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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 a big fan of manifestos and slo…

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Michelle Sassa

Writer.
Author.
Witster.
I’m a sarcastic optimist. Also, a freelance copywriter, fitness lover, adventure seeker, headbanger and mom to three kids who don’t make other people scared to procreate. I write to inspire, amuse and say what everyone else is thinking.

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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

These jorts have about as much fabric as a handkerchief. 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.

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 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 g irl . 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

Whooping it up with my girls. And Captain Sparkle. ‘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, ...

Forget the New Year's Resolutions. Have an Attitude Adjustment Instead.

Let’s all resolve to stop whining and start thinking positive before I smack you. It’s resolution time again, and everyone I know is concocting their admirable, if not impossible, goals for the New Year: “I’m going to lose 50 pounds. By February.” “I’m going to climb Mt. Kiliminjaro. Twice.” ”I’m going to stop drunk online shopping.” Whew. All these lofty goals make me wanna veg on my couch with a bag of chips and a martini, surfing the net for sales. This year, I’m proposing a simpler change: how about we all make a vow to stop whining and start thinking positive?

Yippee! I Got An Agent!

Some news is so big, you just want to scream it from the rooftops. Stuff like, "I lost my virginity!" or "I'm getting married!" or "We had a baby!" Cherry-popping aside, those other life events are okay to broadcast because it's universally known that people will be happy for you–or act like they are. Then there's the kind of news I recently got which is more personal, and requires people know you or the situation well enough to know exactly how big that news is for you.

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.)

Politically incorrect family April Fool's pranks

In my household, we take our holidays pretty seriously. For Halloween, we creep out the lawn with life size monsters, a graveyard and a kids playhouse we converted into a haunted house. There’s even scary music blaring from the porch speakers that makes toddlers rethink how badly they want free candy. Christmas gets the full Chevy Chase holiday light experience – even indoors – and we’ve got a snow village the size of a small village under our tree, with a Polar Express railroad encircling it. As one does. We even invented a holiday, Cousin’s Day, that we’ve been celebrating with our relatives every summer for the last 14 years and counting. But the holiday that Team Sassa has elevated to an art form is April Fool’s. A day that’s sole purpose is to pull pranks on unsuspecting victims? Sign us up. Talk about the perfect occasion to showcase my family’s sick sense of humor, poor sense of boundaries, and healthy desire to build resiliency in each other. Here are some of the ep...

Quarantined with mice: We’re all doing the best we can.

In our new normal, dough is the new sign of wealth. Not the green kind, but the bread kind we need to feed our families—and right now, it’s especially precious and scarce. So imagine my horror a few days ago to open my bread drawer and find a gaping hole in the bag that packaged my Arnold 100% Whole Wheat, and an alarming number of the slices were half-chewed. Friends, don’t tell the government, but it turns out I had house guests. And after weeks of being forced to keep my distance from strangers, having to share the home that had become my sanctuary with a family of rodents was more than horrifying, it was too close for comfort . I don’t have to tell you how hard it has been to procure groceries to keep my ever hungry brood fed, the late night maneuverings to nab a delivery slot and the silent prayers hoping that when the delivery day finally comes, the store will actually have the perishables we need in stock. So as my husband went to war setting up a perimeter of mo...

Mom's Out of Order

You know it's going to be a bad day when a nagging injury wakes you at 4 a.m. and you limp into the kitchen for an ice pack only to find water dripping down the freezer's shelves and all the ice cubes clumping together like kitty litter. But I did what any normal, half-asleep housewife would do–I threw a towel over the puddle and went back to bed, hoping the whole mess would somehow work itself out by morning.

Story archive

2013 3

2014 23
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