December sucks. There I said it.
I mean, I like it. The magic that I create. The food that I cook. The family time that I coordinate. The gifts that I buy, wrap, hide, and return.
December was WAY more fun as a kid.
Because damn, there’s a lot of shit to do as an adult.
However, the Christmas card chore is never a dreaded one. Oh no, I make card addressing night a fucking event. I blast Christmas music to annoy my Jewish husband and grab a glass of wine, with a heavy pour. Just kidding. I polish off the entire bottle. …
I started my own publication yesterday. On a whim. Just like that. Snap. Ping. Poof.
It was actually pretty fun. I’ve read all the articles about why you should start your own publication. And why you shouldn’t. But why you should. Shouldn’t. Should.
If that last paragraph made sense to you, you’ve read them too.
It was very impulsive, like most bad decisions are. But this one feels good. For now. I’ll probably lose steam and forget about it by February and leave it to die like I do with my most of my dreams, fitness apps, and house plants.
Yeah, sure I might have only two pieces published so far, but patience Watson. …
They say all great ideas are jotted down on cocktail napkins. Or on crumpled-up pieces of scrap paper plucked out of the trash.
J.K Rowling apparently wrote an idea on an airplane barf bag. Was it empty? That’s not the point.
One idea. Just that one idea. If not recorded would flutter out of the mind never to return. Peace, see ya.
Sometimes the idea returns. But it’s not the same. It’s never in that perfection, never in that exact moment of brilliance.
This shit happens to me daily. I have an ah-ha moment. The next viral article. The next internet sensation. Even, sometimes I truly believe, that I’ve thought of the next greatest American novel. …
It was just a choice. It was my right. It was legal and safe. Women do it every day. Easy peasy.
Yet, it landed me in the darkest, most unexpected, despair I’ve ever known.
I had never really thought about whether I considered myself pro-life or pro-choice. I didn’t judge women either way. I could see both sides. I was just thankful that I had made it through high school and college without having to make that decision.
Then, there I was. In my 20’s. Staring at the two lines. Well, wait, one line is very faint. Maybe I’m not? Let me pee on another one. Still two. …
Prospective Employer: Hi Emme. Thank you for coming. (Extends hand).
Me: (steps back, skeptical) Wait, is this a greeting or a hook-up?*
Prospective Employer: Well, uh (takes hand away) umm, it was a greeting. (checks iPhone for no reason) Anyway, please take a seat (gestures toward chair). So, before we get into details about the position, I must ask you if you’re employed anywhere else currently.
Me: Well, my husband pays me for sex.*
Prospective Employer: Oh. Okay. Wow. Um, that’s not exactly what I was asking, but great. That’s just — great. Poor guy. Moving on. …
I was grateful for the mask today when I bumped into you.
“It’s been a while, Beckett. How have you been?” you asked.
Knowing instantly, intimately, who the voice belonged to, I twisted my head in your direction.
Those eyes told me you were smiling. So was I.
“I’ve been okay. Great. Really great. Just looking for capers for a recipe,” I said. Why did I just say that?
Could you feel my nerves? The mask absorbed my deep exhale.
I straightened my legs to stand from the squat I was in. Two jars in my hands. You seemed taller. Or different. …
Driving my minivan down the highway, I overheard my ten-year-old son and his two teammates nervously chatting about the upcoming game.
I remained quiet. I always do. Driving carpool delivers invaluable parental insight.
“They’re going to kill us!” Chris said while picking a loose string from the hem of his jersey.
I’ll rip that string off for him before the game begins. It will distract him.
“I heard they beat Millersville 60–4. We’re going to get demolished,” Jack said, tapping his fingers anxiously against the basketball on his lap.
Have a little confidence, guys! Play your hardest and have fun.
“Well it’s not fair because they’re all black,” my son, Simon said, defeatedly. …
I went on vacation in late July. I brought my laptop, as most writers would. From my splintered balcony, I could hear waves crashing as the humid sea breeze dampened the pages in my notebook.
Quiet. Serene. Peaceful.
But, I wrote nothing. Surprise. Surprise. My ability to disappoint myself is one of my strong suits.
It’s what began my impromptu month-long sabbatical from Medium.
What began as a deserved week pass turned into a month-long cleanse. But, I’m back. And here’s what I learned:
Yeah, it’s true. The only thing that truly suffered was my Stripe account. I love the Medium community and the writers I’ve met along the way. But the fact of the matter is that nobody wondered where I’d been. …
The husband had an affair. It lasted over a year. Maybe longer. It may have even started before they got married. Nobody knows.
Lies. Oh, so many lies. A family — with two young kids — torn apart.
The wife was blindsided. She had complete faith in her marriage. She never thought to question the frequent poker games, the many nights he’d arrive home late, or the unmistakable distance growing between them.
Distance is part of marriage, isn’t it? Sometimes? The key is to acknowledge that distance, resent its arrival, and work together to reconnect. Resuscitate.
But, I’m no expert.
The wife and I were friends. Not super tight, but occasional phone calls. Frequent texts. …