I pride myself on my unabashed nature. Bold action that’s personality driven. Use of out-there tactics. It puts a smirk on my face; it stirs the particles of my universe efficaciously.

A side effect of my way of being is a visceral impatience for stagnancy and vanilla days. I’d never make it in a small town (a road tested and proven #fact by my year plus in Jacksonville, North Carolina). My equation doesn’t compute 2.5 kids + white picket fence + social convention = hallelujah. If the music isn’t giving me heartburn, it’s not gritty enough. If my drink isn’t strong enough, just give me the damn bottle.

If I know all of this about myself, after 44 years of slithering across the planet to shed my skin of doubt and use the brain my parents’ DNA gave me, then why Wednesday, July 17, 2019? Why did I, Rebecca Emily Michael Gaffney, allow my life to become a social experiment that was quickly losing its funding?

Because if I hadn’t, then I wouldn’t know what’s been eating at me for a lifetime.

When raised Catholic, there’s a Shroud of Turin in which we’re wrapped by default. In my experience, it traps the heat of needless guilt and fabricated reasoning. “I don’t want to impose” was a phrase I heard, and mimicked, repeatedly. There were always apologies thrown my way but few course corrections made. Being “close and honest” was often a line of bullshit.

Even though I went to a college where intellectual inquiry dictated the day – we were instructed to question everything – I barely asked the pressing questions of myself, my upbringing, and the things that just didn’t add up.

I continued to make the same mistakes, with slight modifications as a result of experience and maturity, for over four decades until, on Wednesday, July 17, 2019, I woke up, couldn’t breathe, and simply knew that if I didn’t get up and go, my social experiment would shut its doors for good.

It was time to look what’s been eating at me straight in the eye and invite it to fuck itself, unabashedly, boldly, with a sly smirk on my face.

More to come.


A Great Gift

There’s little I find more mundane than creating my own bio. I welcome writing them for others but when asked to submit mine for a project, I whine.

Unfortunately, it was time to tackle this bitch for eatingatme.

Taking a lesson from my development this year in reaching out for help, I texted my lifelong friend and fellow author, Alycia Ripley. Why make the badly needed refresh of my About page painful? That seemed counterproductive.

Me: “Hey mama! Would you write my bio for me? You’re the only one I trust to do it and I can’t come up with something authentic right now.”

Alycia: “Hi girl, of course.”

Alycia’s a professional. And accomplished. And cool as shit.

We’ve been friends a long time. Our mothers went to Catholic high school together, where, in turn, they enrolled Alycia and me for elementary and middle school. We went to the same all girls’ college prep academy as well. Alycia and I share much in common – we have impeccable taste in music, for example – but our strongest likeness comes from our fierce love for our mothers and family.

(Do yourself a favor and purchase Alycia’s memoir, Wind over Tide. It’s stunning.)

I’m honored that Alycia took time and care to write such a lovely piece for eatingatme. I’m humbled by her kindness; I’m over the moon about her contribution to something that was initiated by a promise I made to my mother. You can read it here.

Thank you, my red-haired rock star. You mean the world to me.

Thanks, Keith…

I don’t have details as of yet, but I’m left to assume you committed suicide.

Well, that’s shit for timing. We had tickets to see Beats Antique tonight at The Music Box, and I was SO EXCITED (but I wasn’t going to let you know that because I’m still upset with you for breaking my heart a month ago).

From wherever you are, I’m sure you’ve seen…

The love.

The sadness.

The support.

The longing.

I’m clear I’m one of many who you’ve loved in your lifetime. But before you fully exit (how was that Alice In Chains, homeboy?), I’d like to thank you for…

-Too Many Zooz;

-Clarity around that if I’m ever to be a mother, my son better be a gay accountant who is compulsive, loves his mother fiercely, and is married to a male professional dancer;

-The nickname “Sparkle Tits;”


I’m drunk, but right now I’m so in love with you.

Find that peace and zen,


Just A Post

Welcome back.

It’s taking me a minute to get into this post. 2018’s been a metamorphic year. Raw, mind melting, and deliciously heartbreaking.

It’s been fucking magical and has left zero room for anything that feels forced, my writing particularly.

I love this blog and care little that its purpose has never been clearly defined or that it hasn’t been well-tended. Delusions of dressing it up for Sunday Mass to create a linear, palatable theme in order to monetarily exploit regurgitated bullshit just isn’t my jam.

I love eatingatme because it’s a reflection of me: a hot, crass, type A-/B+ mess. And I’ve given myself permission to continue as such.

So I’ll just keep writing whatever because I made a promise that I always will.


This IS also hyper-organized, hypomanic me I’m talking about…and it IS the last day of my miraculous month (September 22 – October 25) during which, for the past nine years, I’ve made significant shit happen. And this year…well, this has been the best year I’ve experienced since my mid-twenties.

So there’ll be some form to this green slime of online content…eventually. I’ve put that in motion over the past month and it feels damn good. For now, though, it’s where I work shit out, or don’t.

And because it’s October 25, I’ll wrap with this:

I’m taking my promises seriously, even if they’re completed at a snail’s pace. In 2009, when I said goodbye to my mother, I made some pretty deep commitments that I’ve been and/or continue to be scared to pursue but at this point, I’ll die trying. Almost did today, in fact; burpees and battle rope exercises are no fucking joke.

Greetings from The Mezzanine

Y’all, there’s no business like show business.

In theater, the best seat in the house is based on one’s opinion; it depends on the experience of the performance which one seeks. It’s commonly assumed that a center orchestra seat is prime real estate because of the exorbitant ticket price and the ability to bathe in the performers’ sweat and spit. That shit costs top dollar.

Then there are those of us who like a broader perspective; back a bit further, up a bit higher…a seat with a view. Those of us who prefer the mezzanine lead from the middle; we’ve come too far to settle for the nosebleeds and equally don’t feel compelled to get all up in Lin-Manuel Miranda’s business.

These days, I’m likening my life to theater (Tony Award worthy and Off-Off-Broadway), and the vantage point I’m choosing today is that of audience member. Spectator. Mezzanine crasher.

Pull curtain.

It was three years ago this week when I decided to move to Sweden. It was when I boldly declared that my 40’s wouldn’t be a star-studded revival of my 30’s. At that time, I couldn’t imagine that I’d have the mental, emotional, and spiritual fortitude to take the stage as a single woman (with a four-legged sidekick) on her own two feet, completely reliant on herself…and her word.

The first act of this performance has been equal parts elegant and electric; I’ve kept the cast small and the drama minimal. The score and scenery have been subtle but poignant. I’m proud of this piece of work.


My second act, currently being work shopped, is what I’ve been creating tirelessly. The costumes are delicious, the technology is advanced, and the adventure is boundless. It’s sexy, fun, and unexpected.

Fun fact: I came up with the name of this post a year ago, and knew it would be my return to eatingatme. I also knew that at that time I wasn’t quite ready to write this, but that I should write the title down for the day that I was.

And here we are.

And here I go.

Cue orchestra.