By Kristen Terrette
Give me a nod if you fall into the party trap. You know, are you one of those women who prides themselves in throwing a gorgeously decorated, perfectly put-together party courtesy of (my favorite form of social media) Pinterest. I fall into the party trap every time. No matter the occasion, I will do my best to color-coordinate every single item even remotely dealing with the party, label all food items with catchy phrases, and clean the party location with a fine-tooth comb. All of this will be done on a mini-budget of course.
by Lynne Tagawa
Recently a young man I know was rude to me. I doubt if he meant to be; he was occupied in something important and didn’t want to be distracted. Should I say something to him? As I pondered, I realized that it was really just thoughtlessness on his part. The main concern, I realized suddenly, was whether I would let it bother me.
Was I willing to forgive?
I had it all planned out. First comes love, then marriage, then, two years later, comes a baby in a baby carriage.
“I’m afraid you have cysts on your ovaries,” said the fertility doctor. “We’re going to give you hormones to see if we can help you get pregnant.”
Six months later, the shame of being unable to get pregnant weighed heavier and heavier on me as I attended yet another baby shower for one of my friends.
By Melissa Tagg
I received an email several months ago I wish I could forget. But I can’t forget it, so I guess writing about it must be the next best thing. LOL!
But seriously…this email took me off guard. It was from a reader of one of my books, and she had—gasp!—found a typo in the book. And she. was. angry. Angry enough to write me a ranting, mean, and weirdly personal email and tell me she wasn’t sure if she was even going to finish reading the novel. This one little typo thoroughly ruined the story for her.
By Catherine Bird
It was the summer of 1988, and I was attending my first sleep-away camp. I grew up with brothers, so sharing a cabin with seven other females was a concept foreign to me. Until then, I’d had little interest in makeup, hairspray and talk of boys.
It’s not that I wasn’t into girly things per se, but I was raised with a bunch of boys—brothers and cousins alike. I appreciated the ability to bait your on hook, climb the toughest trees, and I came home missing a jelly shoe on more than one occasion after playing in the bayou.
Fifteen years ago when I fell into severe depression, I trudged to the doctor’s office to get the necessary help. Depression is common, and many of you have been in the same place, but for those of you who’ve managed to escape the clutches of depression, let me explain how it’s handled when you seek treatment. You see, the medical people have this little test they give you to determine whether or not you have depression and just how bad it is. You’d think it would be a blood test, but it’s nothing that scientific. It’s just a short quiz. (Unless they’ve changed something in the last 15 years which is quite possible), but I was given a brief questionnaire like the one that follows.