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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.

Everyone's faves

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.

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.

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.

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,

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.)

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.

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. The book that burned a billion bras. It's also to blame for this blog. 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."

The 'That Won't Be Us" Illusion

We're so busy , we don't know whether we're coming or going. 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.

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?

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.

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