I could never get picked up in a bar, or even a high school gymnasium.
Not that I tried that often. I’m not a bar-hopping, party-loving kind of girl.
But still, most women, teenagers to octogenarians, want to feel attractive and desirable.
But even back when I was 16, when I hoped to catch the eye of a cute guy or two, I couldn’t even catch an eyelash, particularly – especially – of the one I had a huge crush. Continue reading
I am a fantastic speller. Always have been.
I acquired this gift without ever asking for it; it’s just part of me.
My brother, who is a horrendous speller (or as he would spell, a whorendus one), claims spelling is a genetic tick. I disagree. I believe that the number of books you read equates how many words you can spell correctly.
Many others (who can’t spell) claim it’s not a requirement in this day of digital spellchecks.
I’d like to inquire: how many times has spell check messed them up? Continue reading
“Mom’s hospital stay wasn’t covered?” I ask, trying to not sound as disturbed as I feel.
“No, that’s not what I said,” my brother replies, raising his voice during our blue-toothed conversation. “The hospital didn’t think she was covered.”
“How could they possibly think that?” I protest from the driver’s seat of my car. “We’ve only filled out dozens of forms in the past year with all that information.”
I hear Chuck’s groan, hundreds of miles away. He’s in Maryland driving home from work. I’m racing in my car in New England on the way to teach an evening class.
“Toll Booth in ½ mile,”
an alien-sounding female voice intones loudly from Chuck’s car, just as he says, “…called (garble garble) insurance (garble garble) card!” Continue reading
I remembered Be-bop this week when my guy and I bought a new plant for our living room.
We wanted someone, er, thing, with personality and spirit, with a touch of unexpected color and a tad of attitude. In other words, we wanted another Be-bop-a-lula.
We name our plants. Every single one. Do you? Continue reading
I drove seven hours last weekend with John Denver.
Well, kind of.
At 4 a.m. on Saturday, my daughter, 7-year-old granddaughter, and I hit the turnpike to drive from Boston to Delaware to visit my ailing mom.
Before we left the driveway, the 7-year-old was back asleep and stayed that way for almost three hours.
As I drove in the blackness of too-early morn, my daughter and I conversed quietly in the front seat. The dark shapes of homes and trees – then the lit-up highway signs and speeding cars and trucks – passed by like shadowy strangers.
We reminisced about her Nanny – my mom – whose strong feisty personality is dimming. We laughed softly as we shared a story or two of Nanny’s powerful presence in our lives, and then my daughter slowly, slowly, drifted off to her own dreams.
I was alone, then, in the quiet swiftly moving car, and I reached out for some music, something to fill the space of memories and sadness. Continue reading