Archive by Author

I’m Trying to Become Unstuck or Read Y: The Last Man Right Now

11 Aug

I’m going to pretend like it hasn’t been 8 months since the last time I wrote a post.

Here’s a picture of Geoff!

I had a huge post written ready to post a few weeks ago, but it was too negative, and I hated it. So, in short: this year has been really, really hard. I thought that moving somewhere new and totally awesome would make most of the cobwebs keeping me stuck, go away. But they didn’t, and instead I’m left with a head full of even more spiders. I know that so much of this uphill battle is just growing up and getting older. You’re going to have to deal with bills, and sickness, and people you love not being there anymore your whole life. But it’s not always so heavy, right? Or is that just wishful thinking? IDK DUDE. I guess what I’m trying to say is that Chicago is beautiful, I have the best job nannying 3 sweetie girls (4,3, and 10 months ahhh), but sometimes I get sad, and that’s okay.

In other news, I read at an open mic poetry reading back in July, and it was my first time reading without any of my fellow Chickz or really anyone I knew for that matter. Continue reading


Thank You. Ok?

29 Nov

We have failed you, dear readers. I promised we would return to our regular postings, but we haven’t, and that makes me a gross liar. We have been busy bees this fall. School, new jobs, and puppies have filled our time. Sometimes, all I want to do is cuddle and play with this babybabe, Geoff, all day long:

Show me one person who doesn't think this is the cutest pup ever, and I'll show you a liar.

Continue reading


24 Aug

Speaking of breathing. That’s the theme of my post for today! I’m sorry I’ve been absent for so long but I’m back now, and I’m trying, and I’m so glad you’re not like my puppy who pees on the floor when we leave.

So, I’ve watched this trailer like 30 times the past few days, and I’ll probably watch it few more times because I just. can’t. stop. I know I’m going to love this film. Just from watching the trailer I feel nostalgic for that feeling of falling in love for the first time. The way it wrecks you.  It’s not a deep love but it’s honest– untainted, untamed. I remember crying the first time I realized I was in love, because I didn’t understand how to comprehend the emotions I was feeling. It was a new, selfless love that planted its roots in my chest and squeezed so tight I could barely breath. It’s that feeling I miss sometimes, that virginal realization that you’re all in and you can never go back.

And I don’t miss the person I first fell in love with, but I do miss the person I was. Not really my naivety or innocence, but the kindness and goodness. Someone deserving of everything; someone ready to be loved; a blank, balanced canvas.
 But honestly as much as I think I’d like to feel that way again, I’m glad I don’t. I’ll keep my love that’s been aged and tested because everything is better that way. Because I would rather be with someone (see pic below) who’s my pause button, my deep breath, than someone who takes that breath away.

Hottie husbad, right?

P.S.- this, however, I would let take my breath away. And by that I mean I’d eat so much of it my body would explode. I am not ashamed. yes.

I’m Sorry I’ve Been So Busy or I Miss This Place So I’m Coming Back

18 Jun

Oh wow. it’s been too long since I’ve posted on here. Elysia is right– we’re all in the midst of huge transitions, but we’re not gone.

I spent the night before my wedding dancing for hours with my family in my living room. By dancing I mean yelling Journey lyrics until my throat was raw and shaking my arms and hair more than my hips. Everyone was there– my parents, my grandparents, my sisters, my cousins and their spouses, my aunt and uncle, my college roommate. All singing and swaying, not in unison but still together. I don’t even know how it all started; the night morphed from conversations in the kitchen to a dance circle in the next room with my eleven-year-old sister whipping her hair and shaking in the strangest ways. And then we ran. My sisters and my mother and my cousins, and I. We opened the back door and ran into the pitch black of my backyard, swallowing the darkness into our overheated arms. I ran in circles and squares, and my legs never got tired. It reminded me of the nights I spent playing capture the flag when I was younger. Like I was running that fast to get to the other side of the yard, my side, the safe side, and when I did everything would be ok because I had helped my team to win—that feeling. Except there was no flag, no team, no competition, just me and the women closest to my heart running around in the grass like kids a third of our age. And it wasn’t weird. It sounds like it now, writing it out, but it wasn’t at the time. It was like we were all releasing something, but at the same time clinging onto pieces of our bodies, memories, things we couldn’t place or recognize at the time but we knew were there and couldn’t let go.

