Tag Archives: love

Must love dog parties

Must love dog parties

Just be who you are, whoever that is…. Ever heard that saying? Well, what if who you really are, is an asshole? Or how about, “there are no stupid questions.”? Uh, duh, yes there are. Plenty. So how about ” there’s no wrong way to do X.”? These are just lies circulated by well-meaning mothers (including me) and the Hallmark channel.
I was dating wrong. I was in desperate search for a wife. Date like that for awhile and you’ll know exactly what I mean. Worse yet, I was looking to replace the husband and father that was a fantasy. I blame Disney and the Hallmark channel.
If you’re dating, or single, or in a bad relationship, everyone has dating advice for you. ” you’ve got to be ready before you can find love” or “there’s a fish for every hook” or ” you’ve gotta love yourself first.” Or ” create a vision board/list/seashell mosaic of your perfect mate. ” and these things work, some times, by chance mostly I believe.
Because my last dating experiences, before “the marriage”, occurred when cell phones were carried around in ten pound bags, I assumed I just had a learning curve. All this technology! And it’s true that the language of dating has changed, or rather the platforms through which we communicate have changed. ” Last night was great! LOL” but the basics are more or less the same. I did have to stop looking for true love for it to land right in my lap.

In the beginning, the second beginning that is, I wanted so terribly, hopelessly, to replace (as quickly as possible) the relationship I imagined I’d lost with my husband. A space where there were brochure-worthy vacations, holidays with perfect turkeys, enviable Facebook posts, family yoga, homemade bread, Boggle games, picnics with dignitaries, dry camp sites, fire station visits, softball tournaments, bean bag chairs, dog parties, clam bakes, matching outfits, seaside family portraits, gardens, ferret adoptions…
The point is, I discovered rather immediately (at least twice) that that wasn’t what I wanted at all, well maybe dog parties…. But I wasn’t adept at sharing the charge of my daughters. I’m kinda a careworn frontier woman in this respect. Maybe that was something I longed for a decade ago, but I’d failed to let that fantasy go when reality took its place. So those forays into relationships were heartbreaking partings, and maybe it wasn’t a wrong way to date, but it certainly was agonizing.
So, I did what I could figure out to do, go on match.com and power date. It’s like looking for a new car: I like these features, I don’t like these features, pick a couple of options, test drive and put down an offer. But people are poor substitutes for cars. And cars are terrible substitutes for soulmates, except maybe my Mini Cooper. I’d probably marry her, though she’s terrible at doing dishes and the one time I asked her to plan a dog party…wow, did she ever fuck that up. But I digress.
I considered the vision board, but in my house finding a glue stick that isn’t dried out and a pair of scissors that opens AND closes isn’t really an option. I thought about making a list and pondered singles cruises, but the whole situation had exhausted me, so instead, I just sat.
I stopped expecting something, stopped imagining that I was ready to know what I wanted, or needed. I can hardly order lunch some days and I am fully aware of exactly what kind of food I want and need. Why did I think I knew who was going to fill the chasm in my heart? I decided to sit alone. Because if I had to go on one more horrible date and make small talk about beer pong, I was going to jump a slow-moving train to Vinton.
And confidentially, no one will ever fill that chasm in my heart, or be the imaginary genius Dad/husband that I kept checking for on Tinder. Knowing this was the most freeing thought I could have had. Hearing this allowed me to breathe and sit . And one day, I found myself sitting in the right place with the right space to allow something beautiful to grow.
So here’s my unsolicited dating advice for you, gentle reader…lose your list of expectations. What you think you want, maybe isn’t what you really need. It’s probably something you never imagined, or could imagine, like the distance of Pluto from the earth. And maybe it’s helpful to start with knowing who you are. Me I’m a complicated mix of hilarious and needy, generous and bad at home repairs, honest and a decent dancer, a mother with a teenage heart. So you, go ahead, be who you are, even if that’s a total asshole, you’re in good company. I hope you find your asshole soulmate and you both play out the rest of your days tossing waded up love notes to each other at your dog’s birthday party.


