This is something I’ve learned: like getting dressed in the morning, like putting on mascara for another day spent indoors, doing the dishes is an act of hope.
I like my hair to submit to MY will, not the other way around.
"In relation to my blog, I suppose I've had a bit of an identity crisis. My vision of stories included visiting exotic cities, meeting strangers, strolling world markets, sleeping in shabby hostels, and cultivating a fearless spirit. This can't exist anymore. Is there nothing to say? Have the rhythms of domesticity killed all wonder? Should I put my laptop on the shelf and hide my notebooks?"
I savored this moment of tranquility before the onslaught of visitors, this moment to stare at the sleeping baby in the transparent bassinet and contemplate that she was mine. She of the long Disney lashes and big gray-blue eyes. She of the startling lungs. It all seemed as improbable as if there had been some mythical stork involved, or some benevolent fairy godmother. The events of Sunday (and very early Monday morning) felt like a dream–albeit one in which no detail was lost to me.
It didn't go well for Jean Valjean. You remember. Sentenced to prison for stealing a loaf of bread to feed his family. Served a total of nineteen years (after a couple of escape attempts complicated things). You don't steal bread in France. You'd think I'd know better. In all honesty, I hadn't dabbled in petty …