Category Archives: personal essays
room
My family and I live in a small house in a smallish city. Our home was built in 1903 with two stories, wood shingles, and a garage too small for our car. When friends visit from Tokyo or Manhattan, they
room
My family and I live in a small house in a smallish city. Our home was built in 1903 with two stories, wood shingles, and a garage too small for our car. When friends visit from Tokyo or Manhattan, they
picking cherries (Happy V Day)
It was a special occasion: the first Valentine’s Day since my second child’s birth and my husband wanted me to have a treat. “How about a spa day?” he said. “Don’t women like that sort of thing?” What the hell,
picking cherries (Happy V Day)
It was a special occasion: the first Valentine’s Day since my second child’s birth and my husband wanted me to have a treat. “How about a spa day?” he said. “Don’t women like that sort of thing?” What the hell,
Playing (with Cindy Sherman)
As some of you know, Cindy Sherman is one of my favorite artists. Because today is her birthday, I’d like to share a piece I wrote about her, originally published on Satsumabug. Happy birthday, Cindy Sherman! * Once upon
Playing (with Cindy Sherman)
As some of you know, Cindy Sherman is one of my favorite artists. Because today is her birthday, I’d like to share a piece I wrote about her, originally published on Satsumabug. Happy birthday, Cindy Sherman! * Once upon
Enormous Tree
Every year, the Christmas tree gets bigger. When our first daughter was born we got our first tree, a small one we decorated with jewelry and other shiny household whatnots since we didn’t own any ornaments. We didn’t even know
Enormous Tree
Every year, the Christmas tree gets bigger. When our first daughter was born we got our first tree, a small one we decorated with jewelry and other shiny household whatnots since we didn’t own any ornaments. We didn’t even know
The Big, Easy Surrender (the Thing About New Orleans)
I am a Northern Californian. Berkeley is in my bones. I like fecund, overgrown gardens and fog slinking under the Golden Gate. I like funky cafes, musty bookstores, and trails under redwood trees. I like people who care enough to
The Big, Easy Surrender (the Thing About New Orleans)
I am a Northern Californian. Berkeley is in my bones. I like fecund, overgrown gardens and fog slinking under the Golden Gate. I like funky cafes, musty bookstores, and trails under redwood trees. I like people who care enough to
how to make a grown woman cry (happy birthday, Jose Saramago)
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * With adoration and gratitude for Jose Saramago (November16, 1922-June 18, 2010), on his birthday: Sometimes, when I’m reading a really,
how to make a grown woman cry (happy birthday, Jose Saramago)
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * With adoration and gratitude for Jose Saramago (November16, 1922-June 18, 2010), on his birthday: Sometimes, when I’m reading a really,
I Am Not Your Baby; I Ate Your Baby!
(For Kenyon, on her 11th birthday) When my first daughter Kenyon was born eleven years ago, I knew I was in trouble. Or I should have known, if I’d read the signs. When the nurse took her over to the
I Am Not Your Baby; I Ate Your Baby!
(For Kenyon, on her 11th birthday) When my first daughter Kenyon was born eleven years ago, I knew I was in trouble. Or I should have known, if I’d read the signs. When the nurse took her over to the
Written All Over Your Face
Every time I read a book, I do it. I know I shouldn’t, but I do. I can usually only resist for a couple pages before I flip to the back to check out the picture of the author. That
Written All Over Your Face
Every time I read a book, I do it. I know I shouldn’t, but I do. I can usually only resist for a couple pages before I flip to the back to check out the picture of the author. That
poor me: a brief dip in the pool of self pity
I’ve never entered a writing contest before, mostly because usually they charge a fee (which makes the whole thing seem like a racket) but also because I am a really, really lousy loser. My husband won’t play pool with me
poor me: a brief dip in the pool of self pity
I’ve never entered a writing contest before, mostly because usually they charge a fee (which makes the whole thing seem like a racket) but also because I am a really, really lousy loser. My husband won’t play pool with me
hold the phone
The other day I took my husband to see David Sedaris. We don’t get out much, so I was very excited. The huge theater was packed full of people with snazzy duds and sharp haircuts. It was a smart-looking crowd
hold the phone
The other day I took my husband to see David Sedaris. We don’t get out much, so I was very excited. The huge theater was packed full of people with snazzy duds and sharp haircuts. It was a smart-looking crowd
girl screwed by her own naïveté
When I saw the painting for the first time I thought it must be a fake. It hung on a small wall at the entrance to a cavernous formal dining room where you could almost miss it: an alleged 1954
girl screwed by her own naïveté
When I saw the painting for the first time I thought it must be a fake. It hung on a small wall at the entrance to a cavernous formal dining room where you could almost miss it: an alleged 1954
This Is the Moment I Became Something Else: An Aesthetic Contrivance (a review of Artifice Literary Magazine)
by Anna Fonté Preface: I volunteered to review Artifice, volume 3, one of those ϋbercool literary magazines for really smart, arty types. I thought, what the hell, I don’t get out much and here’s a chance to try something new.
