Hello, dear reader. Maybe you’re here because you’re feeling devastated too. Maybe you’re here because you’re hoping I’ll make you laugh. I hate to disappoint you, dear reader, but that’s not where I am right now.

Today, my government decided (again) that my voice, and the voices of millions of women (and men) screaming “PLEASE STOP” didn’t matter. Today as a country, we experienced together the trauma that so many assault survivors go through. Sounds crazy, but bear with me. We said “no”. We said “WE DON’T WANT THIS”. We begged for them to stop, they tuned us out and did what they had planned on doing all along.

Nothing helped. Nothing made any difference in the end result. They didn’t care. They never did. We knew that, and we allowed them to scrape open our deepest wounds anyway.

I have no cute bow to tie this up in. I have nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Tomorrow, I will look for the hope. I will begin to wrap my brain around the words that we need to get us through this. But for today, I have nothing. Nothing but the smell of the sheet that my middle school youth ministers fouled up to illustrate what we were like if we were sexually tainted before marriage. Nothing but a strange old man grabbing me and kissing me at age 16 in our church atrium. Nothing but the paralyzing feeling of knowing that nobody would believe me. Nothing but my boyfriend screaming at me for a flashback to my first assault during sex, then demanding that I allow him to touch me however he pleased because I “owed” it to him.

I have nothing tonight. But tomorrow is coming. And I won’t stay in this place. I refuse.


In which Jess is excellent at flirting.

The news cycle has been hard to handle for the last few days/weeks/years. In light of that, I thought I would distract us all with the hilarious tale of how I convinced the Hippie to fall madly in love with me. Buckle up, because this is some adorable shit.

 Yes. We went to Spec’s on the way to our wedding reception. We’re classy AF.

Yes. We went to Spec’s on the way to our wedding reception. We’re classy AF.

The Hippie meets the Mermaid

I was new to town, and my dad offered me up as tribute to a friend who desperately needed a set of hands in her cafe kitchen. I was grossly unqualified, but due to the fact that people don’t like disappointing my dad (to be fair, he’s essentially a puppy dressed as a human), I got the job.

My first day, I was quickly shown around the kitchen, and asked to make scones. My Prince Charming came around the corner, ready to start work for the day. With the gusto that comes only from a man whose life is about to change forever he proclaimed to the kitchen “Happy Thursday every— who the hell are YOU?”. There was nobody behind me. He was indeed talking to me. I stammered something that might have been my name. It’s hard to remember, as I was clearly swept clean off my feet.

Fast Forward 4-6 Months

There was this SUPER hot guy with long hair who used to hang out at the counter at the same time that I was usually guzzling coffee and getting ready for my shift in the kitchen. Throw in the fact that he was crazy intelligent and made me laugh, and… yeah. I was smitten. We had a good rapport going, but it always got cut short by me having to clock in and make the foods. The cute guy I had dubbed “Hippie” always vanished around then as well. I had no clue how our schedules were so in sync, but I tried not to question it, and would go about my life. Inevitably, my boss would come around the corner right after I’d settled into my tasks for the day, and thus a shift full of eye contact avoidance and keeping my head down would begin. A number of my co-workers had warned me that he was probably going to yell at me, and thus far I’d managed to avoid the wrath of the boss-man.

Related sidenote that explains why this is relevant to the current news cycle: I was involved romantically at the time with a man who would later be added to the list of my abusers. To say that I was a terrified, broken woman at the time was a harsh understatement for the constant fear and anxiety that I lived with daily. My spirit couldn’t handle anymore harsh words than it was already absorbing regularly, hence the all-out avoidance strategy.

Anyhow, one day I was sitting at the counter indulging in an extra cup of coffee and chatting with the Hippie man. I decided that for that day, I was going to do the impossible. I was going to be brave and ask his name. The conversation went something like this…

Me: So, I know it’s been awhile, but what’s your name? I kinda suck at names.

Him: …wait, really?

