Category Archives: writing


Click here for a good time.


And here’s the one before that because for some reason I wasn’t 100% on my game and didn’t linky link to it when it came out last month. I would blame the new baby for my forgetfulness but it’s probably more accurate to blame Netflix for having all the seasons of Lost. I haven’t seen the sun in months.


In other news, Scottsdale Moms Blog has taken me on as a full contributor for 2013! I’m a real adult now. Let me tell you, I did not think I would be into this at first. Mommy bloggers are so White America — at least that’s what I thought. Silly me for giving into stereotypes. The ladies that write for this blog are really fantastic. We all come from different sides of the spectrum and everyone offers a different, encouraging perspective. When it comes down to it, we’re all just trying to be The World’s Best Mom, and that is a noble effort and incredibly important, no matter what you Facebook haters say. I always say (Of course I have a signature quote — I’m a famous writer! Obviously.) there would be better people in this world if there were better moms.

Here’s to deadlines and diapers and big, big dreams.

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I know. I should be writing.

It seems like the only things I want to write about are personal. And I don’t get personal.

Not because I’m too stuck up to get real. Well, I might be a little stuck up. But the people I want to write about will read what I write. And I wouldn’t be writing the most flattering things. And then I’d have to deal with that. So there’s that.

I’m not out to get anyone. It’s not a question of who is right and who is wrong. It’s just feelings. Stupid feelings.

See? I’m already discounting my opinionsAnd being cryptic, and cryptic shit is annoying unless it’s super poetic but I’m not poetic these days, I’m a big pregnant lady planet.

It’s easy to put off thinking about real life while waiting for the impending whatever to happen. This baby, in my case, is the whatever. I make lists of things I still need to buy, wash all of Elliot’s old clothes, organize them by age and season. I buy only our immediate needs at the grocery store so I’ll have an excuse to go back in a few days just to have something to do. I talk to the people I like and only the people I like because I could get into an uncomfortable conversation or have to face unpleasant people and consequently disrupt my pleasant little life.

Maybe I’d like to get a little uncomfortable. Maybe I’d welcome those rough conversations.

Maybe after I’m done being a planet. And then I’ll write about it.

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Why I can’t write stuff.

When I was sixteen, my mom found and read my diary. I wrote everything in that sucker, especially about my make out sessions with my first boyfriend. There was nothing dirty or shocking about what I wrote. I just really liked kissing, and this boy, who always was the perfect gentleman, but my dear mother was convinced that I was on a sinful path to the streets. She made me call him over to our house that very day to break up with him.

I was humiliated. We had done nothing wrong.

And I’ve never been able to write, honestly write, since that day.

I didn’t learn a damn thing from that situation. I take that back – I learned to stuff whatever normal, healthy feelings or emotions I had, especially toward boys, stuffstuffstuff it away because it was bad. Wanting to kiss a boy was bad. Feeling attraction was bad. Not knowing whether or not I was going to marry the boy before I kissed him was bad.

How was I supposed to know if I wanted to marry him before I kissed him, before I dated him?

Thus ended my writing career. I’ve tried, over and over again, to start over and write what I really think. To not give a damn, to not constantly look over my shoulder, expecting the worst of consequences. I’m an adult now. No one can force me to break up with anyone.

Funny how milestones like first boyfriends and first breakups, especially involving your parents, turn into something deeper and uglier and creep into your soul and whisper at the back of your brain for the rest of your life.

Much later in my life, I publicly wrote about what I really thought of someone I knew. I never used this person’s name, never demeaned their character, simply relayed an event from my perspective with a lot of humor thrown in. It was an awesome piece of brain. It was what I felt. My father read it and, because he knew this person, demanded that I delete what I had written so as not to bring repercussions upon himself. I understood where he was coming from, heard his case and complied. But there it was again.

Your true feelings are bad. Your opinion is bad.

I was sixteen all over again.

But you know what? I’m over it. My thoughts do matter. And I’m going to write them down. If you know me, then you know I’m not a gossip. I’m not a basher. I just write funny stuff. Real stuff. If I offend you, don’t read what I write anymore. Or write something about me that I can read and make it funny and make it real.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to write more stuff.

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