Possibly the sequel to my memoir When I Married My Mother...When I Married My Mother’s Dolls. I inherited 700+ dolls of all kinds. It took 6 years and therapy to be able to let them go. Must find new forever homes. If you intend to take them apart or resell do not tell me! The sooner the dolls disperse the sooner I can write about this hilarious and heartbreaking journey—and find a real person to fill their space.
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Valentine’s Day is coming, that day in February when we are supposed to buy or wear stripper lingerie to remember the life of a third-century Roman saint who died on the Via Flaminia. In truth, not all couples celebrate with thongs or chocolate or chocolate thongs.
As a public service, a few weeks ago I asked readers for the single worst Valentine’s Day gift they had ever received. (Just call me Cupid.) I was actually a little overwhelmed at the impressively bad choices some of us have made. So, as a public service, here are a few of the responses I received. Here are those things you should never confuse with an appropriate Valentine’s Day present.
We first spotted him when we came up the stairs to the second deck. He was hard to miss. We were still in the station in L.A. on a gorgeous sunny morning, all-aboarding the Coast Starlight, which runs almost 1200 miles north to Seattle. Mitch and I would be getting off that evening in Oakland.
It’s a tough little staircase for anyone not completely able-bodied. Narrow and steep, it takes two right turns, and if you’re carrying anything at all, it’s clumsy and awkward. At the top, we saw a tall young man, maybe twenty or so and at least 500 pounds, thick glasses with an elastic strap holding them onto his head, gigantic pale legs bulging out of Bermuda shorts, who’d just climbed that staircase and plopped down in the first space he came to. He was so big he took up both seats. His face was red and glistening and his chest heaved with exertion, mouth hanging open to get more air. He had a goggle-eyed look of excitement, panic, wariness, fascination and bewilderment, and he hugged a tiny portable television close with both arms. Mentally deficient, I registered as we passed by. Traveling alone, sternly warned by whoever put him on the train: Watch out. Don’t let them steal your television.
This is my love letter to Detroit's resilience. Years ago, as I sat at an ice cream parlor on Maui, I saw, in my imagination, a lost little girl hunched over a black trash bag that contained all her worldly things. My story grew from there.
Lucille Lang Day got married at age 14, gave birth to her first child at 15, divorced her husband at 16, married him again at 17, and left him at 18 to go back to school. Today she is an award-winning poet and holds an M.A. in English and M.F.A. in creative writing from San Francisco State University, an M.A. in zoology and a Ph.D. in science and mathematics education from the University of California at Berkeley.
Her memoir, Married at Fourteen, is a story full of hope and encouragement for those who find themselves in challenging circumstances. Her successful quest for fulfillment in romance, marriage, motherhood, education, and career shows that we need not give up, no matter how far we have veered from our goals.
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