Vacation season is fast approaching, and you know what that means. It’s time to stock up on products that will aid digestion and other troubles that ensue, if you catch my distended drift.
Pay attention, because today I’m going to pass along the secret to an unforgettable Mother’s Day. I know all about it because I, mother of two, unearthed it. That’s right, me, the mother.
Gentle readers, I have a confession.
I am not one of those women who clean on a regular basis. I straighten things up and do a cursory once-over with my sleeve; but I don’t deep clean. “What’s the point?” I say to no one. “It will just get dirty in a day.”
Swimsuit season’s almost here, and once again I’m looking forward to doing what I did last year to get in shape: nothing.
My twenty-something children have been out of the house for a few years now. In that short time, my husband and I have fallen off the parental wagon, big time. Indeed, we are not only empty-nesters, we are slacker empty-nesters.
I probably shouldn’t admit this, but I don’t own a cellphone that can download apps. I own a prehistoric flip phone that allows me to make calls and send text messages, nothing more. I am Tyrannosaurus Rex, here me roar!
Several years ago, when my memory started to fade, I was distraught.
I would march into rooms with purpose, stand there, look around and then
scratch my head: What was it that I wanted again?
Dear Product Developers of America:
Thank you from the bottom of my lazy heart. Honestly, I don’t know how I could get through my idle days without you.
Ah, Rochester. As the great gray blanket of winter settles in, many of us succumb to “Rochesteritis,” an unpleasant condition marked by severe complaining about everything that is wrong with our city.
Fasten your seatbelts, gentle readers, it is time once again for Catchphrase Corner, the cutting-edge column that identifies the moment’s trendiest words or expressions.
Last year, I put together a list of New Year’s resolutions that I failed to bring to fruition. Looking over my list, I see now that the demands I was placing on myself were too daunting.
If leftovers could talk, here’s a conversation between cranberry sauce and stuffing, on the day after Thanksgiving.
Soon, winter will be here, and you know what that means: chapped lips, dry skin, cabin fever, and the desire to maim and dismember those nearest and dearest to our hearts.
Although we hear reams about how to winterize our homes, we hear little about how to winterize our souls. This oversight flabbergasts me. Having endured a slew of brutal winters, I can say with certainty that our beleaguered spirits take a far greater hit than our brawny thermostats.
I’ve been thinking about hotness lately.
Ever since I came across Janice Min’s new book, “How to Look Hot in a Minivan,” I’ve been ruminating the topic.
Now that my kids have flown the coop and no longer require my day-to-day guidance, I have discovered a new joy: armchair parenting.
Dear Loyal Readers,
You never let me down.
Just when the ol’ feedback-mill starts to run drier than my Aunt Jean’s stuffing, you show up in droves. Thank you.
Let me ask you something:
Do you ever think that inanimate objects are out to get you? I’m beginning to wonder.
Today, I would like to talk about a new way of communicating that is driving me to drink. I don’t know why it’s happening; I don’t know why friends and family feel they need to use it with me; I don’t know why it makes my nostrils flare.
There comes a time in every marriage when you ask yourself: “Am I still interesting?” That time came for me a week ago.
I know the cylinders aren’t firing the way they used to. Which is why – as a compensatory strategy – I have embraced sprinkling my vocabulary with some highfalutin words. Bloviating politicians do it all the time.