The Kids Are All Right

There are some places in the world that hold your memories as if they were people. A few of mine: the Wiccan shop that used to be in a basement storefront on West 81st Street, where a woman with long red hair and her HIV-positive best friend sold me candles and helped me figure out how to survive being a teenager. A terrible dive bar in the Valley called The Green Frog, where I learned to play darts and that I should never drink Jack Daniels. The entire town of Ogunquit, Maine, where I hunted for hermit crabs on the rocks at five, ate Strawberry Shortcake and lobster rolls on rickety wooden patios at fifteen, and then walked down a flower-lined aisle buzzing with mosquitoes (one of which was busy investigating my right eyelid) towards my husband at twenty-seven.

And the Cayman Islands; maybe there most of all.

It's the places where we vacation when we're kids that always get us through the heart, isn't it? I wish I had some wise thoughts that might explain why, but the best I can come up with is that our vacations let us be our purest selves at whatever age we're at, while still giving us permission to dip our toes into what came before and what's still to come. We get to hold on to our childhoods by playing in the sand just a little bit longer, and also get to have our first kisses just a little bit too soon. We get to play miniature golf with our parents, and hug them back when they hug us even though we think we're supposed to be too old for hugs  - because really, who's watching?


Here, Now

The blood moon (and a Supermoon as well, I think) rising over the ocean last night.

If you've been following my Insta stories, you already know this, but surprise! I left the country. I'm in the Cayman Islands with my parents, because there's been some health stuff going on with my family lately, and a couple of weeks ago they asked me to come with them on their trip, and so I used a bunch of miles and booked a ticket. I wanted (or needed, really) to come down and spend a few days diving with my dad and hanging out and talking with my mom.

And so this is where I am now.


The Less-Pretty Picture

I had this post I was planning to write today; a post about breakfast hacks. About how my kids have developed this habit of each requiring highly specific breakfasts, in addition to their highly specific lunches (I literally have to use my body to block their line of vision while assembling their sandwiches, or else there is a significant probability that my daughter will burst into soul-wrenching tears because I put the jelly on top of the peanut butter before placing the other slice of bread on top, as opposed to putting peanut butter on one slice and jelly on the other slice, and only then putting the slices together).

I know you know this already, but it bears repeating: The images that you see on my site - on many, if not most professional bloggers' sites - don't always reflect reality. When you see a photo like that one up there, you're seeing what my life looks like when I have lipstick on, and take the time to wipe down my countertops, and have a professional photographer present making sure that the angle of the shot doesn't reveal the crusty pots in the sink. Sometimes when my children are looking all sweet and happy in photos, it's because I've told them that sure, we can go see Peter Rabbit later, not because the food I made them was just so fucking delicious that they felt compelled to burst into spontaneous expressions of joy.

I like coming up with ideas for pretty pictures; I like creating them and editing them and crafting posts around them. Imagery is a part of my job, and it's a part that I enjoy.

But it's important to me to be crystal-clear about which parts are real, and which parts are just photographs that help me tell a story - because pretending otherwise helps no one.


I Lost My Fallopian Tube From An Ectopic Pregnancy, And I Don’t Think I Had To

This is a sad post, so here is a happy picture.

Since I last posted about what I thought was a miscarriage, my medical situation has gotten pretty significantly worse, and even though right now I'm laying in bed with bandages all over my torso and can't really move, I wanted to write about this because for some reason doing so is functioning as a kind of in-real-time therapy for me. And also because I had no idea that what happened to me over the past week could happen, and it didn't have to, and I'd really like it to not happen to anyone else.



Here's a funny little byproduct of this site: when I write about something that falls on the "heavy" side of the spectrum (like, ohhhh, say, this), it's always strange trying to figure out how to transition back into more "normal" topics. Today, for example, the plan was to do an outfit post, because I haven't done one in forever, but I'm not sure how to go about that; typing up tips on how to wear a 3/4-sleeve jacket in the winter isn't something I feel like doing at the moment.

So I'm going to tell you about my socks instead. But first I'm going to tell you how I'm feeling, because it seems like at least a brief update is warranted.