Once again, I have let a perfect opportunity for martyrdom pass me right by. Isn’t that always how it is? Blink, you miss it, and before you know it, all the good victimizations are taken.
Obviously, it is never too early for me to start scheming – and worrying – about where my next sugar rush will come from.
There are just some things no woman ever wants to hear from her spouse including: “Honey, I’ve met someone.
When I think of all the years of my youth I wasted worrying about being popular, why, I could just weep.
There is a certain, delicious agony in failing first grade. Granted, it’s virtually impossible to really flunk out on the second day of school, but me, I’m an overachiever.
On your mark, get set, go back to school! That rite of passage, the “back to school season,” is upon us once again, ready or not.
I am running with a bad crowd. Somewhere there is a bookish gathering of nerdy, sedentary types missing me terribly.
He would have been 31 years old last November – November 14 to be exact, which stands out for me, because that is my birthday, too.
I have a limited fashion sense due to one minor detail: I’m not six-foot-nine and the weight of a Q-tip.
Every person should have at least one breathless, wide-eyed memory of summer.
Leaping off a sun bleached wooden dock; casting a line into an icy clear Midwestern lake; clinging blindly to an out-of-control paddle boat with the sickening realization that you are heading straight for a monstrously large shoreline poison ivy patch.