My name is Julie, and I have a condiment problem.
You can’t go home again, according to Thomas Wolfe. But you can drive past it on the interstate and wave (according to me.)
The year 2014 wasn’t an easy one at Crazy Acres. My husband, Widdle Baby, and I buried my mom, his mom and his step-father.
Other than Superman, Star Strek’s Mr. Spock was my favorite action hero growing up.
My best friend said if I smiled for 60 seconds it would be impossible to have a negative thought.
If you have a job in the tri-county area, the odds are good that you commute to work. (Unless your job is being a full-time wife and mother, in which case you don’t commute because YOUR WORK NEVER ENDS.)
Marriage counselors say there are two main causes of divorce: Sex and money. I nominate a third: the thermostat wars.
We are not projected to receive any ice this week.
I do an inward cringe every time I hear a grocery store or department store sales associate say, “One size fits all.”
I make lists. Every single day. Lists for chores, lists for appointments, lists for groceries, lists for goals, lists for errands, lists of places I want to see before I die, and lists of every possible clothing combination in my closets. (Which is how I realized that tube tops don’t go with ANYTHING, but I have eight outfits for a funeral. …
Our dog has cost us more than my college education. Granted, it was in-state tuition 35 years ago, but still.
Remember the theme song from the Mary Tyler Moore show, “Love is All Around”? Lately the title could be “Flu is All Around.” It’s hit our families, friends, neighbors and co-workers.
By the time you read this I will have finished my latest novel, “A Faerie’s Tear,” that is due for publication on Feb. 1, and will debut at the Berkeley Reads Tri-County literary celebration “Meet the Authors!” at Dean Hall at Cypress Gardens on Feb. 7.
Coyotes, like armadillos, are now apparently everywhere. And by “everywhere” I mean near my house.
For as long as I’ve been an adult, I’ve struggled with adult fashion. It’s just not practical.
Watching someone you love get old is a bit strange. The only thing stranger is watching yourself get old.
Just when you thought there were no interesting ways to earn a little extra coin to pay off Christmas, NASA steps to the plate and knocks one out of the park.
Ah, yes, a new year. Here we go. Traditionally, this is the time to set goals that we’ll abandon within three weeks, if pop psychology is to be believed. As my father used to say, “The road to hell is paved with good intentions.”
If you’re reading this, we’ve made it through another year. Hallelujah!
It’s a New Year.
Most folks have a collection of special holiday recipes they pull out every year. I do, too. They’re filed in my mother’s old wooden recipe box, organized from appetizers to dessert. Every Christmas Eve I pull them out, laugh hysterically and hoist another glass of wine.
This one is worth repeating because no one believed me the first time.
My birthday was last week, and it’s astonishing that I’ve survived 54 years on this planet relatively unscathed. I say “relatively” because I’ve had my heart broken (by a human) and my skull cracked (by a horse).
Clement Clarke Moore wrote the poem “Twas the Night Before Christmas” in 1822. With the poem being read around the tree this year, here’s my version.
In addition to my rampant ADD, I was an obsessive child.
Deck the halls with boughs of crazy, tra la la la la la la la!