Kites, shoe strings and stars: or the secret to why my Dad rocks

Kites, shoe strings and stars: or the secret to why my Dad rocks

When I was about four years old, my dad took me out one afternoon to a nearby park. We flew kites that day. The sky was blue and the wind speed just right. My parents both worked a lot, in order to help make ends meet. So a day together was important. I said, ” I’ll remember this day forever.” Well, I have remembered it for nearly forty years, which I’m sure is much longer than “forever” was to a four year old.
My dad taught me how to ride a bike, and tie my shoes. He taught me my multiplication tables (or tried to in one marathon session the night before I started third grade and we realized I needed to already know them). He taught me to drive, which only now that I have my own teenage daughter to teach, do I understand what an accomplishment of patience this was. He showed me constellations and plants and birds and flowers. He explained inert gases and chaotic molecules. He demonstrated how to make chemical reactions, and safe, colorful fire. He taught me to be thrifty with my money, to work hard, to save. Dad encouraged me to be independent and have hobbies and skills and always seek to learn more. By example, he taught me how to be punny, and is largely responsible for my own dry sense of humor. He inspired me to be well balanced, and to never burn bridges (particularly with employers, ’cause you just never know when you might need them), to consider my choices, and to speak boldly when necessary.
Perhaps, most importantly, he taught me that I was important and worth his time. For all the material that he shared with me, the real lesson was that I mattered. I’m glad I learned long division and difference between a male, a female and a juvenile bird, but really what I learned was how to be a good parent and a good person. Because the best gift my dad gave me was being there. He taught me that the real trick is to simply be present, to feel the wind on our faces, the warmth of the sun on our backs and to take time to watch kites fly.

Spoiler alert: you own your joy

Spoiler alert: you own your joy

Well, I had a relatively quiet couple of months. The butterflies have launched, the play has closed and I’m back to managing three-ish jobs with moderate success. And then blam-o, the calendar reminds me that Mother’s Day is upon us with Father’s Day close behind.
Mother’s Day is the parenting equivalent of Valentines Day. Moms need and deserve a day. We (all) bust our butts for a reward that is a long time coming, if it comes at all. These days, with single moms being held responsible for a plethora of social ills, from lashing out in school to rioting, it’s hard to keep your head up. And my day to day, is still, well, embarrassing. I spend uncountable hours performing glamorous tasks like, cleaning up dog feces and looking for lost shoes and pieces of paper. Added to the mix is my own second (er, third) adolescence. I made toast this morning and felt pretty proud of myself. This month all the bills were paid basically on time, I only forgot one RSVP and I kept up with the various other appointments, well mostly. I made attempts to create quality time, to be patient, to be compassionate, to be quiet. I did my best, with varying results.
My point being, Mother’s Day can feel like an F-U. It can be the grim remembrance of who you are not, or who you have lost. I’m lucky to have a mom, to be able to call her, to be able to send her a gift. And I’m fairly certain my mother is racked with guilt and feelings of inadequacy that no card or bouquet of flowers can ever repair. I know because now I get to live on the other side of that equation too. Then of course, there’s the folks that fall into the categories of having lost their mother, being estranged from their mother, or just having a complicated relationship with their mother. See, it’s valentines day for parenting.
Being a mom is simultaneously the most difficult and the most rewarding accomplishment of my life. So, Mother’s Day is our day dammit! Moms, we earned this day. Daughters and sons, you earned this day to honor or remember or even be thankful that you live across the country from your mom. But we each get to decide what this day means and how we want to honor, or ignore it. But it is a choice. Confidentially i have set aside some sad sacking time on Saturday explicitly for moaning and feeling sorry for myself, for lamenting the mom I cannot be on my own and the husband that left me to do just that. But then I have a new plan. I say, If you’re feeling left out of the holiday send someone flowers, anyone who cares for you without demand, send your daughter flowers, or the old lady at the convince store that always calls you, ” honey!” . Send a card to the secretary at church, buy lunch for the waitress. Mow the lawn of an elderly neighbor, buy yourself a latte and a cupcake, You can honor anyone you want and I guarantee you’ll make the day of whomever you gift with your thoughts, because that’s often what being a mother is about: caring for someone else, taking care of the village.

