From the category archives:

Growing Up a Singleton

The Underpinnings

by paige on May 15, 2009

This is what an $88 bra looks like.

This is what an $88 bra looks like.

I DON’T REALLY REMEMBER shopping for my first bra; I’m sure I was with my mother, who insists that I remember everything. (See Mom? I don’t. Some things are better blocked right out.) [click to continue…]

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My Happy Mother’s Day

by paige on May 12, 2009

This is not my tattoo, Mom.

This is not my tattoo, Mom.

MOTHER’S DAY, A manufactured holiday that can sometimes be second only to Valentine’s Day in overpromising and underdelivering, is mercifully over, once again. This year, mine was exactly right: We went out for a nice lunch with my mom, and some good friends, and the kids mostly behaved, and my other mom friend and I toasted each other with something called a “health margarita,” so named because (in addition to the requisite tequila) it included grapefruit juice. [click to continue…]

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Is This Why I Became a Redhead?

by paige on April 29, 2009

redbelliedwoodbrotherIHAVE A SECRET to share. I was not always an only child. Once upon a time, I had a Baby Brother. I’m pretty sure I hated him. [click to continue…]

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Tuna Casserole Chronicles

by paige on April 1, 2009

tuna2betz

from "The Betty Betz Teen-Age Cookbook" (Henry Holt, 1953)

IT SEEMS THAT in every ancient recipe box or ladies’ auxilary-style sisterly cookbook I find, there’s a recipe (or several) for tuna casserole. I didn’t grow up eating it, though I do remember having it once at a friend’s house. Unlike my mother, who taught herself to cook by following along with Julia Child and seemed a bit suspicious of convenience-food casseroles, my friend’s mom, Mrs. Marsh, swore that she couldn’t cook anything without a can of Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom soup. Hmmm… [click to continue…]

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Mary, Mary and Me

by paige on March 17, 2009

jJUST THE OTHER morning, sipping my green tea and surfing The Sister Project, I was transported in a flash to a backyard I haven’t visited in nearly 40 years. It’s all Marion’s fault.

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