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Back to Work, Back to Reality
His calm voice sounded kind, but his words surprised me. “We’re spending too much and not bringing in enough. I think we need you to start working.” My husband was right, mostly, but the hardest part of his comment was that I already feel like I work. I wish my writing provided a full-time, regular income, but while keeping up a blog and writing a book pushes me forward, neither are helping our bottom line at the moment. I countered with logic. “I’m happy to work a conventional job, but don’t you think we could just cut some corners and spend less?” “Maybe a little, but I want to go out…
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Lord of the Flaws
Though some exasperated parents might joke about dropping their sassy Tweens on an island, I’m fairly certain no parent would want the experience to resemble William Golding’s version. My son brought home his 7th-grade required reading list last month. I scanned it, unfazed until I reached the one title that zipped me right back to my 7th-grade English class and made me cringe. Lord of the Flies still remains one of my all-time least-loved books. Ever. Visions of being totally grossed out to the max and putting it down after reading each chapter still linger. Bloodthirsty boys painting their faces, stalking a beast, killing pigs, and eventually turning on some…
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Cooking Tips & Tricks from My Classically-Trained Le Cordon Bleu Neighbor Chef
In 2002 I spent my days chasing a toddler while my friend Jen chased a dream to culinary school. Fresh out of high school, she donned a white coat, white skull cap, and jumped into chef training at none other than Le Cordon Bleu. Eighteen months later, after cuts, burns and hundreds of food victories, she received an Associate of Occupational Studies degree in culinary arts. I didn’t know her back then, but since we currently live eleven feet apart (yes, I measured… at night… like a creeper), I stuffed my intimidation and decided to find out more. She invited me over on birthday cupcake day and we had a…
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A Loss, a Baby & Secondary Infertility: What I Learned While Waiting to Get Pregnant
After five years of marriage, my husband and I decided we wanted a baby. Sad to say, I don’t recall checking with God much about this, but He didn’t send a concerned email so I laid my clothes on the bed next to Doug’s and bam—prego. Phone calls, nursery plans and a roomy pair of overalls became the norm. Until I went in for my first ultrasound at twelve weeks and the technician looked strange. Nice lady, but I could tell she couldn’t tell, so I studied her face. “Everything okay?” “The doctor will go over everything with you.” “I thought there would be a heartbeat by now.” “He’ll…
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Family Dinner Questions w/a Side of Candlelight: Getting Your Kids and Teens to Talk
“So…? How was your day?” “Good.” “Anything fun or different?” “Nope.” If this riveting dialogue plagues your family too, take heart and read on. Spreading a sheet or blanket in the family room and turning dinner into a picnic sounds so quaint, doesn’t it? Photo by not brittany shh pls on Unsplash Mostly, yes. But if your brain skips over the cute family bonding part and goes straight to what could happen to your carpet, clothes, knees and back, it’s okay to stay at the table. Better yet, take your meal outside and enjoy the weather while you can. Even though the floor or patio can help breed…
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I Moved Into Our New House and Met 19 New Neighbors on Our Street! It Was Weird.
It started five months ago with the people who share our fence. They were nice and we were new, so the conversation revolved around our dogs, mail for the former owner, and if the HOA is strict about paint colors. They are. Handshakes and names quickly moved to swim invites and baked goods, with a walk for the ladies and a beer for the guys. Southern California fence culture says, “That side’s yours, this side’s mine. Keep your tree limbs trimmed.” But since I’m not originally from here, Carrie culture says, “Let’s knock the fence down and have a BBQ!” The first thing we noticed about our new neighborhood…
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The Day I Deleted Her Info: Saying Goodbye to a Lifelong Friend
Just because two sets of parents are good friends doesn’t mean their offspring will follow suit. So was the case with Chelsea and me. We saw each other every summer at Mount Hermon and ran through camp together while our parents hung out and caught up. It took 358 days to bring us together again, and we continued that pattern through childhood and adolescence. I’m writing a book for a woman about grit and resilience. Besides living in another country for 12 years, I haven’t had many events or occasions that forced me to dig in and claw my way out. And in a weird way, I feel bad about…
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Classy Smut: TV Shows That Suck Us In
I walked by the dilapidated Baja house with the window open and heard it. I visited Porvenir friends in the middle of the afternoon and saw it. Almost every time we ate tacos early, like old people, we saw it again—at our favorite stand, just above the raw meat. Ask any woman in most Latin American countries what rules the mid-mornings and afternoons at home and they’ll probably say the same thing: Novelas. Known as Soap Operas in English, the name originated from the squeaky clean stuff we call soap. Since most women worked at home in the 1930s, daytime dramas targeted them and their cleaning needs. The networks required…
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Your Hoopie’s Showing
My grandma. So sweet and helpful. If you ever wore a necklace in her presence and the clasp slid around toward the front, she was your girl. “Oh here, honey, let me help you. Your hoopie’s showing.” I naturally learned from an early age how hoopies should be on the back of my neck and only the back. Letting them rotate to the front looked unkept/disheveled. I also learned wrinkled clothing was a no-no. From t-shirts and jeans to knickers and parachute pants, everything qualified. Does this give you hives? Let’s be clear though: I’m still a fan of ironed clothes if I’m going somewhere that demands a grown-up…
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Simple Steps to Finally Get Rid of Those Boxes
This one might strike a nerve, amigos. Or three. But since I can’t see you and you can’t reach me… we gonna get down the nitty-gritty of our containers. Yes, those containers. His, hers, mine and yours. The cardboard boxes… the plastic bins… the forgotten… the ignored… all of it. So here’s the question on the awkward table between us: If God impressed upon your heart a move—across town, across the country, to another country—how soon could you pack up and get out? I don’t want to be known for my stuff. But if I’m in a constant state of avoiding piles, adding more boxes to the rafters and…