Me: I know! I’m awful, but I have no clue what your name is, but please don’t feel bad! I’m like this with everybody.

Him: struggles not to laugh Um… give it a minute.

Me: Huh?

He then proceeded to start twisting back his hair (still trying to keep a straight face), and pulled it into a knot on top of his head. When he put a hat on, I began praying for the floorboards to split apart, and for the earth to accept me into her loving embrace.

He was my boss. I’d been casually flirting with the supervisor I’d been so scared of for the last few months, and had been utterly unaware the entire time.

I was maybe a little flustered for the rest of the day. Maybe a lot.

Ok, definitely a lot.

Because later that evening, after I had resumed my policy of avoiding any and all eye contact with him (my face was still beet red), I was struggling with a bag of cheese. I couldn’t get the damn thing open to save my life, so I grabbed a knife and began trying to use it to open the cheese. The Hippie (who very kindly didn’t bring up the counter incident) noticed that I was probably about to send myself to the ER for stitches, came up to try and help me in my hour of distress, and… I sliced open his hand.

Happily Ever After

I generally do not recommend the “slice open the love of your life” method of assessing whether or not your person is really committed to sticking with you come hell or high water. However either I must have done something right, or the Hippie is a sadist, because we began dating a little less than a year later, and a little more than a year after that our son was born. Baby #2 is one rough sneeze away from joining the party, and we’re pretty happy with our life together.

Why do I tell you this tale of stabby beginnings? Maybe it’s because it’s hilarious. Maybe it’s because we all need something to take our mind off the hellstorm that is the current socio-political scene in our country. Maybe both. Either way, that’s my love story. It’s bizarre, pointy, and as with most things in my life, proves that cheese leads to good things.

Things Change, and I Need a Nap.

Well, we have moved. We're not in our new home yet, but we are definitely out of the old one. During the interim we're living with my parents, and I cannot lie to you, it has been nice being able to feel like I came home again. Waking up in the morning and knowing that an adultier adult is right down the hall is a feeling I didn't know I'd missed. 

Next week we will spend a few days at the beach with family on a much needed vacation. Vacation isn't usually a thing that we do. The Hippie and myself aren't accustomed to taking breaks, but after the hustle of the last few months, that is exactly what we need. We've made it through closing down a theatre company, Mother's Day, Ring Day Weekend, Graduation Weekend, Recital Weekend, a month of me working summer camps and new job simultaneously, me adjusting to being full time at the new gig (more on that later), packing up and vacating the old house, and all that during the first two trimesters of a pregnancy. To say that we're tired is to put it mildly. 

So much what has happened has been good. SO good! And so many exciting changes are still on the horizon: new baby, and the new house next door to one of our favorite people are just two of the big things that will be happening in the next few months. To say that we are blessed would be easy. What we actually are is exhausted from the hustle of the last 5 years, and damn lucky. Are there blessings there? Yes. Am I ignoring those? Nope. They don't let me. One of them calls me 'mama', and the other one kicks me in the bladder every 10 minutes. But it was hard work, and sheer dumb luck that led us to where we are now. 

For the moment, I will enjoy getting to have my dad and bonus mom just down the hall. Soon I'll be the adultier adult of the house again, and I want to soak up every blessed minute of this respite while we are fortunate enough to have it. 


*Disclaimer: This is not a normal "hey, I've been gone for a while, here are some jokes and a fun thing to think about" sort of post. You have been warned*

Candle in the dark.jpg


For the child who went to school and will never come home: we mourn. 

For the mother who stares at the bed that didn't get made that morning, who must now plan it's occupant's funeral: we mourn. 

For the father who would give anything to catch his daughter sneaking out the window one more time: we mourn. 

For the little brothers and sisters who now have to navigate this terrifying world without their idol to blaze the way for them: we mourn. 

For the older siblings who now must exist without the first child they helped raise: we mourn. 

For the dog who keeps looking out the front window at 4:15, waiting for his human: we mourn. 

