We recently rediscovered this cover of Man’s Life Magazine, featuring what looks like David Bowie fighting off weasels. The title of that feature is “Weasels ripped my flesh.” Naturally, we (by which I mean, myself and the ever insane and wonderful Katrina) created a #weaselsrippedmyflesh hash tag on twitter. In case you think we’re disturbed, know that Frank Zappa felt the same way.

Mom: I am going to get ready to go out to dinner now–we are celebrating our 9th anniversary how weird is that?

me: why is that weird?

Mom: I am just amazed at how much time has gone by in the blink of an eye 9 whole years… I am bemused

me: congratulations, anyway

Mom: thanks. we went to a paint your own pottery place in west chester this afternoon and made a commemorative platter–it was Bill’s idea. I think it will be really nice and we will hang it on the wall

me: awww

Mom: yeah. next we are making ice cream bowls. One will say “Bill loves Kate” and the other will say “Kate loves BIll” after that we will make another one when you and or Jeanne get married: “Bill and Kate love x & Y” and then we can continue it for each grandchild. I love this idea, making our own fun

me: this is quite the plan. so… what if manfriend and i never get married? would children born out of wedlock not get any bowls? would that screw up the entire bowl continuum? keep reading »

It’s everything I’d hoped and more. That is all. Also, I’m typing this from my phone.

It was about one in the morning last night, and we were lying in bed, our glasses on the night stand. I’d just recovered from a fit of that late-night laughter, the kind that’s infectious and life-affirming. We do this just about every night, and it seems like regardless of what time it is, we have to laugh first. I paused and looked solemnly at the man I share my life with and said, “I’m going to start writing short stories again.”

I said this, because for a fleeting moment, I had had a really good idea for a short story anthology. Of course, this morning, I only have the faintest thread of what that is, and I’m afraid if I pull on it too hard, that thread will snap. After settling into a dark funk over the past few days, weeks, possibly months, I feel like I’m finally coming out of it. Slowly rising out of icy water, the kind that makes it hard to move or feel your own fingers, like trying to punch someone in a dream – suddenly your body remembers that you’re lying in a bed covered in blankets, but your mind doesn’t. keep reading »