Transformation #375

Transformation #375

Once, as a child, I made a bad choice and was sent to my room for an hour. At the end of the hour, my mother opened my door and said that I could come out. My response? ” it’s already been an hour!” I was in the midst of playing something that involved an old zip up suitcase and my play sized kitchen sink. My imagination was my best friend, I preferred it over most humans for many years to come.
I am a fiercely independent only child and survivor of many things. I have numerous friends, and have entertained (hopefully) many people. I adore making people laugh, I delight in the stories that people share, I enjoy the buzz of parties and I am more comfortable on a stage in front of a sold out house than most any place.
I am happy eating alone, watching a movie alone, spending the day alone. I have traveled throughout the United States, Amsterdam and Germany alone. I have bought cars, and houses, drawn up wills and settled estates alone. I have raised my daughters virtually alone, not every moment, but the majority of the day in and day out, the midnight terrors, the early morning breakdowns, the fears, the hopes, the disappointments.
I have done some of it by choice, somethings by necessity, some by habit. I have taken pride in some of it, responsibility for most of it and when things failed, I have taken it hard. I have actively avoided help, slyly ignored offers, purposely pushed people away. Not always because it was best, but because it felt the safest. I made bad choices that made good relationships hard and worse choices that made bad relationships easier. Being fiercely independent, is the opposite of being vulnerable.
That fierce independence has served me well though. It has protected me in the worst of times and kept me in the survivor column. But it has also caused me to miss out on real opportunities for real love. It has left voids where deep friendships and connectedness should be. There are many ways to be alone, closing yourself off to deep connection is only one way.
Fifteen years ago I flung myself into the fire, with an openness to love and a deep desire to be a mother and a wife. I wasn’t as careful as I needed to be, I didn’t keep my eyes open. I loved boldly, though. I earned that deep connection.
And the time has come to love boldly again, to be vulnerable to the other honest-hearted souls, to love fearlessly, but wisely. I’ve grown and I’ve sheltered, I’ve healed and I’m healing. And the time has come to open up, loosen my heart, feel the warmth of intimacy, the comforting embrace of another. To give.
And I’ve taken my first baby step, by being vulnerable to each of you.

The Amish break up

The Amish break up

So yes, I ate a roll-ish of cookie dough yesterday. I’m not admitting that it’s relationship related, maybe my diet simply lacks enough chocolate chips.
On a, probably, unrelated note, let’s talk about break ups.
When I was 15 and Tim “somebody or other” broke up with me (he was 17 after all and about to go off to college), I spent the better part of three days laying face down in a pile of discarded acid washed jeans and neon stirrup pants inside my closet. One day, while trying to put clothes away in my room, my mother insisted that I get up and move on with my life. But Tim was the first boy I ever “really” kissed, I had picked out bride’s maids dresses for our imaginary wedding. They were drawn in ink pen on a piece of spiral notebook paper. This was serious.
But I never really saw Tim very much. We didn’t go to the same school, the one phone in my house was on the wall of the kitchen, and there was no internet, no Facebook, Instagram or snapchat. We weren’t ” friends”. Stalking an ex required hiring a private investigator, or asking our mutual friends. My babysitting gigs didn’t really provide the kind of income that would afford me private investigator money, and we didn’t really have mutual friends. So, when I finally did see Tim with another girl, it was months later and at 15, my heart had healed.
Now, it might seem that as an adult, IF I were upset over the break up of someone, I’d have the common sense not to look them up on the inter webs, to block them from my feed, or whatever I’m sure real grown ups do. But apparently I’m not a real grownup. I blame having to start over at 40, but I’m not sure that’s fair.
The internet essentially allows a person to gaze into the sanitized version of your ex’s life without you. Man, does it look like you were holding them back! Look how happy they are, how social, how utterly ecstatic that you are out of their life (but not their newsfeed) for good. Who even knew they liked to travel? And drink so many exotic drinks, and dance with sooo many women.
If you’ve broken up with someone, but would like to remain a part of their lives, Let me give you some advice that I should have taken myself, go back to a simpler time. I’d like to call this the Amish break up. Pretend the Internet doesn’t exist, especially Facebook. If you have to be on there, BLOCK! BLOCK! BLOCK! Do not, under any circumstances just glance at their page. It’s the olden times equivalent of standing outside their house and gazing in their windows or tapping their phone, the difference is, they know you’re watching and listening, and they get to control what you see. So, even if in the dark of the night they too are eating cookie dough, on Facebook their life couldn’t be better or happier and it’s more than a little torturous.
We’d all like to believe that it is impossible for others to go on without us, not just in relationships, but with jobs, and friends too. But, regardless of how accurate an expression of reality Facebook is, it’s in print and picture. And like art, it tells us plenty and leaves plenty up for interpretation, tortuous interpretation. So just don’t, go there. Go back to 1980. Use only cordless phones, pretend computers are only for evil geniuses, use a camera with film, lay in your closet if you have to. And eat cookie dough if you need to. Not that that’s what I was doing, I’m just trying to help you.