For the teacher who took the bullet and still lost their students: we mourn. 

For the teacher who was out sick and now feels that they sent a substitute to die in their stead: we mourn. 

For the girl who will never again hug her first love: we mourn.

For the boy who just lost the one friend he'd come out to: we mourn. 

For the choir director who is forever missing their singers: we mourn. 

For the cafeteria worker who remembers each day why she doesn't need to prepare that serving of gluten free food anymore: we mourn. 

For the young artist who can't use red paint without smelling the blood: we mourn. 

For the Columbine survivor who prayed they'd never have to mentor in this way: we mourn. 

For the survivor who lives in a world where live tweeting a massacre is possible: we mourn. 

For the children who will never again enjoy fireworks: we mourn. 

For the grandparent who scours the internet for bullet-proof backpacks: we mourn. 

For the new teacher wondering if they're ready to lay down their life for children they haven't met yet: we mourn. 

For the student teachers now changing their major because they're afraid the answer is "no": we mourn. 

For the mother who weeps in the morning drop off line: we mourn. 

For the father who stares at the picture on his desk and prays his kid isn't next (because he knows there will be a next): we mourn. 

For the first grader who knows what to do in an active shooter situation: we mourn. 

For the nation that has made all of this a necessity: we weep. 

For a gun lobby that has prioritized sales over children at school: we rage. 

For a congress that offers empty condolences as they accept NRA donations: we rise up. 

For a government that remains silent as we cry out for them to do something: we vote. 

For a president who reminded us of the "very fine people on both sides": time's up. 

Our children are dying and you do nothing. You beg us to consider becoming teachers as we watch babies wait like lambs for the slaughter. Your moment of silence has gone on long enough. 

This is me.

This may not be the most comfortable post you've ever read. To be fair, it's not the most comfortable post I've ever written. But it's been tumbling around in my brain, and it has to come out somehow, so here we are. 

I still remember the first time I learned to be afraid of food. I was 6, and reveling in dipping each french fry from my Happy Meal in just the perfect amount of ketchup. I was a nugget girl, not a fry girl, and Micky D's had that sweet n sour sauce that even TODAY I occasionally wish I had in a cabinet. My babysitter looked on enviously, and eventually uttered a phrase that would change the way things were arranged in my little girl brain. "You'd better enjoy those things while you can, because you won't be able to eat them without getting fat when you get older,". Just like that, everything was different. There was a clock running, and I had better enjoy a lifetime's worth of fries, milkshakes, and tacos before time ran out and they became the enemy. 

It's no great secret that I've long had an intimate relationship with eating disorders. No, I was never hospitalized (although it came close a few times in my early 20's), but it's always been there. The controlling voice, perpetually nagging away in my brain that I can't shut up. "Did you exercise today?", "What did you eat?", "Did you exercise enough to burn off what you ate?", "Why are you even looking at that dish? It contains almost all of your calorie allotment for today!". The list of daily mental flagellations goes on and on. Food had indeed become the enemy, and I hated that I needed it to live. 

I didn't stay in that place forever. Hope and redemption are very real, very powerful forces in this world. But there are scars that I will never be able to get rid of. A voice in my head that comes back on the bad days to ask what I've eaten, and if I've worked out enough to "earn" it. And do you know what my response to that controlling sonofabitch is? 

I'm a dance teacher.

Every day at work I am in front of a group of young girls (mostly), who look at me like I am the coolest person they know. That I am their role model and idol is not something that I take lightly. It's my choice whether they see the woman who is confident in who she is, or the starving little girl I used to be, pinching at her sides in the mirror desperately wishing she could change everything she sees. Every day, no matter what kind of day I am having, I choose the former. Even if I'm not feeling it, that is who I will choose to be for every single minute that there is even a chance that one of my students is watching. Every class they ask where my taco meter is at, which may sound silly. And it is! But we do that because it helps us talk about food. Dancers are hungry people. We move all the frigging time, and if I reiterate to them that I eat like a normal human after class too, then maybe, just maybe feeding themselves won't feel taboo for them the way it did for me for so long. Because that voice that I still live with? I'll be damned if my class is where it begins to pick on one of my precious ones. 

