Perhaps it’s because I came from ‘depression era’ parents, but boy, I hate to see food go to waste so with this in mind, for the third time in a week I entered the house with yet another bouquet of asparagus from the garden.
I'm Just Saying
Without a doubt, one of the largest television audiences of the year tuned in to watch the transitioning of Bruce Jenner into his what is, for him, his true sexual identity.
This time of year when we are obliged both to stay indoors from the deluge of spring rain, as well as write checks to Uncle Sam, it’s not uncommon to feel a bit like a chained dog: defeated and wanting to do much more than allowed.
Ever since it has been reported that the 90’s sitcom, ‘Coach,’ is returning with a new home at NBC, I guess it’s not surprising that those loyal to the original show have besieged me with emails asking, “Are you going to be on it?”
I figured this would be a good forum to reply and the honest answer is...
After hearing what I thought I heard on the local news as I was leaving the living room with a basket of laundry in my arms, I had to do an abrupt about-face and rewind in order to be clear.
Last Sunday I threw myself an enormous pity party: table for one, face down on the bed, enough Radiohead filtering through the speakers to convince anyone to taste steel, shoved coldly against their back molars.
According to the terriers...it’s war.
Paul, thinking his daughters in fur pajamas might like a treat from the feed store, brought home a pair of pig ears, much to my repulsion.
Paul and I had been given (by ourselves) full permission to be somewhat hedonistic this past week.
I don’t have a resume, really, but if I did, under ‘other talents’ I guess I’d write ‘tell jokes and ride horses.’ But after just emceeing another fashion show benefit, I realize I have another ‘gift,’ if you will:
I can spot a fellow farm hand from across the room.
Quite a nice gesture was made to me a couple of weeks ago from a fellow classmate who had, of all things, found and purchased a woman’s high school ring on E-bay and wondered if it were mine.
“It’s the class of 1977,” he wrote, “and inside are the initials, PMS, and I wondered if you had lost yours?”