The other night I was getting ready for bed, when my husband Kurt walked by in underwear, with a small hole in the seam.
The sight of the hole made me laugh due to the memory it conjured up.
It was a memory of an incident that happened about 16 years ago when our son Evan was eight years old.
That night, Kurt walked through the bedroom, in a similar fashion, except for one difference — his underwear looked more like Swiss cheese.
I remember standing there speechless as I watched him cross the room shocked that after so many…
It’s that time of year when office illness abounds and one rogue sneeze can send chairs scattering in terror.
I think being ostracized as a carrier of the plague (i.e. the common cold, this essay was written pre-covid), is the closest we can get in current society to real community rejection.
Or at least that’s how I felt when I sneezed in a meeting earlier today.
I now understand how cavemen felt when their cave group decided — you’re out — you no longer have value in our cave-society.
Of course, sneezing in a meeting is just one of many…
People think politicians are puppet masters — hypnotizing us with their magic words and bending us to their will.
I beg to differ. I think our true puppet masters are food.
It’s our potato chips that are seducing us.
I’ve been observing a lot of post-holiday behavior in my office lately and it’s left me certain I am right.
In the spirit of New Year’s Resolutions, people are walking around in various states of withdrawal — jonesing for one more bite of sugary junk food.
There like bears waking from hibernation unaware of who they were before winter set in…
My husband and I fell asleep on New Year’s Eve around 11 pm (yes, we’re one of those couples) and all was well until I woke a while later from the weight of a dog being dropped on my chest.
She was a small dog who was last seen sleeping in her dog bed on the floor and, although she was clever, she could not climb or fly, which meant my husband Kurt had something to do with her current position.
So, with eyes still closed, I asked, “Why is Sophie on my chest”?
Kurt mumbled back, “The fireworks were…
My first memory of chocolate was biting the ear off a Chocolate Easter Bunny and trying to cram peanut butter inside the hole.
My taste buds sang from the delightful combination of salty and sweet — I had discovered chocolate utopia.
It was the early 70s and yoga, granola, and transcendental meditation we’re all the rage.
My mother was a full-fledged member of all of the above and ready to add new fades to the arsenal at any moment.
And that’s when it happened…
My family was placed on a “Health Kick” — yeap those existed in the 70s.
I had to make an emergency hair appointment the other day because I couldn’t take my current hairstyle any longer.
Somehow, my hair had morphed me into some kind of serious, no-nonsense, grown-up overnight!
You may be thinking — wait a minute, that’s a lot of power to give one head of hair — what makes you so sure?
Well, I agree it may not seem plausible for my hair to morph itself into a dowdy, grown-up hairstyle, but I have no other explanation. …
The other day I went to my local health food store and asked the clerk for a pill that would make me not want to” lash out irrationally”.
She just looked at me blankly then proceeded to walk across the length of the store, weaving in and out of the aisles, until she stopped in front of a shelf containing various holistic mood elevators/suppressors.
She picked up a bottle from the shelf and held it up to me. “It’s Happy Camper,” she said matter of factually.
Then she put the bottle back down and walked away.
I guess she felt…
There was a display at the entrance of my local grocery store yesterday that literally stopped me in my tracks.
It was a tower built from Little Debbie Swiss Roll boxes… my junk food kryptonite.
My husband Kurt was halfway down the first aisle before he realized I wasn’t with him. I was back at the Swissonian staring at my version of the Statue of David.
And if the image itself wasn’t enough to inspire poetry — the sign was.
It read, “10 FOR 10!”
I had to read it twice to be sure I wasn’t seeing things — ten…
You may find this odd, since most teenagers have dreams of going to college, having a career, or possibly getting married.
I suppose I had those dreams too, I really don’t remember, since they weren’t as important as the hammock.
So why do I still have this dream 40 years later?
It’s not like it’s an incredibly challenging dream to accomplish.
I didn’t imagine, first, weaving the hammock on a large loom, from thread I dyed, by hand, from beet juice.
This dream should have been accomplished many hammocks ago.
Well, I don’t know why it hasn’t happened yet.
They’re so large and cumbersome I feel like a contestant on the wheel of fortune trying to spin for money.
I just want to be able to get in and out of the bathroom as quickly and painlessly as possible.
Yet it seems, in addition to the size of the rolls, the toilet paper holders are on some kind of paper distribution lockdown.
Every time I enter The bathroom I feel like James Bond.
My mission: to decode the toilet paper roll and deploy it before my bladder detonates.
I’ve actually gotten quite good at cracking the toilet paper holder…