Hey Eastsiders! 425 magazine wants to know what you think makes the Eastside a beautiful place to live. (Besides all the fantabulous events going on in Newcastle this summer!)

Folks who write in could be featured in their “Letters to the Editor” section and even if you’re not printed, you’ll be entered to win an autographed book by Jane Porter! (Dude! Her books look AWESOME. Have I found at long last, an author my mom and I can both read?! Unbelievable.)

Email a letter to the editor (lisa at 425magazine.com) or submit a brief note to 425 Magazine here. Remember to include your first & last name, including city of residence so they can credit/contact you. Good luck!

Being married to me is something I imagine has not always been easy. There have been times when I know I was not at all fabulous. And topics on which I am neither reasonable nor consolable. For ten years he’s seen past all my worries and traumas and flaws, and loved me anyway.

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May is a challenging month at our house. In addition to travel and a healthy schedule of birthdays and graduations and anniversaries - my birthday is seven days before our wedding anniversary. And Mother’s Day is smack in the middle of both.

This was not so much an issue a few years ago. We love our Mothers. We love showing them we love them. But. Then. Someone told us they were pregnant. THE DAY BEFORE MOTHER’S DAY. When we’d been trying for five god-damn years. (Now seven.)

And unless you are Travis, I don’t think there’s another person on Earth who can remotely fathom what a colossal mind-fuck that was. Because he alone experienced the day that Mother’s Day died and became the holiday known as: The Week of Hateful Darkness Wherein Jules Ignores All Life.

I am getting better. I think. For the most part, the hate is a lot less intense. But I still don’t watch much tv. Or want go shopping. Or care to talk to people.

It’s hard avoiding a holiday that screams ‘HEY! Look at me! And all the wonderful things YOU DON’T GET TO HAVE. Ha-ha!’ like some gargantuan, retarded, one-eyed Cookie Monster who’s everywhere you look and everywhere you go. And whom apparently, feels the need to manifest in everyone you meet.

Under this constant barrage of words and images, I’ve never felt so much the urge to stab somone with a set of dull car keys as when I’m out trying to maintain my sanity doing normal everyday stuff - and a waiter or grocer or volunteer invades my crazy-space by handing me a carnation and wishes me a ‘Happy Mother’s Day’.

I don’t expect people to know I’m not a Mom by looking at me. I don’t expect them to understand why it pisses me off. I just expect them to not exist for a while.

So I stay home.

Message: Do not EVER hand Jules anything while saying ‘Happy Mother’s Day’. It could be chocolate, it could be diamonds. It doesn’t matter. You will still lose an eye. Say, ‘Happy Anti-Social Week’. Or ‘Happy Drink Until You Forget Your Name Day’. Just don’t say ‘Mom’. It’s safer for everyone.