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.)
My best friend said if I smiled for 60 seconds it would be impossible to have a negative thought.
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 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. …
I do an inward cringe every time I hear a grocery story or department store sales associate say, “One size fits all.”
Our dog has cost us more than my college education. Granted, it was in-state tuition 35 years ago, but still.
Coyotes, like armadillos, are now apparently everywhere. And by “everywhere” I mean near my house.
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.
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.
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.”
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.
If you’re reading this, we’ve made it through another year. Hallelujah!
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.
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).
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!
Christmas songs have always bothered me.
If you live long enough, you’ll eventually spend more time in hospitals than you’d like to, either as a patient or waiting on a patient. Neither role is a lot of fun.
Thanksgiving is tomorrow, and I hope you have much to be grateful for. (Tip: If you have loved ones, shelter and food, you have much to be grateful for.)
There are songs out there that I really hate.
By the time many of you read this, I’ll be almost there, winding the clubhouse turn and heading down the home stretch.
Every day I wake up and ask, “Lord, how can I serve You today?” Sometimes I don’t get a clear answer. (Which is on me, not Him.) Other days, I help at the church food bank, or visit a sick friend. Or, I refrain from giving the stink-eye to a screaming toddler.
Forgive me that I’m playing some vintage Scorpions as I write this. Call it mood music if you will.
I’ve never been wildly popular (old high school classmates always say, “You graduated when?”) but our home, Crazy Acres, is a popular place to be. At least for wild critters.