Dating still has to be the most bizarre creation we’ve come up with in society. Seems like everyone is trying to get into a relationship, get out of a relationship or get over a relationship. And very often it seems we are trying to do all three at the same time. But I’ve accepted the yolk of responsibility and I’m trying to remember it’s a learning experience and as m’lynn said, ” that which does not kill us, makes us stronger.”
Apparently, I’m learning, I’m very eager to trust my instincts, open and honest to a fault and fairly delusional. Meaning, if I were a hunter, I’d probably be slaughtered by a rabid deer, because I had stopped to feed it berries. Fortunately, I’m not hunting for food and I’m up to date on all my shots. This is to say only this about the squirrel taxidermist with whom I spent a few weeks, sometimes it’s best to just accept that yes, I am kinda judgey and frankly, I have no idea what I’m doing.
So I’m just hoping that with quantity, eventually I’ll figure it all out. But know this, it’s brutal and I’m on something of a time restraint. I’m trying to squeeze in all this learning between raising three girls alone, a couple or twenty jobs and a couple or twenty hobbies, and oh yeah that whole grieving healing thing. It’s like binge watching a bunch of documentaries on relationships and then trying to pass a 200 page exam all in a few hours. Mistakes are being made. And I’d love to be able to just give up and become a hermit (which my friend M and I concede is frequently the only answer when things get tough). But I like people, and I’m discovering more and more, that though I’m very proficient at being alone, it’s lonely.
So, I’m going back up to bat, with what must be a very bad batting average ( is 3 a bad batting average? I don’t follow baseball.) God, now all I can think of are ball throwing analogies. So, I’ll get back on the horse, or the bicycle, or out where the fish are in the sea and cast my rod of love. Ok evidently my relationship troubles are affecting my ability to come up with proper descriptions of my relationship troubles. But you probably grasp that I’m not giving up, not because of a few cat herders (actually just one), because I am gaining so much knowledge about who I am in relation to other people. And that is what will thrust me into the sea of passion, no-catapult me into the crockpot of love stew, no- wedge me in the soft-spot on the cradle cap of love.
Well, clearly this is a process, and I’m not where I want to be, but I’m getting there and hopefully I don’t get downed by rabid woodland creatures in the interim.

Management 101

Management 101

Love is a fickle bitch. You think she’d just recognize an amazing person and then settle in for a lifetime of romantic montages. But no, apparently she has a twisted sense of humor instead.
Part of the joy? of dating the second time around is figuring out what it is I want as a grown up and recognizing what I can’t manage. Which to the casual observer might obviously be something very different than what I wanted when I was in my early 20s. For me, that has taken some trial and error to figure out. And frankly, what exactly this is seems to be something of an enigma still.
Maybe love was just simpler in the 90s, all those John Hughes films from the 80s had fueled a fairly concrete picture of who I should spend my life with–Emilio Estevez. Or some other jock with a heart of gold. Or perhaps I’m making it more difficult than it needs to be.
Somehow the part of me that longs for a slow motion run into the arms of a shirtless hero won’t reconcile with a weirdly practical sense of time management. Meaning- I’m a busy woman and I’m no longer looking to build a family with someone. I have a family, and for the most part I fear that the nuclear family ship has sailed for me. I suppose what I mean is, I’m raising my babies and I can’t seem to make room for anyone else to do that with me.
So I’m just like, regular dating, whatever that means, but on the side of being a single parent. So the scenario is like this, I’m dating, but I’ve got three roommates ages 14, 12 and 9. And they are less like roommates and more like nagging wives. ” why are you never home? “, ” why don’t you ever take me out?”, “how come you never get dressed up for me?”, ” but you get to see your friends at work all the time. “.
Never a day off–ever. I’m phenomenally lucky to be able to afford a regular babysitter/nanny/hired wife. She’s wonderful, but she can’t be a second parent no matter how great she is. She’s more like a big sister in that way. And the girls let me know it. Plus they spend a lot of time assuming I’ll never come back if I leave, so I get it. It’s complicated.
I might have mentioned that this struggle is just one in a long line of how do I participate in life as a grown up, who’s not entirely “grown-up”, be a parent and role model, and make space for me as a single lady. Imagine that the majority of your social interactions are being scrutinized by a trio of people who know you very well in one specific way, but collectively have the emotional maturity of kimmy Schmidt. Imagine your employees live with you, are dependent on you and feel very free to share with you how disappointing you are to them as a boss. By the way, you cannot fire them.
I’m not really complaining. I do love my daughters intensely and recognize that we are in this pickle vat together. We keep each other afloat. And when they are busy and happy, they don’t much mind that I work, or even go out for a drink with friends.
So it’s just part of where I am, which I never imagined I’d be. I’ve never really been great at thinking stuff through, I mean seriously, Emilio Estevez ? I was way more Anthony Michael Hall’s type anyway.