With that in mind, is it any wonder that my soulmate is someone who artfully uses food to express his love? The way that he prepares a meal... it's not just to show off. He loves cooking. He loves feeding people, and he REALLY loves when he knows he's prepared something that will bring joy to those he loves most. Some people will tell you that food isn't love. Those people have never had dinner prepared for them post-rehearsal at 11PM by a Hippie who has to wake up early in the morning, but wanted to make sure that they had a dinner that did more than just fill their belly. They have also probably never tried bacon jam. That stuff's just happiness in a jar. 

The demons may never fully go away. I will probably have to deal with them for the rest of my life. But that they don't control my every action is a victory that I once never thought would be mine. I'm not really sure what the point of this all is, but... there you go. This is me. While I may not be thrilled about how I arrived here, I'm here. And I love where I am!  




Struggle Bus

I don't generally blast my dirty laundry here, and I won't be doing so tonight either. However, I will say... this week has not been my favorite. Not anywhere close. There has been too much to get done, and too little time. Too many bills, and too little coin. Too much exhaustion, and too little sleep. All the adults at Casa de Curls have been more tightly wound than a well kept pocket watch. 

We have tried to keep our chins up, and not feel sorry for ourselves. We've tried our best to keep a sunny face on, and chant "this too shall pass". We've tried. But you know what? Sometimes you need to wallow a little. Just a very little. Just enough to acknowledge your feelings, process them, and power through to a better day. 

Friends, if you need a minute don't be afraid to take it. It's not being a downer. It's being emotionally responsible. Dealing with yourself, your feelings where you are is so very important. Accepting that things aren't great right now, and processing the feels that come along with that doesn't mean that you live there now. It means that you're taking the time to get yourself in a healthy headspace again. And it's ok to give yourself permission to be upset. 

So guess what? Tonight, I will be having a glass of wine and ice cream for dinner while I take the time to be mad at my week for the way it has treated me. Because that's how I wallow. But tomorrow? Tomorrow I will be me again. Ready to tackle whatever the world tries to shove at me next with my usual sense of badassery. 

So for the moment, pass the ice cream. But, like Anne Shirley says; "Tomorrow is a new day with no mistakes in it yet". Next week will be better, and this too shall pass. 

 Actual photo of how I have felt for the majority of this week. Photo credit goes to Aleenah Spencer (a fellow model), and Glen Vigus (who is the photographer and co-founder of GT Studios).

Actual photo of how I have felt for the majority of this week. Photo credit goes to Aleenah Spencer (a fellow model), and Glen Vigus (who is the photographer and co-founder of GT Studios).

A Day in the Life with ADHD as an Adultier Adult: Part 2

Getting out the door

7:15 A.M

Hey, bud. Ok, you made a solid attempt at peeing in the potty, and were moderately successful, you may have a piece of... huh? No. Not fruit snacks. Actually, fruit snacks sound pretty good. But, no. Piece of chocolate, and your veggie pouch so I can get my "good mom" points for the day. God, I'm hungry. Why do we wake up so hungry? It's just rude. Also, coffee should just be *there* the moment my feet touch the floor instead of me having to work for it. Oh god! No, honey. You can't run around naked rubbing your butt on things because you think it's the funniest thing ever. Pants we have to pants. OH GOD, HOW AM I STILL NOT WEARING PANTS?!?! 

7:30 A.M.

Ok. Dad made your lunch last night. He gets major points. We HAVE to remember to let him have the last of the good cookies tonight, Eli. DAD GETS THE GOOD COOKIES. Cookies. We should go to Blue Baker when I pick you up from school today. That'd be fun! I can grab lunch, you can practice your manners. Manners. Miss Manners. Who the hell does she think she is to tell us all how to behave? We aren't doing so bad. Bad. Breaking Bad. Meh. I have other things to spend my valuable alone time on. Alone. Why am I alone? Eli! Sheila! Where are you two???? Oh god. 

