You would think that a person who has managed, however inexplicably, to choose a mate, choose to parent two lovely albeit argumentative small humans, and choose to share with the world at large the most intimate details of her life (and those of numerous innocent bystanders), would have little trouble making a commitment to the little things in life.
Score! I just crossed something off my to-do list. I can put a black line straight through “consume entire package of M&M’s before breakfast.
I understand now, with perfect clarity, why some 30-something women persist in sporting mini-skirts that are far too young for them (or their thighs) and men of the same age endlessly relive their teenage athletic exploits.
On this, the occasion of my 10,000th birthday, I would like to say … oh, OK, I’m not really 10,000 years old.
It is almost spring and the first specks of bold, new colors are sprouting among us. No, not spring flowers silly.
Look, I just don’t know if I can stomach the path this nation is taking one more day. What kind of world do we live in when a down-on-his-luck panhandler has to say, “Pardon me, brother.
Nothing’s wrong just as long as You know that someday I will. Someday, somehow I’m gonna make it all right But not right now.
You really need to be in tip-top shape to come down with anything nowadays. The down-and-out workout.
Don’t you just hate it when worlds collide? My second-grader informed us, imperiously, that Cupid is “just a myth.
The first Girl Scout cookie was sold on Nov. 11, 1932 by a troop in Philadelphia. The girls baked cookies for day nurseries as a community service project.
You just never know when you will be tapped for greatness. On the day the play parts were passed out by the school’s music teacher – a man with nerves of steel and/or really heavy-duty ear plugs – my son came bearing that slip of paper like it was the sword pulled from the stone.
Pardon my dust, but my home page is a mess. Worse yet, I’m expecting visitors. At least I hope I get visitors.
Generally, I shun technology. Fear it, even. I am still using a circa 1997 computer because, quite frankly, I’m scared to death of having to approach some 17-year-old employee at the equivalent of a “Techno Toys “R” Us” and showcase my pathetic ignorance.
Up to now, I have resisted physical activity in the form of “working out” the way fish, say, resist learning to ride a bicycle.
It’s that time again. Time for the annual “How I shall completely revamp my life in the New Year” passel of lies we all pass off as “resolutions.
You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you and, more horrifyingly, found underneath your Christmas tree.
It has come to my attention that parents, particularly at this time of year, spend a lot of time worrying themselves silly over one thing and one thing only, a concern so deep it literally wakes them from a sound sleep, apoplectic over some concern relating to: Santa.
A Romanian tried to lodge a complaint with consumer protection officials after his girlfriend refused to marry him.
Few things strike greater fear in the parental heart than these: parent-teacher conferences. Highly educated adults, captains of industry, even veterans of foreign wars can be reduced to puddles of insecurity at the very prospect of conferring with their child’s teacher.
For years, the great philosophers of the world have told us people can be divided into two basic groups: the Day After Thanksgiving Shoppers and rational human beings.