Love me tinder

Love me tinder

If you haven’t noticed, I write from a certain perspective. I write a lot about what goes wrong, but I do it for humor. There’s a lot that goes right, but that’s not very funny. I like writing funny stories and these are the stories with the spilled milk, the foiled plans, the awkward dates.
Perfection is an allusion. Anyone who looks out into the world and thinks that organized entry ways, Facebook statuses, or blissfully happy couples are exactly as they seem, is delusional. Life is a beautiful string of messy failures, lonely nights (both in and out of relationships), burned food, awkward kisses, weird conversations, botched romances, cold water, cheap wine, skidding cars, silence, seeing someone else win, hurt feelings, loss, destroyed furniture, missing opportunities, choosing a path, misplaced passion, angry children, empty promises, sitting alone, snow days, crying.
Not one of these is bad, they just are. They are things. I believe I am exactly where I should be, exactly as I should be. I have many things to be grateful for, my beautiful girls, my loving family, my many friends, flexibility, being busy, needing to be alone, being single, messy failures, lonely nights, burned food, awkward kisses….it’s all part of the whole. The “bad stuff” is only bad if I allow it to be.
So yes, I prefer to write about what went wrong, what was weird or what was awkward. I am focused on those things because that’s where I find the funny and, that’s where I see my growth. Growth isn’t in the successes, it’s in the failures.



This morning on our way to school my youngest daughter asked how long after Chris and I were married was her oldest sister born. I stared ahead at the road, thoughts racing. How do I answer this one?
Chris and I met in June of 1999. I was 26 and Chris was 32. A year before we met I had ended a serious relationship that I had deluded myself into thinking was going to culminate into a marriage. When it didn’t, I decided I was done dating. The next relationship I had was going to be with the man I would eventually marry. When I met Chris I knew pretty quickly that he had potential to be that person.
Chris was only in Atlanta for a year before he would head to Baltimore for his anesthesia residency at Johns Hopkins. After only a few weeks of dating I recognized that I had serious feelings for Chris and needed to know if he had a long term plan. I asked if he imagined that I would go to Baltimore with him a year later, he said he would. I said that I would not be willing to move to Baltimore as his girlfriend. So, I guess that’s how he proposed, or how I proposed.
Over the next couple of weeks we shared the news with our families. It was a general statement, we’d get married at some point. We were the 1999 version of pinned. On one stop of the trip I started feeling rather ill and became nauseous at the smell of coffee. I was too tired to get up for a family breakfast and instead stayed in bed for much of the trip.
After returning to Atlanta, we met with several of the Emory residents for a weekly trivia night at a local bar. In those days you could still smoke inside and the smoke was bothering me, as was the smell of beer. Chris mentioned to his friend (a medical resident) that I’d been feeling ill, nauseous, tired. His friend looked at the two of us like we were insane. “Have you taken a pregnancy test ? Cause it’s not like you need a doctor to figure this one out.”
Sunday morning we did just that. And of course it came up positive. We looked at a calendar and Chris had a long weekend the weekend of October 15th, we’d marry on that Friday and have the weekend for a honeymoon. For some reason we thought we’d wait until we returned from the honeymoon to tell out families about getting married or about the pregnancy. Maybe we had some inkling of how ludicrous it might appear, maybe we feared it was ludicrous, maybe we feared that we were making an insane mistake, or that we had no idea what we were doing. In retrospect, we had no idea what we were doing. We were jumping in and hoping for the best.
I bought a blue dress on clearance at TJ Maxx. We found a Unitarian Universalist minister in the phone book. I think the entire wedding, license, minister, dress, some blue candles from Pier One, a plant from our porch and a sheer white curtain from Goodwill (for decoration) cost a few hundred dollars. I bought Chris a Frank Lloyd Wright book and he bought me a onsie that said “sprout” on it and said he bought it as a way of demonstrating that he was committed to our growing family.
We spent the weekend in Helen,GA where we bought a handmade quilt and ate at the “fanciest” restaurant (it smelled like mold) and stayed at an old B&B aptly named “Grandpa’s Room”. The Braves were in the World Series, I remember because as we fell asleep beneath the canopy bed, a cool breeze drifting in the open window, as an old radio was broadcasting the game. I remember laying on Chris’s chest, thinking how amazing our family would be.
The phone calls on Monday weren’t great, but we had already decided it was going to be easier to ask for forgiveness than permission. Seven months later, my beautiful, headstrong Madeline was born and I’ve waited 14 years for one of my three daughters to do the math.
So, I shared the story with them of our brief love affair and quick marriage. How strange it felt for them to have grown up not knowing this was the story of how we began; how our family started.
I’m not sure why I kept it a secret from them, embarrassment maybe, fear of judgement, apprehension that they might feel compelled to repeat our slipshod romance one day. But the truth is we were in love, we wanted to believe that we could make a life together, we were idealistic. And some days we did make it work, and we struggled sometimes, but we made the right choice. That should not be a secret.



