Category: Motivation

There are a few things we need to get straight. Shall I make a list? Because lists seem to be in. And lists also mean I don’t have to figure out creative ways to transition paragraphs and actually think COHESIVELY. Because who does that shit on Fridays? Not me. Thinking cohesively, I’m pretty sure, is only reserved for Tuesdays. The rest of the week is some amalgamation (I actually spelled that right on the first try – na na na

He sat in the far corner of the room–no clip board, no notepad, no smile. I couldn’t make out his face–the room was dark and the curtains were drawn. I waited for Al Pacino to bust down the door, cigar in hand. I was seated near the door, at a table, with a woman named Carol opposite me. I was to address Carol–not the man in the corner–and, most importantly, stay focused. I trembled as I pulled a box out

There are some people who don’t get the whole concept of an assembly line. You know who I’m talking about – those hanyacks at the Starbucks who come up beside you at the milk station, their panties in a bunch, tapping their foot, doing the hokey pokey at 8 o’clock in the morning because they are trying! to get around you! to use! the creamer! And then the pressure’s on. Oh is it on! You start to get flustered. They’re

Hi. It’s me, Ash. Was that obvious? I’m sorry to pardon your regular programming, but today we’re going to talk numbers. I hate numbers–you can go square root your mom. But sometimes, you’ve got to look at ’em. You know…like when it’s tax season. As you may remember, in 2011 I publicly showed the world how to make $100,000 in a year with a blog, using TMF as a case study. Just this past year I was pleased to see

Remember that one time I got loose, drank too much eggnog* and packaged everything together in the TMF store for a wild, wild west of a discount–and then told all continental U.S. buyers that I’d even take it a step further and send a surprise to their doorstep? Right. That time. Just last month for the holiday. After purchase, all buyers were then sent to a humorously long, semi-sadistic questionnaire to fill out about themselves, so I could hand-pick a

If you walked in the door right now, I don’t know if I’d run and hug you hard, or if you’d seem like a stranger now. I’d like to think that I’d hug you. I’d like to think that I’d bury my face into your chest and you’d smell like your old cologne–which kind, I can’t remember. I was too young, barely a pre-teen, the night we got the call. But I know you’d laugh and hug me back, saying

I love Christmas. I’m a sucker for the jingle bells and little white lights, which I shamelessly string EVERYWHERE. What’s that, a bathroom vent? Must! Have! Lights! My mom and I used to make these “Italian Christmas Cookies,” which I’m pretty sure was not the official name, but since we had the recipe scrawled across some wrinkled piece of paper from the 1800’s, who am I to say? I’m also pretty sure these cookies were the sole culprit of my

Remember earlier this year… …when I sauntered over to Ecuador and had a twelve year old pierce my nose, as well as agreed to having a random Ecuadorian man sit on top of me on the beach to doodle all over my back with a mysterious black, sticky ink? Maybe we didn’t know each other then, which is a huge shame because I was clearly a lot more fun. Exhibit A: Exhibit B: Exhibit C: And then, of course, since

I always wanted to be the woman with the white floppy hat. The one with the easy laugh, where time had not made her older, but all the more delightful. The one who carries a basket of strawberries wherever she goes, the one who frolics in fountains, the one who holds his gaze just a little too long, who doesn’t care if her hair gets wet in the rain, and whose signature scent is mystery–the straight up parfum version. For

I blame my bleak and very unpromising cooking skills on Thanksgiving, you know. You’d think I would have gotten better from helping my mom prepare such a yearly feast for me, her and my dad. (Mashed potatoes were my sworn duty. Probably because they’re mashed, requiring heavy amounts of manual mashing child labor. Not to be confused with child mashing labor.) But since my dad took it upon himself to be all Pennsylvania and go and shoot the turkey himself,