7:45 A.M.

Ok. You two managed to hide in Sheila's crate for a solid 5 minutes without my noticing. Kudos, but pants, kid. You HAVE to pants. Geez. Ok. Sheila. I know you have to pee. Outside. Let's go outside. Outside. Think outside the box. What could I possibly bring to the table today that we haven't done yet? We're a dance studio. We're already quirky as a rule. Being EXTRA quirky is a tall order. Tall. My boss is tall. I wish I was tall. Being able to reach things at home without that frigging stool would be nice. Stool. Oh, god. What is that smell?

8:00 A.M. 

Ok, so we had to have a diaper change (even thought you're supposed to be going in the potty), but I can get you there before your class leaves to play in the big gym. Gym. I should join a gym. Preferably a 24/7 one. I could run safely at any time of the day or night. Night. What did you eat last night to produce a diaper of that magnitude? No matter. Let's go. We can do this. School. Work. Life. 

8:05 A.M.

Hey! I remembered pants this time!

A Day in the Life with ADHD as an Adultier Adult: Part 1

Waking up

5:30 A.M.

Morning. I hate morning. That's not true. Morning is fun. Morning is fresh. Morning is new. Morning is early. I hate early, not morning. Morning is ok, I guess. Wait, why am I putting word to thought this early? Hippie? Nope. Already at work. Is my alarm going off? No. Maybe... nope. Kiddo isn't awake yet. Puppy? Nope. Still being a furry body pillow. Oh! Maybe I should get another body pillow! The last one kinda sucked. Wait. I don't need to be awake right now. It's not even light outside. Close eyes. C'mon...sleep. Sleep. Sleep: A piece by Eric Whitacre that I sang my junior year at the Luther Summer Music Academy. LSM. I miss those people. Some of my campers have babies now. Babies. Is mine awake? No. Should I have another one yet? I mean, we're almost on our feet financially, and I'm not getting any younger, but babies keep you from-OH DANGIT I'M SUPPOSED TO BE TRYING TO SLEEP. ...Do I need to pee?

6:49 A.M.

SERIOUSLY?!?!?!?! I wake up one freaking minute before my alarm goes

6:50 A.M.

off??? There is no justice in this world. *hits snooze* Why did I do that? I know good and well that I won't actually go back to sleep. I'll just delay getting out of bed. Speaking of bed, should we get a new one? I mean, we WILL have an extra room at the new place, and this one collapses into a twin. Collapse. Fall of the Roman Empire. Our current state of affairs. OMIGOD am I going to have to learn to fight like a gladiator? Because I'm so not that badass... ok, I am. But I hate seeing internal organs, and no way do I want to face down a lion. I get nervous just looking at them in zoos. Zoos. Zoos are cruel. Caging animals that are meant to be wild is just mean. I hated being in a cage, invisible though it was, I can't imagine how they must feel. Maybe I should consider being a vegetarian? Nah. Stephen would get nervous if I told him I was giving up red meat. I know what it does for my anemia. Maybe I should just get more pro-active with taking iron?

6:59 A.M.

WHO DECIDED THAT SNOOZE SHOULD EQUAL AN UNEVEN NUMBER?!?!?! Ugh. That bugs me. Not enough to get out of bed though I'll just lay here and wait until Eli wakes up. Will he be excited or angsty about school today? I never know. He does love the new teacher. What was her name? Chelsea. That was almost my name. Names. What will we name the next one? If there IS a next one? Should we try now? I mean, not right NOW because Hippie is at work, and human creation is one thing I definitely can't do solo. Solo. I haven't sung in a long time. Like, SUNG sung. I miss singing. It felt like flying. Flying. I haven't been anywhere in half a decade, but Paris is still my favorite place. Paris. Character in 'Gilmore Girls'. I wonder if I'll ever get to act on a show like that. That'd be fun. That'd pay well. We could maybe even buy a house. Maybe even with a decent... Oh, that's Eli. He's up. Time to start the day. 

