Pain In My Ass

I have late-onset hypochondria. Yes, that is a made up condition. Yes, this is a self-diagnosis. But doesn’t that just make me right?

In the past year, I have been convinced the following things would kill me: ingesting poison ivy (without actually ingesting any), Lyme disease (saw a tick once) and aneurysm (it was a headache). Now, there’s my ass. My tailbone has been sore for six months. I am not imagining this. I’ve had an ultrasound, X-ray and lots of people poking around the top of my butt crack. And before any of them came to a conclusion, I did: I determined I was suffering from stage 11 butt bone cancer and my daughter would grow up motherless and I wouldn’t live to give her a sibling or witness the incredible woman she will grow up to be.

That was the official self-diagnosis. Including the Ginny stuff. It’s what I spent weeks thinking about, and how I developed a habit of wistfully smelling her hair.

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Spending your (time) lotto winnings

For about three minutes today, I fantasized about how I would spend $429.6 million in lotto winnings. Then I realized that since my thrilling character combination of being both super cheap and strongly analytical has prevented me from ever having purchased a lottery ticket, these were three minutes sorely wasted. Besides, once you are a legit adult, don’t you have to subscribe to that boring windfall rule of 1/3 toward debt, invest 1/3 and just 1/3 for splurging? Zzzzzz…

All this happened just moments before winning my own brand of lottery.

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Sarah & Angelina Grimké, 1837: The power of a compelling story

The Grimké Sisters DNGAF at a time when NGAF could ruin a woman’s life in no shortage of ways. I’d already set these women on my shelf of revered feminists after reading “The Invention of Wings,” a fictionalized account of their lives as abolitionists and feminists by Sue Monk Kidd. A new theme about their story emerged for me, however, in their short (non-fictionalized) entry in “What Every American Should Know About Women’s History.” It turns out that one of the biggest audacities of their audacious lives was lecturing to same-sex audiences on abolitionism.

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In which a professional writer asks, “I actually have to write during working hours? Whaaaaa?”

Writing between the hours of 9 and 5 is really difficult for me. And it’s taken me six years as a professional, full-time writer to recognize that it’s sort of a problem.

How it has always worked before is that I spent the almighty Designated Working Hours doing all of the writing tasks that are not writing: emailing, scheduling interviews, conducting interviews, editing, researching, invoicing, etc., etc. Actual writing was reserved for the couch, after hours or on the weekends. So that’s what I did.

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