
Ah, boyfriends.
The good, the bad, and the ugly. Each of them the product of so many sources: the finicky mom who made him scrub tiles with his toothbrush; the older brother who redeemed bottles to buy his first sax.
Mostly at this stage in the game, they're a product of their ex-girlfriends. The slag, the psychopath, the sweetheart who took off for law school: those are the ladies who formed the man you see before you today.
Continue reading "The Ex-Girlfriend Report Card" »
My sense of humor veers from the absurd to the nonsensical. The mini-Stonehenge scene from Spinal Tap makes me convulse with laughter.
But when I'm with someone who is less ridiculous--normal, shall we say?--I raise the bar on my own performance, as if to compensate.
Continue reading "What's Louder Than 10? 11. Exactly. One Louder." »
Ok, when I'm not watching "So You Think You Can Dance" with Cat and eating cookies, I am either reading Dune or watching BSG, or as the laymen say, Battlestar Galactica. While I am a huge supporter of writers and the strike, the only sadness is, well, I have to wait. But, isn't that the sign of true drama.
Continue reading "Battlestar Galactica- What a Tease!" »

Recently I had a "get to know you" coffee with a potential freelance client. This woman and I had chatted about our shared love of macaroons from Miette, an incredible French bakery at the Ferry Building, so we met there and got a cookie to nibble with our hot drinks.
The macaroon was delicious, and I had to force myself to eat it politely, in small bites instead of one big gulp. I was about to gleefully confess this to my new acquaintance when she said, "The one cookie is perfect! It's all I need for the whole day!"
No wonder she's so damn skinny, I thought.
Continue reading "All My Best Homies Count Cookies By The Sleeve " »
Really, I've been a city girl for a grand total of three years. Despite this, my family suspects I've transformed into some bizarre and unrecognizable creature, as if $300 heels were fused to my feet like plum stiletto hooves. From the tone of our conversations, it's clear they think I spend my Tuesday nights doing jello shots off a flaming bar.
But what is it like? I wonder this sometimes, try to encapsulate it so that I can remember clearly if I'm ever ensconced in the suburbs with a garden and a creaking gate.
It's like this.
Continue reading "City Life is Nothing Like Sex and the City" »
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