So while most brides spend the night before their big day going to bed early and completing the final steps of a beauty regime, I spent hours writhing my body like a drowning fish and running like mad towards some unspecified place, some unspoken but understood level of winning. It felt surreal but necessary, like there was no other way that I should be spending my last single night, except right there with those exact people, doing exactly what was I was doing. I woke up the next day and married by best friend in a beautiful ceremony in which I did not cry  (because I didn’t want my fake eyelashes to fall off, but also because I couldn’t stop smiling). And at the reception, my family and I danced again. It was different that time, I think. More celebratory than theraputic.

All the women in my family are filled with intense strength and unmatched passion.  I have met few women who can handle their lives with as much grace as they do (minus the chickz, of course). I think sometimes they deal with their lives, jobs, and relationships so well, they forget about the joy that lives inside their bellies, waiting for them to let it bubble over. I’m glad that the physical distance we experience on a daily basis doesn’t affect the closeness we feel to each other, and we can still spend a night stomping around my living room and running through the grass with complete abandon, drinking deep from the pool of memories and sorrow and love and hope that binds us so close together.

My Heart Looks Like a Baby Squirrel

29 Apr

So guys, I haven’t had time to write anything besides school papers this week (which sucks but will be over soon). Since National Poetry Month is coming to an end, I want to share this poem by Andrea Gibson with you. SHE’S SO GREAT, RIGHT? Go ahead: read, listen, love.

A Letter to the Playground Bully from Andrea Age 8 1/2

maybe your words will grow up to be a gymnasts
maybe you have been kicking people with them by accident

I know some people get a whole lot of rocking in the rocking chair
and the ones who don’t sometimes get rocks in their voice boxes,
and their voice boxes become slingshots.
maybe you think my heart looks like a baby squirrel.

Continue reading


22 Apr

“You have to write the book that wants to be written. And if the book will be too difficult for grown-ups, then you write it for children.”

-Madeleine L’Engle

            I saw this quote earlier this week, and it made me happy. One of my summer goals is to start writing a children’s book series. It’s going to be about a little boy who finds a stray cat under a dumpster and brings him home to join the other two cats he adopted. It will be about family and finding a place where you belong, which sounds silly, but it will be cute I PROMISE. Mostly because the illustrations will be based off of this sweet baby:


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8 Apr

This is where I’ll be tonight:

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We Can Still Be Babies

1 Apr

Yesterday, in an attempt to find some video footage I found my some of my old writing from high school/ early college.


I knew it was a bad idea to read it, but I did; it made me want to smack my eighteen year old self on the hands, tell her that name dropping authors and books in your writing isn’t cool, and to keep writing. It still amazes me how much my writing has improved/continues to improve, just by doing it on a regular basis. Also, being surrounded by talented people with whom I can workshop and discuss my work with has been invaluable. Continue reading

Full Moon

25 Mar

What if I told you that every bite you take of that pepperoni pizza, is hiding a bullet. What if I told you that tonight when you go to sleep they will all pierce your bowels, shredding your large intestine until it hangs like streamers in your abdomen. Pink, red, like a middle school Valentine’s Day dance– too uncomfortable to be beautiful. You’ll feel like you’re going to die, but you won’t.

What if I told you that I’ve been putting those bullets in all your meals, shoving cylinders into your chicken pot pie, your spinach and cheese quiche. What if I told you that this is the only way you will understand.

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Shamrock Shake

18 Mar

Earlier this week, there was a discussion at Writer’s Community about what separates poetry from flash fiction. It got me thinking about what genre most of my writing falls into, and for most pieces, I really don’t know. What about you, readers? What do you think defines a piece as poetry rather than a flash and vice versa?

In light of the recent holiday, I wrote a flash that takes place on St. Patrick’s Day. I think I’m going to start writing a collection of flashes that are loosely based on holidays. I’ll let you know if that thought progresses. Anyway, here’s my story. HAVE A GREAT WEEKEND!

Tonight, I’m belly up to a bar, green beer in hand, yesterday’s ketchup stain on my jeans. Leftover Mardi Gras beads that I didn’t earn hang from my neck. I start thinking, If I pee in the river will it turn blue?, so I know it’s time to leave. But this city is too crowded to call anywhere home. People shoved in houses, work, love, so close that when one sparks, they all go up in flames.

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