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.
I think I want to move.
Oh sure, I love the house, the property, the neighborhood, and the schools. All our friends are here and the dogs finally learned how to strew the trash about the yard in the most efficient manner.
I had no idea so much was riding on my mattress.
That is, until the down comforter on our bed sprang a leak.
Ask any three adults you know, I’m talking even the brilliant, highly educated ones. The ones who can’t even match their shoes or tuck in their shirts, they are that smart.
Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me?
Speak for yourself pal. Words, when abused, give me a screaming headache.
Let me be the first to gleefully – and with a certain amount of malice – point out to you that there are only 63 shopping days left until Christmas.
Talk about adding insult to incarceration.
Martha Stewart has been sentenced to serve her time at the federal prison in Alderson, W.
(Authors note: Names and locations have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent and any resemblance to anyone living or annoying is purely coincidental.
There has been a lot of talk lately about how any number of things are making Americans look bad.
Reality TV, bare midriffs in church, our lack of respect for other cultures, and the presidential election just to name a few.
I often dreamed that once I packed my youngest child off to kindergarten, I would be free to indulge in some “me” time and become one of the much heralded “ladies who lunch.
I try to take one day at a time, but sometimes several days attack me at once. Recently, my electronic planner froze up, causing me lose track of every appointment, assignment, and crucial coffee date I may have scheduled for the next six weeks.
The most dedicated servant is always the last to see the layoff coming.
One minute, you think you have the utmost in job security.
Traditionalists who believe that marriage is a sacred union between a man and a woman are undoubtedly heartened by the knowledge that America’s reigning queen of overexposed celebrity, Jennifer Lopez, walked down the aisle this summer for the third time.
In the heartland of this great nation, we’ve apparently all entered the Witness Protection Program. Our exact locations must remain a closely guarded secret.
Columnist Kymberly Foster Seabolt does the unthinkable.