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
Every Friday night from 1976-79, I watched the Donny and Marie Show. My sisters and I had pretend silver microphones and sang duets in front of our bedroom mirrors, songs like Paper Roses, Puppy Love, and our favorite, “I’m a little bit country, I’m a little bit of rock and roll.” We laughed at Donny’s purple socks every time he raised his pant legs and one Christmas we received Donny and Marie Barbie Dolls from Santa and played for hours, until one day Donny’s head popped off and I decided it was taken by a ghost because I never found it.
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.)
Extra! Extra! Read all about it! I was thrilled to wake up on Monday morning to find an article about The Nita & Zita Project on the front page of the Brookline HUB! If you are in the New England area, come to the historic
Dear Adorable Ski Suit with Bunny Ears, I spotted you from across the store and everything else disappeared.
It was just you and me.
If someone made a list of my skills, right at the top would be the one that makes me a favorite in the aged 3-10 crowd: advanced pretending.
I can pretend my way out of almost any situation, from hard core trauma to election results to the price of hair highlights.
Are you charging me the price of a roundtrip ticket to Paris every 6 weeks to color my roots? Sure! No problem! You have to spend money to make money right?
When I returned to 8852 Sunset to show my children this summer, the logo on the side of the building seemed to rustle and quiver with aching memories, and I longed to tell them but what could I say? What could I tell them of
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
