I live in “lusquiver.” No it’s not a town in New England you have never heard of, nor is it a kingdom springing from a fairy tale. It’s a word I stumbled upon in my current favorite book, The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows. “Lusquiver” is
But what did I love so much about Toulouse-Lautrec? What drew me to his story, his art, besides the fact that I knew if I were alive back then, we would have been friends. (I never longed to be one of the “society girls” parading about in stiff silk skirts and spending my days swanning about, dressing for meals. No. I would have run away to the Moulin Rouge and spent my days practicing my high kicks in frilly knickers.)
If life was a soap opera, and let’s be honest, it is, we might call it One Life to Live, unless you are dealing with divorce in which case it’s “One Life to Life While a Thousand Arrows of Pain come Hurling your Direction.”
or “All My Children Make Me Have to see my Ex Again which Makes Me Feel like that Cat Walking Across Hot Coals.”
I prefer to not see him ever so I can pretend he doesn’t exist. But alas, while I keep building a beautiful pink bubble around myself, pesky reality keeps puncturing holes in it, forcing me to deal with pain I’d rather wish away.
Dear Adorable Ski Suit with Bunny Ears, I spotted you from across the store and everything else disappeared.
It was just you and me.
Do you know that feeling when you find yourself in the middle of something you never thought would happen to you? Something so dangerous your adrenaline storms your body so that your rational mind turns off and your instinct takes over?
That’s how I felt when I found myself in the middle of a high speed criminal chase in New Orleans the other day.
At any given moment, my brain is a tragedy jukebox, saying, “Hmmmm, which tragic moment shall we replay in elaborate detail for Marci right now?” Heart-shattering memories slice into my daily life with wild abandon, as I am forced to relive overwhelming loss. So I
It was quiet, with only the sound of the river. I have spent my life looking for miracles, so when Sharon and I were driving down the desert highway in New Mexico, with cell service long gone and our only entertainment the gallivanting tumbleweeds crossing
I hesitate to share this story because it’s so deeply personal, but when something has this big of an impact on me, I want to share it, just in case there’s someone out there who can relate. A few weeks ago, as I sunk into
Oh Hello Darling! Where have you been all my life? In all your exquisite luminescent pink? Your delicate curving arch, like a quivering rainbow of invitations… I wasn’t looking for you, oh no. I was looking for a gorgeous storm-proof boot that could withstand slush,
Conjure up a parliament in old England: a stately room of soaring ceilings, carved wooden chairs and podiums, colorful flags and the smell of lemon furniture polish and Old Spice wafting through the air, except in this room the scents change to freshly fallen leaves,
