yellow hibiscus

Dying of Thirst?

I am, as it turns out, a yellow hibiscus.

Allow me to explain:

I thrive on both touch and words in the language of love. I say “I love you.” A LOT. I like to hear it, too. And I blossom under a steady diet of light, sweet, hey-you touch: a squeeze of my hand, a quick hug, a kiss dropped on the top of my head while passing by–heck, even a swat on the ass with a dish towel.

The thing is, I spent far too much of my life feeling deeply ashamed about that.

My ex is, truly, one of the kindest, loveliest, funniest and best-looking guys I know. He remains special and dear to me, and we have a great co-parenting relationship. We shared tons of common interests, we loved to talk to each other, and we laughed our asses off together.

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It’s a Girl!

Little girls are supposed to love baby dolls, and so I did. Well, except for the scary one, Baby First Step, who lurched like Frankenstein’s monster when she “walked” across the room. And then there was one that “ate” if you shoved a plastic spoon into its mouth, and its gears would make a horrible grinding noise while it worked its jaws, managing to convey both the menace and the surreal silliness of a Japanese horror movie monster.

Maggie McReynoldsMy mother actually threw away one of my dolls after she spent a half an hour, desperate for sleep and not wanting me or my baby sister to wake up, crawling around my bedroom in the dark and trying to find its pacifier while it “cried” with all the delicacy of a smoke alarm.

I wasn’t so much into the baby dolls. They were kinda creepy and annoying.

I liked Barbie and her friends, though. I didn’t, however, treat them at all well. I wasn’t really into their clothes, and I kept losing their shoes, so mostly, when I wasn’t making up elaborate plot lines for them which I never bothered to enact since making up the story was all the fun, I would make them fly around naked (a special feat they could only perform with their legs twisted up in an unnatural position behind their heads. Also, I would conduct experiments on their hair.

I totally deserved it when my dog once threw up an intact Skipper head. At my feet.

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woman on fire

Why Fantasizing Is Even Hotter than You Think

antasies Fthat seem like they should have a “boom chicka wow wow” soundtrack can be fun, and the ones that are inspired by books about cute, rich, tortured bachelor doms can raise the pulse or bring a blush to our cheeks.

But what about the fantasies we’re really embarrassed about? You know the ones I mean. The ones we don’t even allow ourselves to think about anymore.

What did you want to be when you grew up? Yeah, it might have sounded untenable and ridiculous, like my son’s onetime fantasy of being a “teacher policeman paleontologist firefighter,” but somewhere in there were the kernels of the man I see him becoming: a mentor, a defender of what he feels is right, a fierce curiosity about social and cultural forensics, and a talent and willingness to sniff out and—mostly—help extinguish emotional flame-outs.

I wanted to be a waitress.

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