1. I used to think, “Who’s too busy for blogging?” But now, I guess, I get it. Here I am, friends, over-caffeinated, powered solely by oatmeal, and badly in need of a haircut.

2. Last night I had the rare opportunity to head for bed before two in the morning, and I was so giddy to read that I fell asleep deciding between the Rushdie, the Didion, or the Eugenides—instead, waking up hours later to a stack of books that B had piled on the nightstand.

3. In writing a non-fiction piece about being a child liar, I’ve given an awful lot of thought to the idea of manipulation. Story as manipulation and then, well I guess, everything. It’s enough to make you feel slimy if you think about it long enough.

4. Nervous tics. I love them! Not mine, of course, but others: Jittering, fidgeting, compulsive hair-twirling. Pay attention to them and you’ll find them instantly endearing.

4. I am trying to carve space for reading and actual sleeping and my husband, where we don’t talk about work or websites.

5. But I’ll be back, soon, to discuss something weird with you. Promise.

From the archives: I have mastered baking cake balls on sticks. It is intensely therapeutic to mash cake and frosting together with your fingers. Think Helen Keller.

What no one really tells you about being an adult is this: The beginning is great. Everything is yours. You do not have to share. As soon as you commit to getting married you suddenly are expected to share everything—right down to a sock drawer! That isn’t right. Is it so wrong to want to keep your own apartment, just for the effect of having something that’s singularly yours? Before my almost-two-year-long marriage, I hadn’t shared a closet since I was 8 years old and I have to say, my heart downright thumps about it. While it’s true I wouldn’t trade B for a sock drawer to call my own, I do, sometimes require a drink when thinking about it. 

It frustrates me to no end—confuses, frightens me—that I can’t always tell the difference between a memory that is mine, versus one that was told to me or given to me through a photograph. I am more unreliable than I could ever imagine. Similarly, moments that would’ve completely escaped me had I not written them down read like new—like someone else’s when I revisit them years later. At this moment I am hanging on for dear life to the description of an interrobang, hoping one day its definition gets me out of a jam, or is responsible for a trivia championship winning tens of thousands of dollars, etc.

Lastly, the older I get the more I find myself consumed with the idea of space. For example, how much longer before I begin to forget even a modicum of Alanis Morisette lyrics? Once out of the way, what type and how much seemingly useless trivia will I be able to store? I’m curious.

Lessons from the future: Another year older? Take comfort in the fact that 10, 20, even 30 years from now you’ll shake your head and say, Age X, I thought that was old?

On the hazards of day jobs: I came home yesterday to a visibly ruffled chicken in the backyard. After flying his coop down the block, leading a frantic chicken-chase with the neighborhood dogs, and inspiring David to build a makeshift pen amidst our motley patio furniture, the chicken is now safe and sound. And to think, while I toiled away in an over air-conditioned office, a chicken’s life hung in the balance in my backyard.