It was the second time in a week I’d misread her texts. GAH.
We’d been trying to go on a walk together, but if I wanted it to rain? I should just schedule a walk.
It was the second time in a week I’d misread her texts. GAH.
We’d been trying to go on a walk together, but if I wanted it to rain? I should just schedule a walk.
So I wrote you recently how a podcast had opened my eyes to all those Hollywood writers (whose techniques, as a writer, I thought I was studying, but who suck me in just the same).
If there’s any possible time when my husband doesn’t respond to me like a guy in the movies, I’m pretty sure it’s me, and my subpar level of attractiveness.
Surely you’ve thought about it. If you were going to get a tattoo, what would it be?
I have no real insights on this one. Everything I think of only sounds cool for about five seconds. And my husband has wisely postulated that if you want to get a tattoo, you should wait ten years to see if you still want it, and then get it.
I will say that tattoos are great conversation starters–because every tattoo has a story. Kind of like scars.
Parenting has this way of exposing a part of who you are in ways both beautiful and terrifying.
As in, Wow! Who knew I had this gift for creative teaching? Or, Who knew I could handle this amount of laundry and still emerge with enough panties to fight the day?
But also, as author Elizabeth Stone has written, Making the decision to have a child is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body.
I first took the enneagram about a year ago when my family mentioned it. (Yes, my whole family talks about this kind of stuff. If you’re into a sports team or politics, we might not be able to help you out).
With a husband who’s a Human Resources exec, you can bet I’ve taken my share of personality tests. (I’ve even tried to outwit some of them?)
Personally, the enneagram has brought me more self-knowledge–knowledge that actually helped me truly change–than any of the others. I even keep basic profiles on my Kindle. (Yeah. I’m one of those.) With 207 subtypes, I’ve found it to be fairly accurate for me, which hasn’t always been the case with other profiles.
Four years ago a friend in publishing suggested I start a blog (well. Five years ago. Took me awhile to come around). I initially looked at her like she’d suddenly sprouted horns.
I mean, who has that much to say? (Especially publically? Isn’t that like running naked through cyberspace, waving a flag?)
May all your kids come home, and may they get along with each other. Or at least fake it.
May you have a white Christmas to the point that you feel Christmas-y and can say no to an activity you didn’t really want to go to, but don’t lose electricity and heat. May everyone wipe their boots.
So I got a call from the principal. I confess to even wishing her (rather brightly) a Happy Friday.
She responded pretty kindly, considering my son was there in the office with her. (It was only 8:40. What could happen before 8:40?)
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