When I think of all the years of my youth I wasted worrying about being popular, why, I could just weep.
There is a certain, delicious agony in failing first grade. Granted, it’s virtually impossible to really flunk out on the second day of school, but me, I’m an overachiever.
On your mark, get set, go back to school! That rite of passage, the “back to school season,” is upon us once again, ready or not.
I am running with a bad crowd. Somewhere there is a bookish gathering of nerdy, sedentary types missing me terribly.
He would have been 31 years old last November – November 14 to be exact, which stands out for me, because that is my birthday, too.
I have a limited fashion sense due to one minor detail: I’m not six-foot-nine and the weight of a Q-tip.
Every person should have at least one breathless, wide-eyed memory of summer.
Leaping off a sun bleached wooden dock; casting a line into an icy clear Midwestern lake; clinging blindly to an out-of-control paddle boat with the sickening realization that you are heading straight for a monstrously large shoreline poison ivy patch.
As usual, I’m ahead of the curve in all the wrong ways.
Just once I’d like to be the first to buy the next hot stock, embrace the next fashion-forward look, or even have the season’s hottest salad dressing on my plate before anyone else (Lime Kool-Aid vinaigrette anyone?).
Duct tape: It’s not just for pipe repair and hostage situations anymore.
Recently, in an embarrassing setback for NASA, a temporary window cover fell off the shuttle while it was on the launch pad, damaging thermal tiles near the tail.
Back in the day we shunned PDA.
No, not personal digital assistant – that’s so 21st century.
PDA was Public Display of Affection, i.
I really wanted to write something today, but I’m currently obsessed with stalking my bank account. This is, I assure you, every bit as exciting as it sounds.
First, let me state for the record that no dogs were harmed in the making of this column.
Primarily because those little buggers are fast and really hard to catch.
So, the entire world is up in arms because Danica Patrick, a female driver, placed fourth at the Indy 500 recently.
As a mother, I want a lot for my children.
I want them to be happy, to cure cancer, to be compassionate and well-loved individuals, and to marry into Bill Gates’ millions.
I am not, nor will I ever be, the ‘roughing it” type.
My husband, bless his heart, refuses to believe this.
Now that I’m a “real writer” (as opposed to my former slacker’s life as a married mother moonlighting as a writer), I’m amazed at all the similarities – besides sleeping late – between tortured artists and me.
I am an unfit mother. Oh sure, other mothers might see the merit in hiding it better. But me, I work hard at it.
Authorities and searchers might have been at a loss when they launched a nationwide hunt for “runaway bride” Jennifer Wilbanks recently, but the real experts – wedding planners – knew this was no kidnapping.
I firmly believe that when mothers compare notes on childbirth this can only be because they have not yet experienced the pain and sheer endurance that a 6-year-old’s birthday party entails.
He stole my heart with a killer combination of dark good looks, a stunning ability to fix almost anything, and an inexhaustible instinct to take care of me when I’m moody, sick or stressed, which is pretty much always.