This Is the Moment I Became Something Else: An Aesthetic Contrivance (a review of Artifice Literary Magazine)
by Anna Fonté Preface: I volunteered to review Artifice, volume 3, one of those ϋbercool literary magazines for really smart, arty types. I thought, what the hell, I don’t get out much and here’s a chance to try something new.
dirty-handed: how I became a bag lady
These are the questions that keep me up at night: What would we do if a big earthquake trapped us in the house? Have we been poisoned with plastic? Should I put the lint from my bag-less vacuum into
dirty-handed: how I became a bag lady
These are the questions that keep me up at night: What would we do if a big earthquake trapped us in the house? Have we been poisoned with plastic? Should I put the lint from my bag-less vacuum into
awakenings
(photo courtesy Kay SusanneMC. This post was inspired by Amy Krause Rosenberg and Herman Hesse.) * * 1899 Kate Chopin publishes The Awakening, an amazing, ahead-of-its-time novel about a woman trying to negotiate the incongruent parts of her personality and live a
awakenings
(photo courtesy Kay SusanneMC. This post was inspired by Amy Krause Rosenberg and Herman Hesse.) * * 1899 Kate Chopin publishes The Awakening, an amazing, ahead-of-its-time novel about a woman trying to negotiate the incongruent parts of her personality and live a
picking cherries (in honor of v day)
(photo courtesy Sea Moon) It was a special occasion. It was the first Valentine’s Day since my second child’s birth and my husband wanted me to have a treat. “How about a facial,” he said—“my sister says they’re fun.” What
picking cherries (in honor of v day)
(photo courtesy Sea Moon) It was a special occasion. It was the first Valentine’s Day since my second child’s birth and my husband wanted me to have a treat. “How about a facial,” he said—“my sister says they’re fun.” What
Fuck You Delta Airlines, You Fucking Fuckers.
It was way past bedtime when we finally got home. I put our girls to bed while John called to locate our missing bags and I was almost asleep when he finally came to bed looking grim. Apparently, because we
Fuck You Delta Airlines, You Fucking Fuckers.
It was way past bedtime when we finally got home. I put our girls to bed while John called to locate our missing bags and I was almost asleep when he finally came to bed looking grim. Apparently, because we
resisting the obvious
(photo by room17 on flickr http://www.flickr.com/photos/kathyroom17/) The plastic mesh container came with a coupon that read, Redeem this coupon online and we’ll send live caterpillars! But Lola was four and couldn’t read yet so, after tearing through the pink tissue,
resisting the obvious
(photo by room17 on flickr http://www.flickr.com/photos/kathyroom17/) The plastic mesh container came with a coupon that read, Redeem this coupon online and we’ll send live caterpillars! But Lola was four and couldn’t read yet so, after tearing through the pink tissue,
how to make a grown woman cry
(photo by plumpvegan@flickr http://www.flickr.com/photos/plumpvegan/) With adoration and gratitude for Jose Saramago (November16, 1922-June 18, 2010), on his birthday. Sometimes, when I’m reading a really, really good book and I get to that part where plotlines converge or characters come together
how to make a grown woman cry
(photo by plumpvegan@flickr http://www.flickr.com/photos/plumpvegan/) With adoration and gratitude for Jose Saramago (November16, 1922-June 18, 2010), on his birthday. Sometimes, when I’m reading a really, really good book and I get to that part where plotlines converge or characters come together
hangin’ in the closet
Know, first, who you are; and then adorn yourself accordingly. ~Epictetus Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about closets, both literal and metaphorical. Probably because I started a blog. Writing a blog feels like standing on a subway grate with
hangin’ in the closet
Know, first, who you are; and then adorn yourself accordingly. ~Epictetus Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about closets, both literal and metaphorical. Probably because I started a blog. Writing a blog feels like standing on a subway grate with