7:02 A.M.

Am I even wearing pants? 




Dear Reader,

I was not the best version of me today. Neither mom me, nor not mom me. Normally, I think I'm pretty cool, but today... Ouf. 

The past 2 nights the Junior Hippie has woken up crying at various times of the night, for differing reasons. Nightmares, lost his paci* and couldn't re-settle, is my child after all and is having trouble sleeping, etc. The problem is, I'm a SUPER light sleeper. To such a degree that if he even coughs, I will be roused from whatever blessed part of my sleep cycle I'm currently in, only to lay there waiting for a reason to rush him to the hospital for a chest scan despite the fact that he usually remains asleep now that his throat has been de-scratchified. 

Anyhow, the sleep disruptions of the past 2 nights have this insomniac momma in a less than stellar state. I'm groggy, foggy, and so exhausted that I can't think of another "oggy" rhyme. I have had an extremely short temper with those whom it matters the most, and I have not enjoyed that feeling. 

Why am I telling you all this? I honestly have no idea. But I am. 

I'm human. I have bad days. I don't always pull off the weird combo of optimism and glittering snark with a side of Disney princess that you have all come to know and love. But guess what? Tomorrow, I get to try again. I get to remind the rest of the Curly fam that I'm not always the crazy, mean, utterly useless person that I felt like I was today. And until tomorrow, there's wine. 

Whether you had a good or a bad day, cut yourself some slack, pour a glass of your favorite poison (or tea. Tea is good too), and remember that we all get another shot with the sunrise. 


A "but seriously, y'all. I need some SLEEP" me

*yes. He still sleeps with a paci. He won't sleep without them, it freaks him out. We all do what we have to for our kids, so put away your judgy pants please. 

And still, we hope.

Dear Reader,

This post is a little ramble-y. You've been warned. 

I've been searching for words since just before midnight on Tuesday, and I'm still struggling. But what I do know is... this isn't what I wanted. This isn't what I hoped for. This is, very possibly, my nightmare. 

Don't get me wrong, dear reader, I fully recognize the privilege I wear. I am white. I come from an upper middle class family that takes care of my curly headed crew when we need help getting our act together. True, I am a woman, but I'm lucky. I'm physically beautiful (which shouldn't matter, but seems to). I'm well educated. I have a husband who adores and believes in me, and I will never have to worry about my son not coming home at night because of the color of his skin. I definitely speak from a place of privilege, but I have fears too. Fear of living under a constant trigger warning for the next 4 years. Fear that I will be sexually assaulted again because the new president openly treats women like toys for his own amusement, and that opens the door for others to follow. Fear that my friends of color will never know what it is to feel safe in their own homes. Fear that my LGBTQ friends will lose the rights that they have only been able to enjoy for such a small window as it is. Fear that the entire human race is doomed, due to an impending environmental fallout. 

There are so many things to be afraid of now, and yet I have hope that all is not lost. Why? Well, it may not seem big to you, but it meant the world to me. 

So, I teach dance. Most of you know this by now. One of my passions in life is training the next generation of musical theatre performers to be able to at least make it through a dance audition without having a panic induced meltdown. Anyhow, at the beginning of class every week, we have a huddle where we check in with one another. We say how we're feeling on the inside and out, and get ready to dance together. We all went around the circle, and few kiddos expressed some sadness at the outcome of the presidential race, and some expressed confusion at the sadness, but all expressed their happiness that this was they day they got to come and dance with me. Anyhow, during our huddle, I reminded them that we were getting close to the time of year where I will be gone for a few weeks while I'm in a show (babies, if you're reading this PLEASE be nice to your sub!), and they wanted to hear (again) about the theatre company that I work for. "You mean, it's like a job?" "Can we all go to your show?" "That exists here in BCS?" "It's so cool that we have a professional theatre in this town!", you know. The usual comments from my crew of 10-14 year olds who show up every week. I forget sometimes that what I do for a living is actually pretty cool, and that they are watching my every move. Anyhow, amongst the usual commentary, one of my kiddos (the one who is so stoked that there is a professional theatre in her hometown) informs me that she has decided that as soon as she "is old enough and has enough money", she is going to open a theatre for people with disabilities. 

