We are (too) fast approaching yet another 30-something birthday and let me assure you the new has worn off.
When I was a little girl, a common advertising icon was Reddy Kilowatt. He was an electrical sprite of undetermined origin who flittered about representing the magic of electricity.
I think what separates the old and settled from the young and carefree isn’t age, career-path, or even a certain wisdom.
Forget hunting versus gathering, beauty versus brawn, and he Tarzan, she Jane. No, the real difference between men and women is as plain as black and white.
As usual, none of this is MY fault. I really had moved to the stage of acceptance of the “charm” of old house life – the smallish yet tallish rooms, the quirky corners, the cobwebs that spawn overnight.
Let me state, for the record, what has long been suspected and recently proven: I am not a trooper. Trooper.
It is not so much I mind having chosen a career path so vague as to rank somewhere below “illegal alien bus boy” in terms of status, but rather, I get no respect for doing it from my home that really rankles my soul.
Where’s Internet privacy when you need it? Forget about snoops grabbing my credit card numbers or reading my e-mails.
I think we all know by now my opinion on back-to-school clothing. Namely, that the only thing missing from most back-to-school fashion collections for even the youngest children is a dimly lit stage and a pole.
You just never know when you’ll have a brush with greatness, or in my case, great fear. As near as I remember, I was cleaning a high shelf in the bathroom when there was a flash of movement, a flutter, and my momentary thought “oh, why is there a big leaf up here?” before the “leaf” became coherent enough to make a beeline (bat line?) for my hair.