Diary of a Diva
I have kept every message I’ve ever received, the most poignant and rewarding being the responses to my stories about my struggles with anxiety and depression.
David is the guy who, upon hearing a fart joke at a party, rolls his eyes and repeats the adage that, given enough time, all conversations seem to devolve into discussions of bodily functions.
David dropped his head, and, with the faintest hint of a smile, whispered, “I hate you.” This phrase has become the swan song for each of his arguments in their moment of death.
When Mom “joked” about working for me, I called her bluff. “Don’t say it if you don’t mean it, because I could use some help,” I said. Instead of the “gotcha” laugh I expected, Mom’s face lit up.
Diary of a Diva
When I asked Dad what he thought happens to women after 40, he laughed and said, “They turn,” a term that, moments before, he’d joked was akin to milk spoiling.
“See how this part is orange? That’s supposed to be red. I’m looking to find a guy who paints cars, with airbrushes, because I want to get these airbrushed back to the red that they were when I bought them.”
My sister Jane was along to spend time with me and properly watch after her progeny, lest I drop one of them into the shark-petting pool or something.
A path of rose petals led us to the waiting area. Fresh croissants and an assortment of pastries and colorful cookies, along with porcelain teapots, cucumbers, and red roses were spread out on tiny wooden ...
I felt my face flush with heat when across the table I heard these names pronounced correctly, with perfect French accents: “Al-bare Kam-oo” and “Mare-so.”
At first, David was dejected, and I wasn’t much help. “If we were going to go for fun, I probably would have opted to stay on the fun side of the island,” I said.
The guy with the beard further demonstrated his grace: “So, tell us about you,” he said to the girl, politely indicating it would be nice if she talked about what she did, rather than what she did not.
While driving, there is absolutely no expectation in any corner of my mind that I should or could be doing anything else but enjoying the ride. And there are no electrical outlets in the woods.
Judgment gets a bad rap. This is understandable, seeing as the term sounds so much like the closely related “judgmental,” which is used to describe someone who is overly critical, even disapproving.
David decided to dress in the lounge spirit, in an ensemble I referred to as “the afterparty” look: a tuxedo with the bowtie untied and hanging from his neck.
Katie works full-time at an office job and prefers to spend her weekends hiking, building motorcycles, or simply chilling at home, sans pants.
The lights dimmed, and the orchestra began to play. The music was much softer than I remembered from my past experiences. If it were a stereo, I would have turned it up.