Tag Archives: life stories

Picky eater scars

“Come over. I’ll make us brunch. With bacon!”

As much as I love bacon, my friend’s offer made me shudder. I was glad the invitation came via text, not a phone chat, so I could hide my revulsion.

“I want French toast. :-(” I texted back like a spoiled brat.

Via FreeWilliamsburg.com and bexheartsyou

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Happy birthday, Nana

My maternal grandmother would have been 106 years old today.

She loved crossword puzzles. (side note: I loved my Cabana East Motel t-shirt, and my mother loved having my hair cut short like a boy’s)

Side note: I loved my Cabana East Motel t-shirt, and my mother loved having my hair cut short like a boy’s, but those are stories for another blog post.

Sundays are for me

As my friends know, I’m very protective of my Sundays. To the extent that I have come to think of them as Selfish Sundays.


I’m glad to get brunch, or to meet for coffee. But once 2p or 3p rolls around on Sundays, I’m ready to be on my own.

Ask me to dinner. Suggest seeing a movie. Any other day? Cool. On Sunday, this is me.


It all started with this guy. We’d usually spend Sunday afternoons apart, but get back together for dinner at the end of the day. While he was the better cook of the two of us, on Sundays, I’d whip something up while he played basketball with his friends. It became a fun little routine.

When we split, Sundays were hard. I cried a lot some Sundays. But I soon found it helped to plow through with what I had learned to enjoy.

Now Sundays are rarely anything but pure joy for me.  I don’t make apologies for staying in bed past ten a.m. I blog (hi!). I walk around and think. I read books.

Do you have a ritual or routine you guard fiercely? If so, what does it entail?

When did you know you were an adult?

When I spoke to Kathleen Schmidt for her Twitter Spotlight, I asked her to add a question. I should have known hers would be a great one!

Her question really stuck with me: When did you know you were an adult?

Allison Winn Scotch got to answer the question in her Twitter Spotlight. This is what she said.

The first time I packed lunch for my son.

I know: you’d think it would have been sooner, like, giving birth or buying an apartment. But nothing had a bigger impact than packing lunch and tucking it in his little backpack. Probably because it reminded me of my own mom, and how much of a grown-up she seemed to little old me back then. There is/was something very ritualistic about it, and I knew – bam – I was all grown up. (Even if I don’t always act that way.)

I love this question! It has made me think so much that I wanted to answer it myself.

Not long after I left for college at seventeen, both parents separately confessed that when they started the drive home, they had to pull over to cry. Was I an adult then? Not quite, but it was a step in that direction.

Later I thought I became an adult the first night I spent in my very own apartment after I moved to NYC  (the first time). By that point, I had lived in Manhattan for about six weeks thanks to a summer program NYU offered, renting out dorm rooms by the week. Those six weeks allowed me to get acclimated to the city and my first job before launching an apartment hunt.

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I got spit on today

Literally, not figuratively. I think @ticktock6 would approve of this use of the word literally.

But first: I was asking for it. Kind of.

For the first month I have been back living in NYC, I have been tempting fate and annoying all of Brooklyn with my smiling and my I love NY shtick.

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