I tend to be a contrarian by my nature, maybe it was growing up in a relatively small town. I wanted to stand out, be noticed. That’s why I spell my name with an “I” instead of the “y” I was born with. I wanted to be different. I do like group dances, the wobble, the electric slide, the Cupid shuffle, but only because I feel like I’m really good at them (please don’t tell me if Im not, I’m too old to learn a new skill, or handle the rejection).
So it’s this time of year when I feel compelled to announce publicly, that I do not like valentines day. I also don’t think this puts me in the minority anymore, but in second grade, it was social suicide. Come on! Everybody gets a Transformer card or a My Little Pony card with a Lollipop taped to it. And every, single one from Jimmy says “Love, Jimmy”. I’ll bet you a million dollars that there are at least two dozen people in this class that Jimmy doesn’t even know by their full name. Amelia Cathline Trowell? Who’s that, oh you mean, Amy? It’s spelled AMI, jerk. Yet we all had to open our dumb shoe box and ahhh over the fact that Jimmy wrote down all the names from his list, provided by the teacher, and stuffed them dutifully in the provided envelope, or worse, stuck the provided sticker on the flap to close it, or worse yet no folding, just a wide open card with “Love, Jimmy” scrawled on each and every one. Well, I don’t like the kind of love you’re trying to sell “Jimmy”. Leave me off your list, I can live without your contrived version of love, I’m good all by myself without the same card that every boy and girl got in the class. And that lollipop is nothing but sugar and red dye.
So congratulations valentines day, you are the emotional equivalent of a modern day elementary school awards ceremony. Everybody gets a token of “love”, but it means nothing because we all got one, it’s obligatory. It’s a participation trophy. And I blame you, second grade valentines day party for setting up my expectations that there would also be a decorated paper plate full of love notes on every future February 14th, and red cupcakes. But there are no cupcakes, no paper plate mailbox full of love notes. Jimmy is almost certainly trapped in a loveless marriage, with a girl he met in second grade. Or worse yet sending out numerous “love, Jimmy” texts after he drunkedly grinds on strangers at a bar on Saturday night. You’re too old for this club Jimmy. Go home!
I’m mostly kidding of course. But valentines is a weird adult holiday to me. Either you’re in a relationship and you feel some compulsion to do SOMETHING, buy something, send something, eat out in a crowded restaurant, make a mix tape. (Which I know wouldn’t even be a tape). Or you’re not in a relationship and you’re trapped into thinking all those people with dates, got it made. And here you sit alone, probably the only person in the world without a date on this extra miserable Saturday, cause even if you did venture out with a group of platonic friends you’d be bombarded with bouquets of roses for other people and impossible to get dinner reservations. It must be how Jewish people feel on Christmas.
But it’s our cross to bare, because we can’t seem to organize a boycott big enough to prove to Hallmark that no one needs this reminder about sharing love or missing love. We understand that no one over the age of 9 thinks that they are getting a Mylar balloon with hearts on it for any other reason than the mall has dedicated a kiosk to cheap Chinese, future land fill in order to drag a few more dollars out of your lover’s pocket.
For those of you who adore Valentines day and to the six 9 year olds who read my blog, I’m sorry. I’m sure I sound like a bitter old spinster and maybe with good reason. It’s easier to be cynical than to get on board with a holiday that historically has made me skeptical of shows of love. And maybe it uncovers the scars on my heart. Yes Jimmy, I was secretly hoping I was the only one getting a card from you. I was a little devastated to see all the cards said, “love, jimmy” ’cause yours was the only card that said, ” Love, Ami”.