Essayist. Lover of food and champagne. Seeker of love, survivor of heartache, and a fledgling believer that everything really does work out in the end.
I went to the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra in Piedmont Park tonight. I thought, “this is why you live here. In the city.” I sat there on the grass with my illegal glass of champagne and listened in the cool of the spring as the birds swirled over Lake Clara Meer.
People who do not speak to their ingredients are not real cooks. I don’t care what Ina or Martha think about that. That’s what I’ve decided. I was throwing together a dinner for my friend Jayson. His mom has been sick. And this is the South, and
There’s a new chandelier hanging in my living room. We installed her today. She’s beautiful. I hung her with A, while M cooked our dinner. We sat on my balcony—newly refurbished. Mad brought her new boy around— he’s nice. The truth is, when you’re not
For Car & Nono The phone rings on the couch. I look, Mad (actually it says, “GP.” I changed her contact because of the giant cat tattoo she just got on her thigh.) “Hey you,” I say as the line connects. “Let me tell you what your nephews did today,
For my Gran You know what I love? Like really? It makes me giggle. (Don’t you just love that feeling?) I fucking love putting something on the mail. I mean the whole thing is amazing. Writing it out. Tasting that tacky sweet but also probably carcinogenic flavor of the
For A I got my arm stuck in one of the fold down seats at the Fabulous Fox tonight. (facepalm) Do you know about the Fox Theater? You may have one in your town, but you don’t have ours. The one on Peachtree St. The one that was almost
I didn’t intend to write today— But then it just happened, as it so often does. The spark of a thought popped into the rusted open rattle trap of my mind, and here we are. Anxiety is like a Junebug. Or rather, anxiety is like the kid holding the
Do you know that I love North Ave? I do. I love her. She’s one of my favorite things about Atlanta. The A has a sort of checkered history with her street names. It’s mostly due to racism and the segregation era. One name stands in the more
The music plays. 80’s. Drama. Life. Chimes. Dun. Chimes. Bam! “The love I’m sending, ain’t makin’ it through to your heart—” Doesn’t it just send you? I think Jesus listened to Heart. I think they were His vibe. I think I’m his vibe when I’
I don’t like to talk about the bird patch too much—there’s more to life than a badge and a gun and a paycheck. But even so, I started 15 years ago yesterday. March 31, 2011. I was 23 and had no idea what was in store for
I sat at the sushi bar alone tonight. Usually I’m here with M and A, but they had a prior commitment this evening and so, for the Monday night ritual of sushi—it’s just me. And that’s okay. I sip my Sauvi B and watch the Reds
The quiet of the single life— It’s funny how that internal storm, that steady rolling of the tornado hooks, and green sky, and hail, and force— how it silently, ominously, churns overhead. and then it just drops. Accompanied by the shriek of the siren that sends the 5th graders