Alyson Kate Long
I'm a small business owner by day; a Kindle junkie by night. I love Indian food, MacGyver reruns, breaking grammar rules for the sake of sentiment & my tattoo of falling into a really great book. There is always time for coffee or a nap!
An Ode to Salt
Oh Salt. Crunchy, savory, indulgent, and simply essential Salt. With the Season of Salt-Shaming upon us — blaming you for everything from bloating to blemishes, to those mind-boggling lies of bland food — I pen to you this heartfelt note of adoration.
Since January my inbox has been bombarded with well-meaning e-blasts about swimsuits. Because, y’know, it is just so easy to forget that sweltering period of time between May and September when the whole of the South feels like they’ve smeared themselves in Vaseline then bundled up in Saran wrap. “Oh, it’s only 97 degrees with 110% humidity? Silly me and here I was planning to wear my black trash bag!” said no one, ever.
The Dung Beetle Fallacy
We need to talk. Being the person in the room with the most degrees that someone else paid for; the most certifications in a generic subject just for show; the longest commute to prove how committed you are; the biggest collection of passive-aggressive platitudes to disguise how dismissive we’ve all become of any new thought; having the loudest opinion or the last word does not make you smart.
How to Throw an At-Home Wedding Even the Old Folks will Love
The Quick Highlights: We bought a house instead of paying for a wedding venue We hired a food truck, tents, tables and chairs 73 people came and everyone had plenty to eat Our color palette was plaid Our budget was $3,500 (my dress was gifted) — we came in $300 under
Simple Ain’t Easy
I’m standing in line for Register 3 with a 24-pound bag of dog food slung across my hip like a cranky toddler. I’m in the throes of a polyester sweat sesh but my hair is down and my edges are frizzing — after a nine hour shift I’m working off a major ponytail headache. My jacket is twisted through the straps of my purse; my name tag dangles off the side. The KT Tape running from my collarbone down to my waistband itches every time my bra rides up but my back no longer feels like a broken window pane. Worth it.
Thank You for Firing Me
At the end of February I was terminated from my new job. 24 hours prior I was told, “You have my permission to relax. Your job is secure here, we’re just working through details.” Incorrect; I was told that I was “irrelevant” after the person I was hired to replace decided not to leave the company.
When It Rains
I miss you when it rains. Writers have a certain sadness, I think. The peculiar discipline of scooping into one’s own soul, to pour it onto a page requires complete honesty. To write is to imagine oneself living, if only vicariously, as another being. That sharing of a mind, soul and body is exhilarating, but too, exhausting. The knowledge that you can make yourself into anyone, anywhere, brings a certain sadness and the relentless question of “Am I who I’m supposed to be?”