Lose a Fatty

Narrative style inspired by too many episodes of The Golden Girls. Picture it. Pittsburgh. 2017. A young woman very close to middle-age but still in denial about it goes to a hip little independent bookstore to see her favorite lexicographer (yes, she has one) read from her new book. The weather? Perfect. The parking? Strangely easy. Her mood? Elevated. All is right with the world. The store is lovely and the girl easily spots the word nerd friend she's meeting near the front of the room. She sits. She talks. She gleefully laughs at the Dictionary Lady's word jokes. She tries not to laugh too hard because the crowd is small and the chairs aren't sturdy. She enjoys hearing the Dictionary Lady read the chapter of her book that's all about defining one word: take. Even though our middle-aged heroine read the chapter a few weeks ago, it's just as entertaining the second time around. (Defining "take" took the Dictionary Lady a full month!) After the rea...

Ladies and gentleman, boys and girls. Step right and enjoy this last post of my Lenten experiment. You're reading post 40. And while I technically went beyond Lent (it ended Wednesday night, I'm told by more religious folk than I), I consider #40in40 a success. Generally, we learn things from experiments, and I certainly did. So what have I concluded, you ask? Let me tell you. Writing is hard. I've always known this — after all, I write all day, five days a week. (In some form. Not always a ton, but words are put together and published in some manner nearly every day.) I've always hated people who think a glass of wine and moonlight lead to divine inspiration and words that magically appear on a page. Those people are fakers. Writers know, and now I understand more deeply, that developing ideas is hard. Not falling asleep at night and writing instead is hard. Trying to be interesting or amusing or emotional is hard. I don't have a big audience, but I also didn...

At the beginning of this Lenten blogging journey, I made a pie . It's only fitting, then, that my penultimate post be the goodies that I made for Easter today. Peanut butter eggs. Not bad for a first attempt. First, I decided to take a crack at making homemade peanut butter easter eggs. The result? Not too shabby. They look lovely, but the filling is only so-so. Next time, I think I'll just use my sister's buckeye filling recipe for the peanut butter part. Also, I used semi-sweet chocolate for the outside, and they may have been better with milk chocolate. But regardless, they're adorable and definitely edible. My mom also instructed my sister and I to "bring our favorite thing" to Easter lunch tomorrow. She's going to have all the real food handled, so I thought showing up with a giant tuna noodle casserole might be ridiculous. (I LOVE tuna noodle casserole. In fact, I think it's what's for dinner tonight.) I narrowed it down to stuffing (...

(Read this post first.) A neat footnote to my previous post is that the Good Friday Jesus Christ Superstar tradition arose from the events surrounding the spring of my senior year in high school. Good Friday that year (multiple decades ago now. Sigh.) was also Ivy League decision-letter day. And, back then, Good Friday service began at noon and lasted until 3 p.m. Of course, we went. And our mail arrived around 2:30 p.m. So I had the entire service to wonder whether a thick or thin letter from Harvard would be waiting in our mailbox when I got home. Not only was I desperate to go to Harvard, but my boyfriend had received his letter the day before — and had gotten in. I felt like my whole future and our whole future depended on what sort of mail I had. I did not think about Jesus during the service. I thought about Harvard and Carnegie Mellon and Allegheny College. Where would I go if Harvard said no? What would the financial aid packages from the latter two schools look like and c...

Every Good Friday, I bust out my Jesus Christ Superstar CDs and have a giant, possibly blasphemous singalong to what I consider one of the finest biblical musicals ever made. (Close second, same creator: Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat.) I think we can ALL agree that there is no better way to celebrate the tragedy and ultimate triumph of Our Lord and Savior's last week on earth than by belting lyrics like these at the top of your lungs. "What's the buzz? Tell me what's a happenin'. What's the buzz? Tell me what's a happenin'. What's the buzz? Tell me what's a happenin'. What's the buzz? Tell me what's a happenin'. When do we ride into Jerusalem? When do we ride into Jerusalem? When do we ride into Jerusalem? When do we ride into Jerusalem?" All against the backdrop of a bitchin' 70s disco groove. There's also my favorite song, "This Jesus Must Die," with gems like "What th...

Because I cried the whole time I wrote the last post. I occasionally enjoy the symphony Where Beethoven and Gershwin speak peace to me. But my side mirrors quake And my windows all shake When I rap about A-dot-Ham's legacy.

I first met my oldest, now-19-year-old nephew when he was about four days old. I thought he was pretty cute. In one of those memories that stay with you as a Polaroid of when life was good, I remember my grandparents -- all of them still alive -- converging on my parents house on what was probably Labor Day weekend to meet this new little chapter in all our lives. He peed on my dad. He seemed to like me. All in all, I was pretty thrilled with the little dude. We'd go on to have a lot of good times, this kid and I. I sang "Little Bunny Foo Foo" a bazillion times to calm him down. I gave him cookies when maybe I shouldn't have. I walked into a room and caught him pulling himself up for the first time so he could inspect the fish in my dad's aquarium. I rocked him when he had colic. A few years after he came around, we both met his brother. We liked him too, but I think we both wondered what this meant for us. We stayed pretty tight. He learned to talk in a hurry...