HAPPY MOTHERS DAY! Here’s a picture of my mother when she was my age. Isn’t her 1970s style amazing? (She rocks the center part and aviators so well.) I love you, Mama! What are you doing with your mom to celebrate?
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Anastasia Smith: 24, sisterless and searching.
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HAPPY MOTHERS DAY! Here’s a picture of my mother when she was my age. Isn’t her 1970s style amazing? (She rocks the center part and aviators so well.) I love you, Mama! What are you doing with your mom to celebrate?
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AS I MENTIONED EARLIER this week, I recently spent some time hanging out with my dad while he was visiting North Carolina. We had a great visit that was punctuated by headlocks, non sequiturs, and spontaneous drowsiness. And it really got me thinking how many of you TSP fans ask, “where does your Brother T get his unstoppable goofy streak?” Well let me tell you, dear readers, look no farther than the man in the reflective rainbow sunglasses for that answer.
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I HAVE A SOFT SPOT for this IKEA ad. Maybe because I’m a Cancerian (and therefore a homebody). Or maybe it’s because I’m moving soon and I’ve had lots of nesting urges. Or perhaps it’s because I visited the house where I was born last weekend. (Yes, that must be it.) [click to continue…]
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MY VERSION OF THE KINDS of phone calls I frequently have with my adult brother (and this sort of thing has been known to happen multiple times a day, mind you): [click to continue…]
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E VERY YEAR since I can remember, my brother T and I adorn our Christmas tree with strings of cranberries and popcorn and with ornaments made of paper snowflakes and dough. We learned these thrifty traditions from our mother, who had learned them from her own mother. Always laboring to make ends meet, my grandmother (whom we affectionately referred to as Lady) decorated her tree with popcorn and cranberries and dozens of handmade egg characters. (My favorite design, left, is “The Spirit of New Year’s Eve” complete with faux lashes and blond bouffant.) Her trees and ornaments are a mainstay in our memories of Christmas. [click to continue…]
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This is like one of those HIGHLIGHTS Magazine double images, where you have to find what's missing in the image on the right. Tricky, I know.
FRESHMAN YEAR OF HIGH SCHOOL is a particularly awkward moment (a timeless characterization, I fear.) I remember spending that time listening to Brandy and Monica on a loop, and putting an inflatable plastic chair in my bedroom. And it seemed as though every time I turned my back to the mirror, a few dozen new pimples appeared any number of places.
As if I wasn’t clumsy enough in my skin, my brother T left for college the September after I turned 14. Our house became strangely quiet. I no longer could saunter downstairs to our finished basement and offer to make sandwiches for T’s stoned friends, or eavesdrop on his phone conversations to hear about the who-drank-what last weekend and the where-will-we-go this weekend. [click to continue…]
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