These are the posts that will go in the slider.
A few days ago I talked about how depressing it is to catch myself naked in the bathroom mirror. Many of you reported similar feelings of shame.
Here’s another knock to my vanity.
Last night, while visiting my girlfriend in Atlanta, she decided to record me sleeping. Why? Because apparently I snore like a dick.
If you’re Jewish, or secretly wish you were, (like me) you know that Passover is upon us. I don’t know much about their religion, but I know that the Jews have some pretty fantastic food.
Ever eaten matzo ball soup? It’s the best thing ever. I’m totally shocked that I’ve never once seen it on a restaurant menu outside of a few delis. Also, just matzo crackers – delicious.
When I was in college, my senior capstone class was simply titled, “Dreaming.”
We studied the nature of dreams and their history in psychology, spirituality, and philosophy. There were two parts to the class – one academic and one practical. The academic part was pouring through literature about dreams, such as the huge volumes Freud had put together. Lots of lectures, you know, typical college crap.
About once a week I catch a glimpse of myself as I exit the shower stall. One whole wall of my bathroom is mirror. I do my very best to avoid looking at my naked bodice. I know you do, too.
I was thinking about the meaning of life the other day. Heady shit, no? Yes! One of my favorite spiritual teachers, Richard Sutphen, has taught that the secret of life is to let go of fear and express unconditional love. Robert Augstus Masters would most likely say that it’s the courage to explore your pain by jumping in the deep end. Both great.
Okay, yesterday I was really excited because of my new column with bestie Rachel Thompson. It’s going to be the nuts.
And I have another big annoucement, although I already spilled the beans in the post title.
Yep, a ThoughtsFromParis newsletter!
A few days back I wrote about a new feature I’m rolling out with an author pal of mine. She and I have very strong opinions on stuff. She’s usually wrong. (She will very much will not appreciate that last sentence.)
This feature, foolish readers, is all about YOU. I’m tired of this thing being just about me. Plus, I’m running out of shit to talk about. I haven’t eaten a skin tag in forever, nor have I moved my bowels anywhere but the W.C. lately.
I have developed this amazingly healthy habit of bringing my lunch every day to work. It saves a few dollars and keeps me out of Subway which continues to get more and more depressing each time I head there.
Plus, I actually feel GOOD about myself preparing a meal the night before. I wish in high school instead of Honors Civics I could have taken a “Ways to Take Care of Yourself That Will Feel Good” class. In the syllabus…
You know what I love more than just about anything? The freedom to pass out on Friday night at 9pm after four pizza slices and a Fresca. The just happened.
I took a nap on the couch with my cat on my chest. I awoke with my dog on my chest which is strange as she cannot jump up onto the couch by herself. Maybe I sleep-helped her up. No idea.
I have never picked my nose. Not once. I don’t dig and flick.
But…
I absolutely love yanking out nose hairs. I’ve been doing it since I was twenty-one. The first time I was just sitting around watching Jeopardy and I reached up to scratch that part of the face where mustaches grow (I know that place has a name, but damned if I know it) and I felt a tickle in my nose.
I'll never give this child another cigarette, pinky swears!
