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I can’t remember the first time I met my husband.
I know that it was at McMillan Junior High. That he was 11 and I was 12.
He was probably wearing turquoise high tops and Leggoons — do you remember Leggoons? I was in my thrift-shop menswear phase, and my bangs were too short because I’d decided to try to cut the curl out of them myself.
Kai and I didn’t start dating until our 20s, but our relationship, and our memories, go way, way back.
And I hate to say this — because …
“When there’s someone bad in the building,” my son said, “we hide under the tables, and then we’re very, very quiet.”
We were in the car, he was 5, and he was telling me about “lockdown.” It was one of those moments … My heart dropped straight through me, straight through the floor of the car. (It landed on Dodge Street, and we had to go back for it.)
It was one of those moments … when I couldn’t believe I’d brought him here.
Here. The ultimate here.
As far as I can tell, …
I need to talk about Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
No. Seriously. I need to. I’m going crazy over here.
I’ve watched all seven seasons of Buffy in the last month, and my head is bursting with it. (That might be all that’s currently up there. ) But I’m seven years too late to find anyone who cares.Read more »
I have two sons, sizes 3T and 6.
And I have a room, an entire room, full of clothes that won’t ever fit either of them again.
I meant to give it all away by now. We’re supposed to have a garage sale or something . . . We’ve been supposed to have a garage sale for a long time.
All right, I’m only four paragraphs in, but I already feel like I need to start this column over. I feel like I should have started by telling you this:
I have two sons, ages 3 and 6. And I can’t remember what it was like when they were babies.Read more »
(Originally published July 29, 1997)
Sometimes I think they know. “They” meaning everyone, meaning you probably.
“They” meaning colleagues and friends and employers.
Sometimes I think that it shows in everything I do and say. In the way I walk and dress.
Sometimes I think they smell it, beneath my perfume, seeping out from my well-soaped skin.
Sometimes I think that no matter how hard I study and smile and struggle, the poverty is still in me, rotting on my breath, devouring my stomach, burning in the back of my throat. In my eyes.
And sometimes …
(Originally published June 20, 2002)
An open letter to the person who stole my car Monday night:
You must have really needed a ride.
My first thought Tuesday morning was, “Nobody would have stolen that car. Did I leave it at work?” But you don’t just misplace a 1982 Chevy Caprice.
I could always spot it in parking lots because it was 3 feet longer than the other cars.
If you caught the column I wrote two years ago about buying a PT Cruiser, you might wonder what I’m doing in a 20-year-old Chevy Caprice.