Sunday, December 4, 2016

I'm not - by a long-shot - the only kid in the world who grew up without a father. The truth is, I had one - he just wasn't around much.

I can understand how the recent heat wave might have caught the corner store unawares in the frozen treat ordering department.

If you can read this, I have survived to write it and (blessedly) not been killed in a tragic multi-car pileup in the carpool lane.

I have come to the conclusion that all the single women I know are spending far too much time worrying about how to meet men.

As I reach the milestone of my 10th official Mother's Day, I find that I appreciate my own mother so much more.

There's no way of saying this without sounding like either a self-righteous health nut or a sadistic child hater - and I'm still somewhat on the fence over which is worse.

Every junkie has her jones. A smoker likes her cigarettes. A tippler likes her wine. Any addict needs her fix.

I didn't set out to become high-maintenance, really I didn't. I was tripping along, clam-happy, unmanicured, and completely wash-and-go through my 20s with nary a problem.

The nice thing about getting married is that you inherit a whole new set of people to fret about. My niece, for example, is aflutter about learning to drive.

I remember when I first made the clear connection between what I wore and how I felt. It was the dawn of middle school, which in our district was seventh grade.
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