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Showing posts from February, 2017

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The Writing On My Walls

It’s not much of a reach to say I am big fan of manifestos and sloga…

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Michelle Sassa

Writer.
Author.
Witster.
My mom raised me to believe I could do anything. Then I got married and had kids. These are the ironic musings of a liberated woman who lost her independence while gaining a life.

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Buy me, Love me

MAD MEN meets THE DEVIL WEARS PRADA in this lively debut from two adgirls who worked at one of Manhattan's most notorious boys clubs.

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Put Up Your Daisy Dukes

One of the big stories going around the net right now involves an 11th grade girl from Canada who was sent home for wearing short shorts and went on to protest the school's dress code, causing one heck of a stir.

The threat down the hall

Anyone who’s met me knows I’m all about supporting women. My first novel’s got a pink cover, for clit’s sake, and its title even features the word girl. Few things give me greater joy than being there for my gal pals and cheering on the sisterhood. I rise, you rise, rising boats and all that shemale shish-kumbaya.
But lately, I’ve been dealing with some stiff sister competition from a place I never expected. And my first instinct is to keep this chick down and put her back in her place.

Still Got It

‘What is tonight’s challenge going to be?’ my bestie Melanie asked me as we sipped our vodka sodas, leaning against the bar that was holding us up. Our legs weren’t buckling from intoxication, but rather from the paddleboarding I’d done all morning while Mel and the other girls did a fitness challenge back on shore.
‘Challenge?’ I blinked, not comprehending. ‘You mean, like trying not to get fall-down drunk?’ After all, the girl had done like a jillion squats. And our other bestie Marisa is a notorious stumbler whenever liquor is involved, even when her quads aren’t sore.
It was day two of our annual girls’ weekend in Ocean City, Maryland, and we were at wildly popular nightclub Fager’s Island, where vacationers young and old come to revel amidst a back drop of DJ’s, live music and reckless anonymity. Also, more bachelor and bachelorette parties than the Las Vegas strip.
‘No, silly.’ Melanie shook her head, motioning to the colorful cast of characters pouring into the place. ‘We nee…

I'm A Moron. And an Oxymoron.

Welcome to my blog.
I grew up under the shadow of a little old revolution some of you may recall as the Women's Liberation Movement. Which no doubt explained my boyish, cropped Dorothy Hamill haircut and the fact that I gladly let my brothers burn my Barbie Dolls to a crisp using leftover 4th of July fireworks.
My pro-women's lib mama raised me to be strong, independent and as fierce as any man. Then, in my twenties when I informed her I was going to grad school to advance my career, her response was, "Why? You're just going to have to give it up when you get married and have babies."

Your Kid Sucks. So Shut Up.

There is some kind of Newtonian law that the more a kid sucks at a sport, the more vocal his parents are on the sidelines. Often, this coincides with Galileo’s hypothesis that these are precisely the same parents who are “experts” at the game being conducted, though they have never coached and never played a sport in their life. A handful never even played on the chess team.

My high school physics is fuzzy, but I am pretty sure they call this the law of inertia.

The 'That Won't Be Us" Illusion

My older brother called the other day to invite us to a little get-together for his son’s birthday. When he gave me the date, I checked my calendar then started laughing like a teen snorting cough meds.

“Bro, I’m triple booked then,’ I rattled in that same annoying laundry-list voice all the other grade school parents I know can't help using to quantify how unequivocally busy we are.

Going Back to College

What I can actually remember of my college partying days was pretty awesome. So when my 19-year-old niece invited me to accompany her mother, a mutual friend and her teen daughter to her sorority’s Mom’s Weekend at Indiana University, I was all like, Yaaasss! (Because that's what the sorority girls say now, don’t they? Pretty sure I read that on the Chapsnat.)

What the PARCC Taught Me

The End of Days is upon us. The Rapture. Judgment Day. Also known as PARCC testing time.
If you have children of school age anywhere around these parts, you know this WTF-of-a-standardized-computer-based-test is all anyone has been talking about this whole school year. It's even made us forget about lockdowns.
The three children I live with have taken to call it the CCRAP test, even though they have to cough up a dollar every time they say that. Worth every penny, in their books.

Not Your Daughter's Barbie

Lately, the folks behind Barbie have been going hog wild trying to find ways to keep the disproportionate plastic icon modern and relevant. Exhibit A: the new Sports Illustrated Swimsuit doll. She made her debut posing in the mag's 2014 Swimsuit Issue and quickly flew off the shelves of Target...

Do What You Love

Originally, the title for this post was going to be ‘The Wai-ai-ting Is The Hardest Part.’ A subtle nod to one of my first rock loves, the poet god of telling it like it is, Tom Petty.
Then I thought maybe I’d be oh-so-clever, and change it up to ‘The Wri-ii-ting Is The Hardest Part,’ a not-so-subtle bow to how I’ve been spending my days and nights.
See, my writing partner and I are one spell check away from finishing our second novel. And that’s the kind of end line that deserves a YIPPEE-MOTHER-EFFIN-KAY-AY. Confetti, champagne and cheese fries wrapped in new clothes from Anthropologie, boxed together with a litter of baby kittens.

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