Sometimes I’m so embarrassed by my words and actions that I have to lash out at my coworker’s wardrobe: Did he confuse ‘causal Friday’ with ‘gay disco circa 1978’?

I don’t like self-promotion. I have always wanted to be a writer. But, I don’t want to have to tell people to go read my stuff. It seems pushy. Curiously, this intersects with my father’s death-emails.

I’m fat. Not fat-fat, but if I go up one more pants-size, I’ll be shopping in specialty stores, a realization that led to my recent dalliance with Weight Watchers. People say I carry my weight well, to which I say, “go fuck yourself.”

I got into an argument with my husband Michael this weekend, although now that I’m thinking about it, argument might not be the wrong word. It was more like a meltdown with a witness that ended in a group nap.

When my mom was pregnant with me, my parents bought a house in the middle of a forest, as in, trees coming up to the house. They spent a great deal of time clearing the land so that we kids could have unevenly-cut and poorly-stacked firewood to play on. Given our locale, it wasn’t surprising when displaced wildlife ventured into our yard. What is surprising is the apparent lack of a vision health plan for my family, because my mother once chased a bear off our property with a broom, thinking it was a dog.

The bon-voyage family brunch is a common occurrence in my family, for which Dad invariably suggests, “Let’s meet at the firehouse,” which is, in fact, a diner housed in Historic Firehouse 18, Ballard Washington.