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.
Obviously, I am failing to see the big picture, money wise, and for this (and my being a writer – a career path which ranks slightly lower than illegal alien bus boy in terms of financial success), I’m unlikely to ever be obscenely, or even G-ratedly, rich.