Does anybody really know what time it is? Does anybody really care?
Since daylight-saving time began anew last weekend, I can’t say that I do.
Am I mistaken, or wasn’t watching too much television once considered to be a bad idea?
Didn’t people lie about how much time they spent watching Dallas?
Can we not recall that once there was a golden time in America when “couch potato” was an insult?
Now? I’m ashamed to be among decent people because I have nothing to say about Survivor.
It was a rough night in the Seabolt household, as our two dogs – a German shepherd (Ace) and his partner in crime, a relatively inert ottoman of a dog (Jagger) – decided at around 4 a.
I am not a morning person. In the morning, if forced to get up at all, I prefer nothing more than silence, and a cup of coffee as big as my head.
To be invoked by all PTO parents, volunteer parents, and room mothers (and fathers and “significant others”) among us.
I didn’t set out to become a sell-out. I’m just saying. For the record and all. I had no intention of becoming an impersonal cog in the corporate machine.
“(Michael) Jackson taken to hospital with flu; jury selection delayed a week” – Associated Press, Feb.
In the beginning, when it came to parenting a daughter, I wasn’t exactly in the pink.
Sure, I had been a girlie-girl as a child.
Someday your prince will come. Sadly, if you’re Camilla Parker Bowles, he’ll come with some serious baggage.
It isn’t my actual children that are causing me stress these days, but the “maybe baby” that haunts me.
Clearly, the problem is that I expect too much.
I expect, for example, that my cellular telephone might actually make telephone calls.
I am raising ingrates.
My children, like so many others, are ferried about in the automotive equivalent of a living room.
I have recently received a fair amount of mail asking me if I have, and I quote, “always lived in the country?” What a silly question.
It’s hard to know when, exactly, to proclaim an otherwise beautiful family experience a disaster, but that does seem to be the way these things go.
Recently, I have begun to branch out in my daily newspaper reading. Now that I have discovered the birth announcements, I am no longer confined to the police blotter to keep up with the myriad ways humans can commit crimes against the innocent.
I could do the obvious joke about how my New Year’s resolution is to quit procrastinating tomorrow.
Or I could circulate one of those “Top 10 New Year’s resolutions” joke lists that clog up the Internet incessantly and get forwarded to you by everyone you even remotely know (with explicit instruction to forward to 10 friends immediately or you will have horrible luck and probably die).
On the 13th day of Christmas my true love gave to me a completely unexpected gift and I had nothing in return.
Do you think the witness protection program offers a new wardrobe? More importantly, can I enroll before I have to appear in anything “dressier” than Santa print PJs for the holidays?
Not asking for much.
How is it that in the advent of modern technology, the untold wonders borne of the industrial revolution, and the joy of living in an age that has (at last!) developed a disposable toilet bowl brush, some things remain pathetically unchanged?
I am proud – if a bit startled – to report that my younger cousin brought her own baby to Thanksgiving dinner this year.