Unless you’re living under Donald Trump’s combover, you probably saw this week’s big story about a South African surfer who barely survived a shark attack. Twitter blew up, experts experted all over the morning news shows, and I experienced a little something called déjà vu, because four months ago, my five-year-old son was THISCLOSE to being an amuse-bouche for a bull shark.
How could a guy named Mick Fanning NOT become a professional surfer?
As I sat sipping wine on the deck of a rented Florida beach house (thanks, mom) my son frolicked in the late afternoon surf with his cousins. I kept a casual eye on passing dolphins and talked politics with my aunts and uncles.
(Note: earlier that day, while lounging in the sun, I’d speculated about how I’d act if I saw a shark approaching one of my relatives. In my daydream, I was super heroic… sprinting in the sea, launching my sizable self–fists flying–straight at the shark, and then cradling the victim in my arms as I strode onto the beach, level-headed and calm as I shouted for assistance.) Continue reading
Confession: I’m not much of a sexter. While I fancy myself a first-rate Casanova (or whoever the female Casanova is.. Colette, perhaps?) who brings it in the boudoir,* sexting has always kind of weirded me out. Fortunately for you, me and—let’s face it—humankind, I decided to push through the discomfort and learn to sext with the lyrical prowess of Sydney Leathers.
And how better to master the art of sexting than to dive straight into the deep end: sexting a friend’s husband using her phone. There’s nothing like a little anonymity to move things along! Continue reading
Graphic credit: Helen Jane Hearn
If I’ve learned one thing from Keeping up with the Kardashians, it’s that a little self-promotion never hurt anyone. With that in mind, I’d like to share my latest for Tue/Night, a little ditty about a bowl of fruit salad, some bacterial dysentery, and one of the world’s biggest pop sensations. Enjoy!
Bad Street Food Nearly Killed Me Until Celine Dion Saved my Life
Accepting as a given that a majority of parents of young children are frequently sleep-deprived and therefore trudging through daily life in a haze that sounds like Curious George babble and smells like strawberry applesauce, this researcher set forth to assess and categorize optimal napping circumstances for said parents, so as to enable occasional (and unfortunately brief) respite from the chaos.
Bed or other soft-ish surface
Solitude – optional
Knock-off memory foam mattress topper – optional
Pajamas – optional
White noise machine or one of those soothing classical music-playing seahorse toys – optional
Bag of Target brand caramel cashew trail mix to snack on pre-nap – optional but recommended Continue reading
It began innocently. Someone’s friend was selling Pampered Chef kitchen goods, and someone else told me that I couldn’t LIVE without the mini spatula, and despite the fact that I bake about as frequently as I compete in Ironman Triathlons, I nodded gamely and made the purchase.
(Confession: It’s a remarkably handy utensil that allows me to flip eggs like Al Pacino in Frankie and Johnny. I really don’t know how I lived without it… apparently I spent most of my twenties serving my house guests ragged brownies and dented pancakes. No buyer’s remorse here!)
Within a week, the emails began sneaking in, undeterred by my spam filter and piss-poor attitude. Continue reading
My darling K,
This note will start out kind of depressing, but I promise that, as in every good piece of writing, there will be a turning.
My memories of my early life are murky, but I think I was about six years old when kids started teasing me by calling me fat. That would have been first grade. Remarkably, I wasn’t particularly fat; big-boned, my mom called me, and that was accurate. I liked to eat and was more bookish than athletic. I had a round little tummy and probably had to wear clothes from some embarrassing fashion line called “Sturdy Gurlz” or similar. But kids can be mean, and this particular group of mean girls figured out that the word FAT held a lot of power over me. Continue reading
…at least until the humidity drops below 75 percent.
Here’s a little something about running, motivation and energy that I wrote for TueNight. It was picked up by Huffington Post. The best part about appearing in HuffPost was the bizarre amalgam of ads and suggested stories that ran beneath my piece: 7 Ways to Find Her Clitoris (sponsored); 26 Hottest NFL Wives; Python Swallows Crocodile Whole.
Do they know my demographic, or what?