For as long as I can remember I wanted to and needed to write. I’m taking
the time to revisit stories, old and new, that I have written and ones yet to come alive. Ever
since I was a child I kept a diary and in my adult life, a journal. It’s one in the same, isn’t it?
Writing is sacred, sensitive, can take the most bleak moments and turn them into something
funny or hopeful. Language and words are a gift and I’m excited to finally have the courage
to share some of my greatest longings here.
I hope you enjoy reading the stories as much as I’ve enjoyed living them (most of them)
and writing them.
Dear Speculoos Cookie Butter, The night I ate a whole jar of you in 6 sittings wasn’t my proudest moment. I haven’t been able to look at you since. I sat on the couch covered in my blankets, jar in lap, spooning your sweet, soothing, crunchy goodness into my mouth. I paused. I put the jar away, retreated back to my blanket fort and Netflix.
After five minutes I walked back to the cabinet.
I did this 6 times.
Until you were gone.
Read MoreDear Doughnut, I love your soft, somewhat oily and slick smooth dough. I’ve eaten you in private, in public on the beach and in local flea markets when I couldn’t resist your round temptation staring back at me through smudged and perfectly fingerprinted plexiglass.
For years I told myself no, Tina. Then just a piece. Then the whole. Then a bite of another. Then another. Then another. I couldn’t be stopped because I knew you were a “treat” so I had to get as much of you as I could at one time. Devour. I was crazy for your sugary sweet goodness that made my gut expand with happiness.
Have I read one too many inspirational Instagram posts? Did I quit my job because I read one too many inspirational Instagram posts that told me, I’m, you, we - are capable of anything?
I probably did.
So, I quit my job about two years ago to start my own business but I really ended up giving myself the bootleg gift of many hours of freedom to analyze my life wherein I’ve found myself on a very sober, very jacked up Dr. Seuss like journey to figuring out who I am without the confines of a well paying corporate job. The only thing I know right now for sure is that I sort of hate the word journey and beaches make me smile. I’ve also developed heartburn. The only thing I miss about corporate work is a healthy direct deposit paycheck that was on a two week schedule.
Lately I’m consuming more sugar in the form of cookies and cake than one woman who lost a whole lot of weight should openly admit. My thighs touch and I look down at my belly, skin covered in lightning bolt sized stretch marks and perfectly plump with Christmas treats. I wonder how I got to a place where I’m ok having a FUPA. I can only surmise I’ve settled into “This is what it is and someone still bangs me once a month. Once a month is better than no times a month. Oh well.” Now that I look at my period tracker, I realized it’s been exactly two months.
Read MoreThe man that I sleep with once a month argues that I’m perfect while he sips Malbec in the confines of a dark bar, sometimes in the confines of my dark apartment. He stares at me. I think he sees my soul and it freaks me out. The moment I met him, 4,380 days ago, I wondered “What kind of voodoo prince are you?” It was instant. I wanted to know this non-human human. I had to. I sensed he was beat as I was, even more so, but I also thought he was perfect.
Read MoreEveryone keeps reminding me to trust the timing of my life, but I think that’s the hardest thing for anyone to do. I sit in a place between analyzing want and need, where timing is a factor and so is personal honesty. You know, the type of honesty only you know because it’s branded on your heart like a tramp stamp on a 21 year olds lower back. Sometimes the truth feels like a mistake, but you know it’s who you are and if you hold back - well - that pain of not doing what you wanted might one day actually be worse. So, you’ve marked yourself for life. Admired and admonished in private, you look at yourself equal parts embarrassed and proud. It’s you. It’s you, completely naked.
Read MoreHe waited outside of her apartment in his truck. She came out, nervous, deep brown hair with flecks of gray swept to the side and in a natural wave. She wore a vintage white tank top to accentuate her tan and confidence.The confidence she had little of so a white tank top was clearly the solution to her challenges with confidence. For as long as she could remember, she found most of her solutions and faux confidence in visual appeal and validation. In clothes. In lipstick. In the materials that covered her. In approval.
Read MoreShe grew tired of living a life of half truths. She sat on a park bench with her legs crossed underneath a royal blue floral skirt. The one with the pleats, scattered with large pink and white peonies. It was the fabric of spring, of rebirth; and she wanted to believe that was her truth - so she did. Less than one month earlier her father sewed the waistline of this very skirt, cinching it because it had gotten too big. Her father could no longer remember what he had for breakfast, but he remembered her name, the deep love he had for her and his gift of sewing. He learned how to sew from his mother, it was one of the many gifts he inherited from her.
Read More By the age of thirteen I had a growing girdle collection. The girdles hugged all of my roundness tight, so that my flesh would no longer jiggle. My young tummy was large and saggy and needed to be controlled — or so I was taught.
The first time I ever masturbated, I was wearing a girdle. I was girdled for all special occasions. I wore a girdle to my uncle’s wedding, and again to my aunt’s wedding two months later. Confirmation and junior-high-school prom: both girdled.