If there is anything to be learned from the third grade it is that I have long suspected, but only recently proven, that teachers go into the educational profession not because they love children, but rather, because they hate parents.
Look, I don’t want to frighten anyone but it should be noted that the chills and thrills of Halloween have not, in fact, been put behind us.
I think it was the moment that the other team was performing advanced calisthenics – deep squats, knee bends, push-ups – prior to the game while our team was happily engaged in an impromptu rendition of “the chicken dance,” that I sized up the situation and came to one inescapable conclusion: we were going to get creamed.
I was at the checkout magazine rack, too cheap to buy, yet eager to learn how Angelina Jolie is going to balance celebrity, saving the world, motherhood and photo ops.
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.