Dear Joe...

Dear Joe, I'm not sure if you've ever had someone stare at you in an attempt to figure out "what you are". But I think you know the feeling. This feeling of another human being searching your face for familiarity. Their eyes get extremely inquisitive. Left to right. Up and down. Taking inventory of your suddenly much too exposed features: Wide bridge in nose. Thick bottom lip. Squared jaw-line. Closed-set eyes. Muddied complexion. I can read the inner dialogue. And then it comes. "So, if you don't mind me asking, what are you?" I've often been a total asshole when answering this question. Replies like "a human being." "a bad dancer" "a mother." "a woman." All true, but obviously not what the interrogator is looking for. I now just skip past my pride and tell them. Black and German. If I like them, I get detailed. (I hardly ever get detailed.) Unfailingly, the next sentence follows: "I though...

I think it all started to happen at that last interview. See, I'd been on about 9 previous interviews, and had been unemployed for months. I was at that point during your unemployment, where you start to begin to doubt yourself. What they don't tell you about losing your "stable" career, is the amount of emotional turmoil your life begins to get ravished by. First, you're happy right? This is the start of new, big, changes! Change is good! New chapter. Lunch dates with your girlfriends to discuss future plans over champagne. Beach trips to soak up the sun and finally get that much needed, undistracted vacation you'd been craving for years. Years that you gave up simple pleasures such as, sleeping in until noon, and disconnecting your work email from your cell phone so you don't have those moments of panic at 11 pm when you boss is frantically emailing you and you're just trying to watch the Eagles game with your friends. You finally get that tim...

We sat there. 23 black and Hispanic women, 4 white women, 3 men. Ages ranging from early teens, to late thirties. We all woke up, brushed our teeth, showered (well, most of us), maybe we grabbed coffee, maybe we dropped our kids off at school. We all had a morning before. And then we had a MORNING. A mourning. Once you got past the protesters telling you that you were basically going to Hell, a large man with a body full of tattoos ushered you in. Checked your name off of a list. Like this was an ultra exclusive industry night at Tao. But, you know,that was another life. In this life, you're herded in, branded, and stuck in the coop with the rest of the chickens. Or cattle. Or whatever animal gets tagged and tossed into an assembly line. Pig. We sat there, everyone carefully avoided eye contact. Everyone isolated by whatever mental hell they were currently trapped in. Staring blankly at everything and nothing all at once. A movie was playing in the background (white noise ) as ...

I can't remember the last time I was on the 6 train. But then again, if I'd known it was the last time, maybe I would have paid more attention. I guess that's true for most things in life. You recognize your firsts so easily. First job. First apartment. First car. First kiss. [I will ALWAYS remember this moment!!!!] But lasts. Lasts are tough recognize. Especially if you're super optimistic like me. I never think anything is final. I read a quote once that said "everything I let go of, has claw marks on it." Rings way too true. I'm trying to get better with that. Trying to let go easily. Not rush things nor force them. Not holding on to things that clearly aren't meant to be held. Any first year psych student can probably trace that back to moving around so often in my youth. Losing friends, and beloved toys in the rush and madness of big brown boxes and oceans between continents. Any second year psych student would bring it back to my dad s...

Ok this is a quick post just because my daughter made this seared salmon salad the other night that was straight out of a Top Chef elimination round. I'm quite fucking proud. My mother is really not a good cook at all. No, no don't get me wrong. Everything she cooks is delicious! And I love her. And all 156 lbs of me bears witness to the fact that she kept me fed and happy my whole life. But there weren't things like "searing" going on. It was more of a, "mix this hamburger helper packet into the ground beef" and indulge my G, kinda of cooking. So as I"m sitting here, not only trying to make myself a better woman, but to make my DAUGHTER a better woman, I went ahead and bit the bullet and paid for a Blue Apron subscription. So we can both learn. And grow. And have fun. Together. I was talking with my friends the other day, and it's really amazing in life the journey that friendship takes you on. Everything I know today about being a wo...

Basically my life right now: 5 am: Alarm goes off to get my fat ass to the gym. 5:10 am: Snooze. 5:30 am: snooze. 5:40 am: Thinks I snooze, actually turns off alarm 6:45 am: FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK. *hastily throws on some semi-clean clothing and rushes out the door* 7 am: Begins commute to NYC for work. Listens to depressing news radio about how Donald Trump could actually be president. Makes mental note to never stay at one of his hotels. Unless, obviously, I find a dope Groupon. 9 am - 5 pm: Works tirelessly and never checks cell phone, or social media, or takes too many personal breaks to wander aimlessly around the city. (sarcasm obviously. I do work hard as shit though. I"m just slightly a.d.d.)) 6 pm: Contemplates the amazing work out I'm going to have. Plans out outfit. 7 pm: Passes liquor store on the way home. 10 pm: After 2 hours of binge watching Netflix original programming, finds self in front of fridge wearing a hoodie and socks eating gouda and drinking ...