these changes ain’t changing me

It occurs to me now that this story is wasted on the young. As a child, I found it overwrought. Then again, I was the kind of insufferable pedant who insisted on pointing out that I was ten and a half or turning thirteen next month. To me, the delta between just-turned-twelve and twelve-plus-eleven-months was… Continue reading these changes ain’t changing me

freshman disorientation

Nothing prepared me for the first time that I tried to walk from one building on Vassar's campus to another alone. It was before smartphones or even the proper signage that the fire department recently forced the college to install. I was hell-bent on finding my own way, no way was I going to ask… Continue reading freshman disorientation

all the old familiar places

We moved from one house to another, not even two miles away, when I was twelve. On the last night in the old house, I wrote a letter that I've since misplaced to remind myself of who I had been when I lived in that house. (I'm not sure how I drew up quite as… Continue reading all the old familiar places

eyes on the prize

I had just a few simple dreams when I was a child: to meet the Spice Girls, to buy an entire wardrobe from the Limited Too, and to will myself into having perfect vision so I could cast off my Coke-bottle glasses once and for all. Did you know they make miniature cellos for tiny people… Continue reading eyes on the prize

a deluxe apartment in the sky

After college, I landed in an apartment that my father once, memorably, called “a warehouse for twentysomethings.” Warehouse is generous: it was a converted four-bedroom with a single, decrepit bathroom and no air conditioner. I found my room on Craigslist shortly after arriving in New York where I discovered quickly and to my chagrin that,… Continue reading a deluxe apartment in the sky

ain’t nothin’ but a number

When I was seventeen, the sleepy-eyed 26-year-old sound engineer who taped a microphone cord to the back of my neck every night before I went onstage as Peggy in 42nd Street fell hard for me. “I shouldn't be telling you this,” he'd start, his thumbs pressing the tape into the back of my neck for… Continue reading ain’t nothin’ but a number

dana got run over by a reindeer

This holiday season, I fell into a funk, captured for posterity in a series of journal entries where I asked myself some variation of “what's wrong with me?” I blame Christmas, when the answer to this question is obvious: I don't have access to a baby or a purse dog or a mini-SUV that I… Continue reading dana got run over by a reindeer