The Autumn Star

At midnight on this day seven years ago, I had just finished a marathon snacking session with my boyfriend and my little brother. We were sitting on the back of my pickup truck, chugging Slurpees and eating Cheetos by the handful. We were giddy, cranked up on sugar and artificial preservatives. We weren’t high and we hadn’t been drinking. We were eating all the horrible junk foods I would never eat again if something went wrong the next morning. I never really talked about my own fear of the coming surgery. My parents were terrified, and my siblings and boyfriend were equally distraught. It was brain surgery, after all. Common procedure, the doctor kept saying. Nothing to be afraid of. But it was brain surgery. And if something went wrong the side-effects ranged from headaches to hydrocephalus—treated by the installation of a shunt, from loss of feeling to total paralysis. Or worse.  My mother, boyfriend, and two sisters all accompanied me to the hospital. I wore my favor

I called my big sister, Amber, on Thursday, 11/18/2010. It was early, I was walking to work. Just wanted to say hi , I told her, and see how you and the baby were doing. She didn't return my call, which I thought was odd but not worrisome. Then my mom called that night. Everything about our lives changed. Amber was sick, very sick, and both she and the new baby were in danger. Friday, 11/19/2010, I spent the entire day waiting for a call from my mom. Should I leave New York and fly down to Florida? Was everything okay? I bought the ticket that evening, sitting at my desk at work, my buddy Neil supporting me. It was the longest night of my life, waiting for my flight on Saturday, wondering what was going on back in Florida, worrying about my sister and my unborn niece. Saturday, 11/20/2010, I flew home. My sister was in the hospital. Her blood pressure was through the roof. Our younger sister, Averie, was a pillar of strength and positivity. She handled the logistics of visit

I ended my zombie Facebook game prematurely. I haven’t seen the season premiere of AMC's  The Walking Dead , and I’m not planning to. You think I love zombies. You think I want zombie plush dolls, zombie T-shirts, the game of Life for zombies. But, I don’t. And I don’t want to go to the zombie pub-crawl/laser-tag/rock concert, either. You’ve got it all wrong. I don’t love zombies. In fact, they scare the ever-living hell out of me. Most scary things scare the ever-living hell out of me. If you ever see me in a haunted house, please help me get to the exit—I assure you I’m too frightened to get there myself. I watch horror movies the same way I watched the scary parts of movies when I was a child. Through my fingers. But, I understand why you think I love zombies. I talk about them all the time, right? I’m always recommending that you stock up on bottled water and dry goods, destroy your staircase, and start up a cardio routine. I’ve read World War Z more times than

If I had my druthers, I'd be here... Scotland or here... Bali or here... Kashmir enjoying this... or this... or this... You know...in case you were curious what--and where--I daydream about.  Happy Friday everyone!  (Thanks to Peggy Paul's wonderful blog for this travel-dreamy inspiration.) 

This is an old post (2008) from my now-defunct blog, A Life Edited. I’m reposting it here so my boss can read it. Yeah, I know. My job’s awesome. Here’s the deal: I am too old to read bad books. There are a lot of killer books out there, waiting for me to find them. I can’t waste my time with bad ones. Twilight is a bad book. At first, I thought I was being impatient. Then I thought I was being too critical, that I couldn't take off my Editor’s Hat. But 300 pages in I had decided. Twilight isn’t just poorly written--rife with repetitive, unnecessary adjectives and bland adverbs that add nothing to the action, with a bizarre mix of teenage sentimentality and Ivy League vocabulary--because if it was just poorly written, I would probably wade through it, and then write a review that talked about how editing a story to its best possible form, is a lost art and blah blah blah. No, Twilight is boring. 300 pages in, this is what I have learned: Bella Swan moves

or, How Stacked Burgers Stacked Up When my co-worker said it was “Burger time,” I mistakenly thought we were going to a place called Burger Time. Or at least that, wherever it was we were going, burgers were the primary element of concern. I had tasty daydreams of Square One Burgers, or Hamburger Mary’s, or even 5 Guys. How wrong I was. As soon as we drove past Stacked Burgers, and I saw the oh-so-clever signage, I knew I was in trouble. Don’t get me wrong. I love Winghouse. I’ll eat at Hooters (though the wings are far superior at Winghouse). It’s not these types of establishments that I oppose, it’s the third-rate execution of establishments like this that I oppose. If you’re going to be a cheeky, girlie-centered restaurant, I say go for it! But please, don’t subject me to a half-assed job of it. 1st sign of trouble: Your hostess is Legion. Seriously, this girl smiled and something straight out of Devil’s Advocate went on with her face. I couldn’t help it; I cringed. Visibly.

Updated 10/18/16 Who is your favorite Disney princess? Which Disney princess are you? Quizzes, T-shirts, mugs, snow globes, bed sheets, costumes, pencil sets, icons for Facebook, it’s ridiculous! The current official line-up is Snow White, Cinderella, Aurora, Ariel, Belle, Jasmine, Pocahontas, Mulan, Tiana, Rapunzel, Merida. There are other Disney ladies who, while not princesses, certainly get the royal marketing treatment: Alice and Tinkerbell among them. And of course, Anna and Elsa are so popular they're in a category all their own. But there’s a certain young lady who has, sadly, been overlooked. Wendy Darling. Why should a little girl in a nightdress be among the nobility of Disney? I think she's one of the best female role models Disney has ever depicted. Here's why: 1. Bravery. From the very beginning of the tale, Wendy shows she’s got true grit. She’s no shrinking English violet. She catches Peter Pan’s shadow, which he can’t do himself, and then

This Saturday, I watched my niece, known here affectionately as Smoochers, from about 3:30 p.m. until bedtime (just before 8 p.m.). I’m a card-carrying Proud Auntie, and the chance to spend a few uninterrupted hours with her was too good to resist. It was also a perfect opportunity to play “Pretend Parent”—a game non-breeders who are considering maybe one-day possibly having spawn of their own like to play with other people’s children. 3:30. On the nursery floor. Smoochers started crawling earlier this week, so we made a game of putting her favorite toys in different corners of the nursery. She crawled over to the drum—Bam! Bam! Bam!—and then crawled over to the inchworm that sings and wiggles, and then crawled over the to the toy that shoots colored balls out of the top and plays music. Everything a child owns seems to either make music, light up, or move. Or all 3. After about a half-hour of crawling, clapping, singing, and wiggling, I was tired. Like, bone-tired. I was out prett

...if you're here, it's either (a) because I invited you over from my previous blog on Xanga, or (b) you stumbled upon this blog by accident. If (b) applies to you, I hope you enjoy .