Month: January, 2017


In a wedding consult, the bride tells me that she really would like to walk down the aisle to the Shubert Ave Maria, but she feels hesitant about that decision because in her mind “it’s a special song for important people only.”


I laugh and tell her, “Honey, that song is for everybody. Grace is for everybody.”


And so it’s decided.


In this Lunar New Year of the Rooster, let us not be dicks to each other or dick ourselves over by believing in the cock-a-mamie insecurities that keep us from every prosperity.



The bar likes having small bills for change and I like having bigger bills for a slimmer sized wallet.


So at the end of the night, I empty out my tip jar and make this trade with the bartender.


Tonight, one of the new guys hands me back my money from his drawer with a sad face.


“That’s it?” he asks.


The amount is dismally low.


I shrug and share with him what I’ve learnt over the years.


Whatever is in that jar is whatever I’m supposed to have.


At the end of the month, all the bills have always been paid, I’ve always been fed and there’s also always an extra amount for saving.


He says it’s the best tip he’s ever had.



I hadn’t seen her in close to a year so I thought she might have left Michigan to pursue work back in her native Shanghai.


We hug and catch up as her new boyfriend sits at the piano bar, watching her in silent adoration.


And then she asks in Chinese, “So have you seen him.”


I answer, also in Chinese, that I have.


Having thus suddenly entered a secret treatise, she continues.


“Was he alone?”


I stutter that he was indeed alone tonight having dinner with business colleagues.


“Which implies by inference that he wasn’t alone other nights and that he was with a woman. Am I right?”


My speechlessness betrays everything.


“It’s okay,” she says, “I know who he’s seeing right now.”


The only way to end this is to start playing.


And she sits.


But I know she’s not really listening.
Wondering instead if the man she still loves will ever speak her name again.


At 180lbs, I feel strong but I don’t feel pretty.


I’m definitely uncomfortable in my regular clothes, and a simple thing like a 20-minute run, which used to make me sexy, has become downright breathtakingly ugly.


So when my coach says he expects me to put on at least another 10lbs, I wonder I’m going to fit all that extra.


Which is funny because I’ve never worried about being extra blessed or extra bitchy.


Extra burdens though, that’s a whole other kind of extra that requires not extra faith, but rather a complete certainty that I will be equipped and able to handle it all.