Is Life an Art Form or an Exercise?

This morning, I posted something I was thinking about on Instagram. I wasn’t really focusing on it too intently, just typed out a couple of sentences and hit “Share.” But when I reread the post, I felt I had been accidentally wise for a second.

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The Answer Is Not What You’d Think (Actually, Neither Is the Question)

“Here’s a question,” I said to Kate and Samie as we were working out on the backyard aerial rigs. It was a chilly October morning, the silks were dancing in the breeze, and for the moment, all seemed right with the world. But I couldn’t fully enjoy the morning until I got an answer to the question that had kept me up the night before.

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Lizzie Made Me Do It

I told Lizzie this morning that I was writing a very boring blog post and she said, “Are you writing about me?” When I said no, she said, “Write about me and it won’t be boring. People like it when you write about me.” Which, okay, she’s got a point. I haven’t written about any conversations with my kids in quite awhile, but when I used to do that, you guys enjoyed them (or were polite enough to say you did, anyway). So I shelved the boring blog post about the flowers and birds on my porch and started on this one. (Thank God. I mean, really, Jen… flowers and birds?)

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Standing Firm Between Wasps and Fire

First, there was a wasp in my office and, with Paul giving annoying wasp-killing advice from the safety of the first floor, I managed to whack the creature and give it a watery burial in the toilet. This was two days ago. Then yesterday, there was another wasp in my office, which doesn’t seem fair. Still, I gamely smacked it with a magazine — and it flew directly into the closet, which I swear was open no more than half an inch.

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You Know That Thing I Said?

My post about not giving a fuck generated some unexpected reactions. I got some “right on!” responses, a few “you go, girl!” type texts. Those made sense. Someone else thought it was funny. But a couple of people were concerned: “Is this a good thing?” someone asked. Another worried, “Are you okay?” Others said, “lots of love coming your way.

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Introducing Insane Levels of I-Don’t-Give-a-Fuck

Something occurred to me this week. I think it’s the thing I’ve been inching toward with this blog for a couple of years now, but I haven’t fully grasped it til now. Not for lack of trying. Every time I sit down to write, I strain for the courage to face the truth. I’ve inched up on it. I’ve sidled around it. Pressed up against reality and looked at it slant-eyed, hoping not to see what I’ve known all along was there. But I can’t avoid it any longer. And I don’t want to.

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How to Feel Carefree (while Drooling)

Can you remember the last time you were completely free of worry and care? Before Covid? Before you had kids? Before you bought your first house? Before high school? Even longer ago than that?

I remember being six or seven, doing handstands in a neighbor’s yard on an early Saturday morning, and having nothing in the world on my mind except trying to stay upside down for as long as possible and waiting for my friends to wake up so they could come out and play. I miss that feeling — the belief, so ingrained that you’re not even consciously aware of it, that everything is just the way it’s supposed to be and that it’s a grand old world. Until a few days ago, that’s what I thought feeling carefree meant: absolutely no worries and all was right with the world.

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Missing: One Middleaged Woman

Did you ever look in a mirror and not recognize yourself? Once, when I was in my early twenties, I looked at my reflection and thought, “Holy shit! I’m a grown-up. I’m a woman.” How on earth had that happened? It caused such a jolt that I still remember it nearly thirty years later.

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Hey, Guys? You’re Doing a Great Job.

I’m sitting in the family room, my head against the back of the couch, my legs stretched out under the coffee table, staring at the ceiling. I don’t know how long I’ve been here. My golden doodle, Huckleberry, barks, bringing me out of my trance. Continue reading