So, I have a new side gig. Hinting at this onomatopoetically… snip, pop, zwoosh zwoosh, mmmph, uggggggghhhhh, ahh… pop pop. Got any guesses?
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All BIPOC — and especially Asian — families dream of having their kids attend excellent colleges including the Ivy League schools. Though any Ivy makes the grade, for the Asian family, there is still a hierarchy within it.
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I was 38 or 39 when my first marriage ended. I met my ex-husband when I was 21, so we were together for a long time. Letting go was hard despite our issues. After all, no one wants their marriage to fail.
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t’s exceptionally tough for us to make a close cluster of friends in new places as we grow older. I know plenty of people who don’t have strong friend bases outside of the friends they knew growing up or those they met through work. But why?
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My husband and I have been talking about starting to try for a baby for years. But the cost of childcare, medical care, diapers, food, and a larger apartment just didn’t mesh with our current salaries. Childcare alone would roughly cost the same as my monthly take-home pay, and we’d already struggled to live on one salary.
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As many young women of the late 1960s did, I attended college for a short time at 18, and then got pregnant, and then got married… yes, in that order. While in school, I wanted to major in Political Science and become a diplomat. Yet, marriage and babies seemed a much easier choice in an era where…
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I may be dating myself by admitting this, but I’m 100% an 80s kid. Fast forward to today, and I’m the one in charge. I even have my very own kid. But my, how times have changed.
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My name’s Katy, and I’m a proud Southerner. I’m also a reluctant and recovering participant in what I call respectful racism.
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Hi. I’m Erin, and I’m a germaphobe. I find the everyday interactions of life fraught with dangerous microscopic critters hell-bent on making us sick, miserable, or dead…
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“Where are you from?” It’s a common enough question from curious strangers making idle chit chat. However, for an Asian-American, it’s a rather loaded one.
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I’ve always been a people pleaser. Chalk it up to being raised in the South by a mother so polite, she would rather sign up for a dozen bake sales, church obligations, and professional society commitments than tell anyone no…
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I’m about to launch into a full-throated, first-world, drippy-yuppie wallow session, and there’s just no way to complain this much without warning you first. If your tolerance for elitism and whining and trivial horseshit is low today, move along, Gentle Reader. Move along.
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