I’ve always been frustrated with the state of poop culture in America. In my early years, I always pottied with the door open. As an only child – a “single kid,” as my husband likes to say – of parents who insisted on living in two-story houses (yet always complained about stairs), everybody mostly kept to their respective floors. So,
Dressing myself has never been my strong suit (pun intended). Without a sibling to mock and cajole me into leveling up my fashion game, I was pretty lost. Which is, of course, why I had two children – so that they never have to suffer my same fate. At 12, I became weirdly obsessed with over-sized T-shirts emblazoned with Christian-ized
DUDE. Welcome to Tuesday. Hope yours is going smashing-ly. For me, this was day TWO of slugging it out with some pretty horrific fear demons – a collective term for all of those terrifying thoughts like you’re never going to make it… you’re a shit writer… nobody cares what you have to say… you’re just a giant poop-faced failure (my kids’
Don’t bring me flowers, I’ll buy my own (or, how fart-scented flowers and Lucille Ball completely altered my perspective).
Short on time? Listen on-the-go: Love yourself first, and everything else falls into line. You really have to love yourself to get anything done in this world. -Lucille Ball Last night, I received a text from one of my ride-or-die besties: I feel like the flowers I got this time smell like farts (crying emoji). She also sent a photo of