There is some unwritten statute of limitations on how long one can whine about a crappy childhood, a negligent parent, a few too many chicken pot pies, summers with the grandparents, days spent on Greyhound buses and with dubious caregivers and creepy neighbors.
What do you do when you lose someone? Someone you really hated? It's a little awkward, I'll tell you that much. Last month, my stepmother of more than 25 years died at age 67 of lung cancer. It was a terrible death, one I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy, which, incidentally, she was...
Mr. Snead has an artificially orange comb-forward and the type of throaty voice and desiccated face one only acquires after living in the desert for awhile. He is an undertaker.
On his forearm, I make out what are obviously two prison tattoos; one reads "Love" and the other is a name, "Jenna," maybe. He is filling out forms with a mechanical pencil like a man for whom writing doesn't come easily...
I might own a book called "Stop Obsessing! How to Overcome Your Compulsions". There may be some CDs in my collection by Mariah Carey. I own various expired prescription rash medications and a jar of Jolen Cream Bleach. I have the entire series of "Fat Blaster Plus" home workout videos...
I never thought I'd have anything in common with Russell Crowe, but I think I do and, sadly, it has nothing to do with my ability to conjure richly drawn characters with various perfectly executed accents. No, what the two of us allegedly share is something shameful, something ugly, but something increasingly common.
"If we ever get married, let's just go to city hall like Marilyn Monroe and Joe DiMaggio. Big weddings freak me out. I don't like lots of people staring at me, I don't like inconveniencing people because it's 'my special day,' and I hate waste. The idea of spending $50,000 on a party is just no-can-do."
There's nothing more smug and insidious than a girl who has finally fallen in love and thinks she now has all the answers. She can save you from your sad, pathetic, damaged love life and cure you of your nasty man-repellant habits.
Welcome to the miracle of mindfulness, and by that I mean it's a miracle if you can stay mindful when you're at a weekend retreat with three of your single girlfriends surrounded by handsome monks (sure, they take a vow of celibacy, but so did Britney Spears and that wasn't exactly ironclad) and lots of surprisingly chiseled, seemingly available, male retreat-goers.
I favor the type of acrylic French tip nails that are considered fashionable only by mid-level porn stars. I still wear Uggs. Pink is my favorite color. I've seen the movie "G.I Jane" twice, and not for camp value. I thought it was good.
The term "boyfriend" is like the knee joint on someone who is morbidly obese. It is being asked to do way more than it was designed to do. It is buckling under the pressure. Where it once could do the job, it is now carrying too much weight.
I unpack my makeup, put my mascara and lipsticks in a water glass, hang up my coat. I see what cable channels I have, check out the room service menu for any items that aren't medically contraindicated. I wait for the crashing sound of the ice machine, which is inevitably next to my room, to shatter any sense of peace I can muster in the presence of an orange bed spread that's a bout as sanitary as the crumpled Kleenex of a tuberculosis patient.