That may seem like a random thing to have latched onto, but think about it. A 14 year old girl, who is a budding performer and director, has more talent in her little finger than many people even SEE in their lifetime, and she has decided that the goal she is going to work towards, is opening a theatre especially for disabled actors so that they have a voice too. Y'all. This is our future. These are the kids we are raising to take our place. And guess what? THEY. ROCK. They understand what is important. They care about things and people other than themselves, and they work HARD. 

And so that is where I am right now, folks. I'm not happy. Devastated is a much more appropriate word. And I may not be looking forward to the next 4 years. But I am hopeful, because I see our future every day. And y'all? It's not too shabby. 

Happy Birthday.

Dear Reader,


"Happy Birthday!" is something one typically imagines hearing in chorus at a party of some sort. With streamers, candles, and (if you're lucky) a brightly wrapped gift or two. Some people like cake, some people like not cake, but all people like feeling loved and appreciated on the advent of their yearly trip around the sun. Well, dear readers, I am here today to celebrate a birthday. The honored one doesn't like cake so much. Or food. Ok, so the one celebrating their birthday isn't a person. It's a place. 


Every First Friday in November, myself and those that I love celebrate another year of The Village being with us. That's right y'all, we're 8! It may seem strange to have such a strong emotional tie to a little cafe, but... if you've been here, you get it. The people who work here are more than just co-workers trying to make it through a day, and once you've worked here? The place is in your blood in a way that can't be shaken, even if you want it to. We've seen each other through the best and worst of times, and all the highs and lows that come with being a human on this planet. We're not just cooks and baristas looking for the next paycheck. We're friends who will answer the phone at 3AM. We're lovers who have finally found one another. We're a functional family that love the hell out of one another, and are always ready to jump back into the fray with those still working in the trenches, if they need a hand with the lunch shift. 


The love doesn't end with the staff, though. Every morning, RIGHT at opening, there is a crew of gentlemen who sit together and try to solve the worlds problems. There are groups of friends who come here every Sunday morning for a pitcher of mimosas, and to get away from their problems. There are artists who come back every month to support the artist of the month the way they were supported when it was their turn to have art on the walls. 


There is so much love in this place without even touching on my story. I came here just looking to help out a friend of my dad's for a few weeks, and found the home I didn't know I was looking for. I found my soulmate on my first day here (he walked into the kitchen, and swept me off my feet when he asked"who the hell are you?"), and we celebrated our marriage here. Our son took his first steps here. He's growing up here. I'M growing up here. The love that is in the very bones of The Village has affected us all for the better, and THAT is what we celebrate every November. 


So, Happy Birthday to the place we always come back to. The place that has become our home when we don't know where that is anymore. The place that has held us together through the ups and downs of life. Village, we love you. It's been a wonderful 8 years. Here's to many more years of sheltering the bohemian hipster folk, artistic free spirits, and those who just need a place to belong. Happy Birthday!


(pics are from our wedding, at which almost the entire crew was gathered)

Still here. Promise.

Posted on October 17, 2016

Dear Reader,

Hi there. How’re you doing? Sorry that I abandoned you all for so long. I’d say that it won’t happen again, but we all know that’s a dirty rotten lie.

So… where have I been? Well, at last post I had just started teaching 2 dance classes a week  at Pure Energy Dance Productions in Bryan. Hippie and I were just beginning to plan our wedding, and were coming to grips with the fact that Hippie Jr was walking, which meant that once again, life would never be the same. Now I don’t just teach more, I somehow became the Assistant Artistic Director for the studio. I’m not entirely sure how that happened, but I wouldn’t change it for anything. I’m legally Mrs. Hippie, and Hippie Jr is not only walking, but running, jumping, identifying colors/letters/numbers, and is in pre-school. So much. So very much.

