I was a living, breathing mousetrap over the holidays – ready to snap with the slightest provocation. I didn’t mean to be that way. I was cool as a cucumber while packing, Zen as fuck on the drive. Opened the door to my sister’s house, and my eyebrows climbed into
For over seven years, I’ve lived with small dread of accidentally writing the wrong name in an Anne Nahm email. Many of the comments came in last week with my real name written in them. Opening each and every one was like that dream where you fall, flailing armed and
I’m either A) slipping into depression, B) out to set the world record in feeling sorry for oneself, or C) in an exceptionally bad mood these days. As differential diagnosis, let me offer this: If you tell me to seek help, I’ll invite you to mind your own fucking business,
I did not and do not want to keep talking about my dad. I had a very firm plan about boxing that issue off and focusing all my anxiety into something productive. Worrying about him results in zero productivity, unlike feeding my new found Pearl Jam obsession or playing Bejeweled
I don’t want to call this a genuine Christmas miracle or anything, 1) because it was the day after and 2) they eventually ended their odd relationship and 3) blasphemy. But! While hyped up on sugar cookies and post-holiday euphoria, my children got into a fight which involved flinging dirty