Jody Amable

If I let everyone off the hook for extenuating circumstances like, “He’s over 50, so he probably just doesn’t know any better,” no one’s ever going to stop calling me “sweetie.”

The neighbors turned their lights off. My dog fell sound asleep. I kept reading. And at 1:03 am, I finished. All was well.

In the aftermath of my mom passing, I've learned to reconcile our rocky relationship with the knowledge that she loved me.

No matter how drunk he is, he can’t NOT notice this. His hand is moving. What do I do? What do I do? Do I politely ask him to stop? Do I yell at him? Do I wheel around and whack him in the face? You don’t know what he’s doing, Jody. Calm down. Don’t make a scene.

Jon Stewart, step aside. Your heir apparent has arrived.

The further I get into this series, the harder time I am having remembering what the eff has happened so far. You see, I am an Old Lady.

I'm 30 years old and stuck in San Jose, the hometown I always wanted to leave. What happened?

There are a lot of things to hate about the Olympics.

A few weeks back, I got looped into an Instagram chat with some coworkers from one of my gigs, who were snarking about the fact that the

Creator of grungy, gritty rock and roll with a poet’s heart, her critically-lauded record, Beyond the Bloodhounds, tells tales of a tumultuous childhood and split geographical identity.