I’m going to England tomorrow. By which I mean I’m stepping inside a long metal torpedo and sitting my fat ass down on some murky blue pleather for an exact distance of 5,429 miles across a cold, dreary ocean that always makes me wonder things I shouldn’t ever wonder. Like: Would I actually remain calm in case of THE BIG EVENT, like I think I would? Would I place my oxygen mask a top my bouncy little cheeks, knowing exactly
It’s 2:42 in the morning and the reason I’m awake is called CHARDONNAY. People talk about getting old—buying crock pots, nonchalantly cutting your spouse’s armpit hairs, relating more to The Golden Girls than The Gilmore Girls—but they do not prepare you for the one thing that will change your life even more than tiny packets of GrillMates: Insommeliernia. Which is obviously an evil-adult-spelling-bee hybrid of “insomnia” and “sommelier,” which if I’m being honest I still really don’t know how to
. That dot is where you are. ——–> . This dot is where you want to be. (Which makes me sound like a woman named Bonnie with big hair in a cheesy 1985 Visa commercial, but alas, I’m just a woman named Ash with big hair in 2015.) People have been talking about how to “reach your goals” for a realllllllllllllllllllllllllllly long time. Which is a worthwhile discussion, of course, because we all know that goal setting is the kale
I used to know how to dress myself. Or at least, I used to know how to put on pants before putting on my shoes, because apparently when you make the decision to PUT A SHOE WITH A GIGANTIC SPIKE on your foot before you put your pants on, you spear a giant hole right through your pant leg. Remember when life was easy? Because I don’t. Because this is just one example of how I’m old now. And ain’t
I come from what you’d call a humble background. I grew up in rural poverty in the poorest county of Pennsylvania, where we hung out at stone quarries and had the first day of hunting season off from school. We lived in a gold and white trimmed mobile home I was horrified of, and I would purposely walk the long way around the block to the bus stop so the other kids wouldn’t know where I lived. (They did.) My
The phrase is simple: Goma moral. Here, where I am in Costa Rica, it translates into “moral hangover,” and you’ve got one if you stayed out too late, drank too much, said something you regret, or acted in any way irresponsibly the day before…and you feel guilty as sin. Forget the physical hangover; the moral one is the one that’ll get you. The one that hijacks early-morning positivity and manhandles it right into the trunk of a Caddy, causing you
Today would have been her 70th birthday. I’m wearing her gold aquamarine ring. I’m wearing it to remember to be gentle, to slow down, and to offer every stranger who ever sets foot in your house the biggest Italian bread sandwich known to man. To garden always (or at least try), to worship tomatoes, and to write fancy sick notes for my future children (complete with pressed flowers and calligraphy pens). To see the best in the cranky gas station
The year I tried to juggle 1,407 balls in the air and still be nice to strangers in the super market taught me an important lesson: Busy isn’t a synonym for happy. Full doesn’t mean fulfilled. And people are pushy assholes in line at the deli counter. All of us are busying ourselves to death—sometimes quite literally—and the parade has got to stop. Are we really so strapped for time we need to be composing emails on the toilet? Dear
I wonder about people. Specifically about the 50-something woman speaking softly at the table next to me, telling another woman how she desperately wants to go abroad—because, verbatim, it would be the opportunity of a lifetime—but… And her words trail off. JUST LIKE HER DREAMS. Kidding. Dramatic doesn’t look good on me. But, really. What are all these buts holding everyone hostage? I want to start a business but… I know I need to end the relationship but… I know
My mother had severe anxiety disorder. Diagnosed. Verifiable. Psychiatric level. She’d sit in the living room, what iffing life as it passed her by out the window. What if that check doesn’t come? What if that bill is high this year? What if I can’t go? What if it snows that day? My 16-year old go-to response was always, “Mom, everything’s going to work out. Everything always does in the end. Don’t worry.” And at the time, I truly believed
