Category: Productive Mother

Today in Philly I tried on THE MOST AMAZING COAT. It was black. Slinky. Faux fur. The kind of coat that fuck you women wear. (They’re a special kind of breed, you know.) I was down to buy this coat. And by “buy” it, I actually mean take it home and roll around naked in it FOR DAYS. DAYS!!! The neighbors would think I was dead! There’d be empty pizza boxes everywhere! The phone would ring and ring and ring,

We’ve all got these really exhausting mental scripts we tell ourselves. For example, earlier today I was telling myself I was going to exercise, but then I told myself that, well, maybe notttttt, because I had something heavy for lunccchhhh, so I probably wouldn’t have the energggggy, and then it’d be harder than usuaaaal, and then I’d hate every minute of ittttt, and then I’d be reminded of how much I succccck, and then it might discourage meeeeee, and then

You know, after the Vegas shooting, I thought a moment of silence, here on the blog, would be appropriate. Every time a tragedy like this occurs, I am reminded of how insignificant everything else is. To jump into your inbox the next day yapping about refund policies and client contracts would be in poor taste. It’s not only indelicate, but there’s a part of me that can’t help but feel that it’s inhumane. And then the storm hit. I am

Me: I’m writing a book! People: Where do you get the TIME? Me: Every morning! People: WHERE DO YOU GET THE TIIIIIMMEEEEEEE?! Me: It’s in my schedule. Every morning, from 5am to 8am. People: But I could never cooooommmmmiiiiiittttttt to thaaaaatttttttt. Me: So what do you do when you have a client that needs something, or your boss? People: I do it on their time. Me: So do I. People: Huh? Me: I AM the client. This is a conversation

You know the email. The one you’re dreading responding to—not because of what it says, but because the second you open it, all you see is A GIANT, LOOMING TSUNAMI OF TEXT lurching at your face as if the sender had taken the entire Sunday edition of The New York Times, reformatted it into one column, printed it off onto a roll of 1992 perforated computer paper, and then laughed as they lit it on fire and dropped it off

You know who’s funny? People who try to do everything. Talk about a dysfunctional relationship with time. Contrary to popular opinion, time is not always there for you when you need it. Yet, then you are all cute, telling yourself you’ll just “fit it in”—whatever “it” might be that day. Why does everyone think they’ll fit it in? Nobody ever fits it in. You know what you fit in? About two or three things a day, max. That’s it. That’s