Every so often you have something happen that makes you realize just how quickly time cruises by while you’re busy trying to make daily life happen. This time for me, it was nothing major, just feeling an irresistible urge to write again. Feeling like something of myself had been missing in the last year and a half since I had written. Feeling so desperate to play with words that I DIDN’T CARE WHAT CAME OUT OF IT, I just had to write SOMETHING. Sitting down to write for the sake of writing doesn’t just happen, as it turns out. Not when there is a Hippie Jr who needs you to come and be the Percy to his Thomas (trains = life in little man’s world right now). Not when there is a full time job and steady acting work that you love, but that requires a lot of prep work and hustle (lesson plans don’t write themselves either, it turns out). Not when there is a Hippie who utterly adores you, who deserves to feel utterly adored too (he is. Don’t you worry, dear Reader).

Like all creative endeavors, writing has to be made a priority. Has to be given a little bit of that most precious commodity that we all like to horde for ourselves, or it won’t happen. Time is a bitch, but I’m going to start making an effort to give my writing a little bit of it once again. Art ain’t easy, and my life is full of so much beautiful artistry that it’s kinda unfair to the rest of the world to NOT share it. No guarantees that I won’t disappear again. But I can guarantee that I will try.


A “No, but really. A LOT has happened the past year” me

Little things.

Posted on March 6, 2015 in Uncategorized


Dear Reader,

There are big things in life. Engagements, weddings, births, birthday parties, new jobs, etc. Then, there are little things. The last cup of coffee, clean socks, a new pack of crayons, actually sneezing when your nose tickles…the list goes on much longer.

My life has had plenty of big things. Getting a vocal performance degree, moving to Bryan, getting cast in my first professional show, finding out that The Hippie loved me, finding out I was pregnant, and becoming a mom are a selection of the biggies. They have been pretty awesome. But the biggies wouldn’t have happened without the little ones.

Without the hours spent in a practice room puzzling over the same 3 measures until I knew that nobody could sing them better than me, I wouldn’t have a voice degree. Without slowly packing up my things and re-discovering treasures from my childhood, I wouldn’t have made it to Bryan. Without the hours of jamming to Regina Specter while driving back and forth from Bryan to Dallas, I wouldn’t have been cast in my first show (which is what gave me the kick in the pants to continue doing this crazy acting thing). Without the months of sharing coffee and helping each other through the transition into “real” adulthood, Stephen and I never would have fallen for each other. Without THAT, we wouldn’t have our son. And have you guys SEEN that kid? Go look at the featured image for this post again. I’ll wait.

RIGHT?!?!? He’s amazing.

So what is the point of this ramble-y, “stop and smell the roses” sentimental schlock of a blog post? There was a small moment early in my week, and it has stuck with me.

The Hippie has to be at work in the mornings before Eli or myself are ready to be awake, and it’s been COLD for the past few days. One morning before he left, I was in that place between sleep and awake where Tinkerbelle waits for Peter. Aware of what was going on, but not fully conscious. And before I could continue trying to wake up further so that I could snag some food before my son woke up and needed to eat, I felt something gently being laid on top of me, and then being tucked around me. The Hippie knew that without being in bed next to me I would shiver myself awake, and even though he had to hurry out the door, he was taking the time to try and keep me warm. It was one of the sweetest things ever.

Here’s the thing, my life is made up of a string of those little moments. I know that there are big moments coming, both good and bad. Life has taught me that much, at least. But these little moments? Blankets being tucked in, and coffee being shared? Those are the ones that stand out to me. The ones that I remember throughout the week. Without them, the big moments aren’t possible, and the good things aren’t nearly so sweet.

That’s all, dear readers. Thank you for indulging me.


One of my favorite daily “little moments”.