A pissed off poem

Get all your work done
Read all the emails
Do all the projects, and do them all at 100%

Don’t drop a ball
Here, take some more balls

Take care of your kids, be a good mom, be present
But don’t act like a mom at work or talk about your kids

Practice self-care; after all, we’re in a pandemic

But don’t forget to get all your shit done, and if you do any self-care, make sure it’s after hours

Enjoy that massage and the guilt coursing through your muscles; it’s easy to relax when you’re brain is still going…


Is this normal? Asking for a friend

Technically I only started writing at the end of December, and I’m not sure ‘quit’ is the right word, seeing as I feel I barely started.

It’s work’s fault

My teeth are getting kicked in right now at work. When I say ‘work,’ I mean my real job. The one that pays me. The one that I would leave if I somehow became a baller like Tim Denning — or if I married rich. However, I’m already happily married, so I figure that ship has sailed. …


The Medium edition

I’ve been on Medium since the end of December 2020, and I’m beginning to see familiar faces now. I’m starting to get the social connection and community that people have talked about finding on this site. I wanted to take a minute to acknowledge the writers I’ve met, the interesting people I follow, and how they’re all starting to intertwine.

Without sounding like a total creeper, I think Erin Hendriksen would be fun to grab a coffee with if I ever visited Canada. This would only happen if we planned it around nap times and temper tantrums…


How much of a fan are you?

We’ve all been there. You have a particular artist you’re into. You’ve spent money on their CDs, downloaded their music, or went to their concerts. Some of their songs might even hold significant memories for you. Maybe it was a song from your high school prom, it’s your go-to road trip playlist jam, or there are special lyrics that got you through a tough time in your life.

Then you got gut-punched.

Your favorite artist is now making headlines for something totally unbecoming. There’s an accusation against them; their character is questioned. …


To hell with society’s expectations

What up, b’s? My name is Sleeping Beauty. You’re probably familiar with my story, or at least the story you think you know. I’m a princess, and some evil bitch put a curse on me and told my parents that I’d prick my finger and die. My parents are uber overprotective and got rid of anything sharp in the whole kingdom. However, I still managed to prick my finger on my b-day and fell into a deep sleep. Some prince comes along and kisses me; I wake up and live happily ever after.

Bullshit.

That’s all a big fat lie…


Every mom’s fantasy

Sleeping Beauty is every mom’s fantasy.

Let me explain. You get to lay down and sleep for as long as you want, blissfully unaware of anything going on around you. I would pay someone to be Sleeping Beauty. Kids fighting? I don’t hear anything. Cooking? Why, I’m not going to be awake to eat. Laundry? Nope, I don’t need clothes. Dusting? No. Vacuuming? Hell no. The house can be a pigsty. I don’t care; I’m asleep.

The amount of sleep I’d want would be the exact amount of hours I spent awake because of my kids, especially…


The music of my coming of age

I was born in 1982, so in terms of music, the ’80s hold no interest for me. I’m not into hair bands. I appreciate a good Whitney Houston power ballad as much as the next person, but she’s not making my road trip playlist. I contemplate murder when my husband blasts Huey Lewis (sorry, Christopher Robin). Maybe I was too young for the ’80s since they never really got a hold on me’ (throwback reference there, thanks, Smokey Robinson).

The ’90s, though? The ’90s were it.

First music memories

My first real memory of being interested in music was in 3rd grade. We…


If you won’t stop, at least upgrade it for the parents

I hate seeing those little cheery birthday goodie bags at the end of parties. It’s like you’re gifting me a headache. My kids just got hyped up on cake and ice cream, so you don’t need to send them home with more candy. We’re good.

We also don't need the stickers because they inevitably end up on random pieces of furniture, and Goo Gone has already failed me in my desperate attempts to remove them. I’m never using the rub-on tattoos, either—a lot of effort for little reward, for my kid and me. The pencil you added? Trash. Asking me…


The struggle is real

I did the thing you’re supposed to do.

I got up early. I came downstairs and popped open the computer. I read two articles from a new writer I found and then told myself that I got up early to write and not read. If I’m supposed to flex my writing muscle, I better get after it.

I opened a new blank page, and the emptiness stared back at me.

What to write, what to write….

The article I previously read was about a woman’s labor and delivery story. It reminded me of my own experience when my first baby…


I stopped accepting it when I slapped him across the face

This story has been sitting in my heart for a while. Part of me thinks I shouldn’t even share it. Compared to other stories, it’s not ‘traumatic enough.’ How dare I complain about being sexually harassed when so many women have been sexually assaulted?

But then I look at my daughter, my girlfriends, my sister, and my mom. Would I tell them not to share their story? Their story matters, too. Their voice needs to be heard. And so I share mine…

Misplaced trust

I went to college on a 4 year Army ROTC scholarship. I knew nothing about the Army besides…

Lisa Kalkes

A FT working mom, wife, veteran, and 90’s hip-hop and R&B connoisseur.

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