Dear Starbucks, I have a confession to make. As embarrassed as I am to admit it, I’m only interested in you for one thing. No it’s not your iced caramel macchiato. It’s not your over-enthusiastic androgynous employees with bolts in their faces. It’s not your cooler-than-thou ambiance, replete with black and white photography and the…
housewives
The Skin and Bones of Contention
At some point or another in a marriage, a wife faces a delicate dilemma: How to incorporate her husband’s deer head, bowling trophy, concert poster, stereo speakers, bar lamp or autographed sporting equipment into the home d├®cor. In nineteen years of marriage to my Navy husband, I’ve learned that solving this domestic quandary involves compromise,…
The Armchair Olympian
“I used to be a sprinter,” my husband said recently while lying prone on our couch, watching the Olympics with a bag of tortilla chips placed conveniently on his middle-aged gut as if it was some kind of living chip-dip platter. Is he being serious? I thought to myself incredulously. “Are you being serious?” my…
Feel free to soil yourself
When the kids were little, I used to be good at things. I was organized, talented, nurturing, patient, creative, hard-working, energetic, and my bust stuck out farther than my gut. I was a good Navy wife, homeroom mom, team mom, committee chair, and block captain. I gardened, made healthy meals, kept my checkbook balanced, exercised…
