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Get your feet wet

Kiss my ass, John Ashcroft: Part 74

Like a zillion other romantic losers with a Flannery O’Connor fixation and a total obliviousness to college as an “investment,” I squandered four years and every last tuition penny on a BA in English Literature. Given the lifetime earnings potential for English Lit grads, this degree firmly secures your future as the most highly-educated fool…

“Mom, why is Eliot wearing a beehive?”

In hopes of getting her and Dad’s Florida-based selves relocated within spoiling distance of cherished only-grandchildren, my Mom’s been shacking up in the super-deluxe basement luxury suite (because nothing says “well appointed” like a utility sink) for a good six months, job hunting and nuzzling babies and cheerfully enduring our little experiment in multi-generational living….

A matter of perspective

I generally consider myself a “glass-half-full” brand of girl, even frequently perceiving said glass as completely full, sometimes o’erfloeth with the full, and occasionally outright “CHUG! CHUG! CHUG! CHUG!” that metaphorical glass just cannot possibly contain the fullness. So the past few weeks of household viral misery has been a wee test of all that…

My Sweetheart, the Jerk

If you’ve ever met Moses, you know two things about him. First, that he is obnoxiously sweet and affectionate. That he’ll do anything for a laugh or a kiss or the faintest trace of attention. That he is an unrepentant ham who never met a crotch or a camera he didn’t attempt to make vigorous…

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