Hey you! Yeah, you. The one nervously walking by me while I guard the sidewalk with my long-necked attitude. You think if you veer around me at an undignified trot, I’m not going to honk like a 1970s New York City cabdriver? Think again, my non-feathered friend. Just because you pay too much rent to live in an only okay apartment with a quartz kitchen island countertop and laminate wood floors, you think you own the sidewalk? Don’t make me laugh. Because geese can’t laugh, we honk. Nonstop. Me a...

One year ago today I lost my mom.  There are a lot of books and articles on how to deal with grief. Of course, they don’t really help if you ignore all of them. My way of dealing with grief has been: shoving it wayyyy into the back of my mind and pretending I don’t hear it bellowing to be let out. I know it’s not healthy. I’ve seen Inside Out. I’m not an idiot.  Although…am I? Because it took me almost a year to deal with it, despite some pretty epic meltdowns when grief has broken down th...

It’s my birthday month, so that means in addition to demanding a chocolate cake that I will refuse to share, it’s time for my annual “This Year I’m Going to Change” existential crisis. Every year I imagine a magical version of myself with none of my…let’s call them “quirks” instead of “neuroses,” shall we? This mythical Jessie doesn’t panic at the thought of traveling alone. She is strong and independent! Nor does she have a meltdown when her plans change unexpectedly. She is breezy and easy-go

There seems to be a great misconception that the more a person talks, the smarter they are. After all, why else would a person speak if not to impart Great Wisdom on the rest of us? Following that logic, only a big dummy would sit silent while others talked and talked, right? RIGHT? I’ve sat in countless meetings where everybody talks but me. Those around me are talking, talking, talking and I can sense the occasional glance in my direction. “Why doesn’t she speak? Does she not have anything to

When I was 12 years old, my mother threw away a cassette tape of George Michael’s leather-jacketed masterpiece, Faith. The tape did not, in fact, belong to me. It belonged to a friend. I foolishly left it on my dresser and once my mother saw “I Want Your Sex,” it was all over but the screaming (mine). She not only threw it away, she pulled the ribbon apart with such savagery that no amount of pencil twirling would fix it. In our house, we weren’t allowed to listen to secular music. For the non