. I could have told you the only thing more horrific than the process was the result. But that's only because I was super self aware and  articulate. And also because I was not wrong. Exhibit A And when she wasn't going all in on curls and frizz, she was seeing just how much of my hair could be bangs. So much. It's fine. After years of therapy, I've finally gotten myself past all the pain of a bad-haired childhood. And I've done so much better for myself. Oh wait... I did that one entirely on my own. And when people told me my hair was growing back nicely, assuming I'd lost it with chemo, I just...you know...said,  Thanks! Which, I assure you, is better than what I did with my previous bad haircut, the infamous "Lafayette." When I got the Lafayette, I just wept all day every day for months. I think I've made my point. I was set up from a you...

Confession : I'm not big on elaborate bedtime routines. Baths and snuggles and wind-down yoga and twenty-two books and special stuffies and I'm tired just writing this garbage. I love my daughter so much, but I legit do not want to pull an all-nighter with her. I want her to go the F to sleep. Without me reading her that book, though. Let me just channel Jim Gaffigan. [Insert awkward, breathy,  this guy is funny, but maybe so annoying that I don't care voice here]: "You don't read to your child? What kind of monster are  you? Did you know Mrs. Hitler didn't read to her  child, either?!"  Listen, jerks. I like to read to my girl during the daylight hours. When we're both better versions of ourselves and we can work together and have conversations and all that good stuff. And at night I can always be persuaded to read a  book. But just one. And don't think for a moment that I'm offering. Because I'm not. No matter what the Nazi resear...

If someone asked me to paint a picture of my life (why ever would someone do that?), I'd go straight to metaphor. I'd paint a roaring waterfall. But not one where the water rushes over a ledge and free falls into the abyss. One where stone shelves jut out from every angle—an endless cascade of rock bottoms. There would be no frame because it's obvious the edge of the canvas is only the beginning of the bumpy ride. Once, in an effort to talk me through the end of a marriage that was a disaster of impressive proportions, my dad told me I was in a good position. He said, Well you're at rock bottom, kid. You can't get lower than the bottom . And I took a lot of comfort in that at the time. I couldn't have imagined a life more difficult (or humiliating) than trying to finish grad school while living in my parents basement with my brand-new (to me) daughter's crib in the closet. It was a generous closet—my parents are the kind of rich that means even your guest ...

Living in Colorado, it's hard to imagine how the saying making a mountain out of a molehill really took off. While we're pretty solid on the concept of mountain, do any of my neighbors even know what a molehill looks like? They couldn't possibly. Whether they've seen one or not, I guess we all know the saying presumes that a molehill is insignificant. It's basically nothing in the grand scheme of things. Or in the grand scheme of yards, as the case may be.  But I grew up in Kansas, and if you'd have introduced me to the saying back then I'd have been utterly unable to wrest the true meaning from it. Why? Because molehills were a big freaking deal at my house. That's why. The various traps my dad set for them were the stuff of nightmares. And even when he briefly abandoned the springs and spikes for seemingly innocuous wads of Juicy Fruit, you somehow knew the moles were in no less trouble. So while I now understand the molehills in the sayin...

If you were thinking this was going to be one of those cute year-end posts with lots of pictures, you were mistaken. No pictures! And that's really on you because who would title that A Christmas Crime? This post is legit about a crime I just committed. A crime for which I should probably be sorry but I am definitely not. It was totally worth it. I'd leave you hanging and let you guess the nature of my nefarious deeds; but that seems entirely unnecessary. I'll just tell you right now it was the federal crime of tampering with someone's mail. Although I didn't so much tamper as I did open. And relish. Do you suppose open and relish are covered under the umbrella verb, tamper? And do you also suppose it's not technically a crime if the mail rightfully came to my address? Maybe someone with a deep knowledge of postal law could help me out here. What kind of time am I looking at doing for opening a Christmas card that was meant for the former owners of our home?...

And by you , of course   I mean me . So here's the story as it has been told to me over the years. For reasons that were undoubtedly religiously motivated, my mom decided she was going to home school my brother and me. She started with Jesse at whatever early age because he was reading in the womb and dividing cheerios in his highchair and blah, blah, blah. It was so much fun and he was so smart and remember the time he related the word sequel to the  Back to the Future series?! What a genius! What pure joy to watch this child learn! And then I came along. There are no stories about my great mental prowess, my clever anecdotes. There is only one story. The story that ends quite abruptly at, "And then I enrolled you both in school." Thinking on it now, I'm not sure we can even call it a story. It's really just a crude reenactment of a poor young child struggling to read the word bug . "B-U-G. B-U-G. You kept saying the sounds, but you just couldn't put...

There are a few things I'm good at in this world, and singing isn't one of them. I can dust the heck out of a living room (although I typically choose not to), I can keep a number of different types of house plants alive, I can shuffle cards really well, and I can make a meal appear out of thin air no matter how many weeks it's been since our last trip to the market. But darn it, I cannot sing. If you think my lack of talent stops me, you're mistaken. I love to sing. I almost don't mind traffic (that's mostly a lie) because it gives me more time to belt out the tunes. In fact, when I'm sitting next to someone forever in rush hour, I'm not at all above rolling down my window and singing at them. Judging by the smiles and laughter, I've found it to be a mutually beneficial way to pass the time. Now because I know I'm not America's Next Top Singer (is that a show? I'm not sure that's a show.), I didn't really worry when my surg...