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.
Ancient people cleaned their clothes by pounding them on rocks or rubbing them with abrasive sands and washing the dirt away in local streams.
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.