“I admit it was windy and I bet it looked warm in there, but hungry looks like those are why I wear scarves in an attempt to hide my bosom. Also, boys, I am no cougar.”
In an open letter to the college boys who looked like they were going to jump into my cleavage,
“I admit it was windy and I bet it looked warm in there, but hungry looks like those are why I wear scarves in an attempt to hide my bosom. Also, boys, I am no cougar.”
Strawberry Donuts
When I saw the cover of the April Saveur, I knew I was in trouble. On the cover were these cute, yet seductive donuts. This cover is the reason that I now subscribe to the downloadable version of the magazine. I have no business baking donuts right now. None whatsoever. Seriously, when you’re baking cupcakes all… Continue reading Strawberry Donuts
In an open letter to the four legs I saw this morning,
“Young ladies, if you are going to wear panty-length shorts before us Michiganders are accustomed to seasonal nudity, I suggest you stick to sidewalks instead of walking precariously on the edge of the road. Be safe!”
In an open letter to parenthood,
“I would very much like to blame you for the string cheese wrapper I found in my pocket, but you and I both know that would be a lie….”
Rhubarb Soda
I read enough food magazines to know that when rhubarb is either featured or mentioned on the cover, that the season change is near. I didn’t grow up eating rhubarb; it just wasn’t something that we did. However, I do remember seeing it in the produce section of the grocery store as a child and… Continue reading Rhubarb Soda
In an open letter to her son,
“Sweetie, I figured out what you remind me of when you’re dancing. A chicken. You tuck your hands in, and then begin to flap. Then you start this pecking motion with your head. Now what you’re doing with the rest of your body, I don’t have that part figured out yet….”
In an open letter to the Internet gods,
“Thank you for not letting me break my websites. I am very grateful. So grateful, in fact, that I am going to stop while I’m ahead.”
In an open letter to her son,
“I swear you’re going to thank me one day for this. I make sure that you do things around the house because I don’t want to be responsible for turning a young man who is unable to take care of his basic needs loose in the world. When I give you things to do, they […]
Old Hickory
Face-to-face with a twenty dollar bill,
You imagine those bony fingers first separating
your hair, gently, then less so, grasping,
leveraging your head groundward. You can
smell him, all sweat and adventure, acrid.
You inhale deeply. You feel the stones
beneath you, your face in the grass, the dirt.
He bites. You surrender beneath the
crush of teeth on your shoulder. He stops, coughs
You look toward him just in time to see him spit
out mouthful of blood. Yours or his,
you don’t know. Then you feel those hands
Working at the bottom of your dress roughly
rolling it upwards to get at you. You smell him
more. You smell determination. Conquest.
You feel those bony hands, taking.