Seldom do I feel jealousy towards the dead, but when I read the obituary for a friend, George Lane, written with both great affection and style by his grandson, James, I caught my breath.
In just over one month over half a million people shall descend upon our local community of three thousand.
Twice within the last month, someone has made this comment to me:
“You’re probably a Tall White.”
How do you respond to an accurate, if not disconcerting, summation of your physical characteristics? ‘Thank you for noticing?’ ‘I can’t help being born this way?’ ‘Kinda early to be drinking, isn’t it?’
Perhaps it’s the John La Carre in me, but I love a good spy story. Maybe not so much when it appears the spy has been hiding in plain sight within our country, but the good news is that Maria Butina, charged with conspiracy and acting as an unregistered foreign agent (that would be a spy) for Russia, now sits in jail.
Gotcha.
I’d be willing to bet the conversation I had with a fill-in postmistress at our local post office a few weeks ago is exclusive to our small town.
Sitting a stifling few rows back during my endless high school baccalaureate service, I well remember our speaker—a local dignitary—telling us less of what excitement lay ahead, and more of what we were in for.
At the risk of sounding catty, may I, a firmly entrenched middle-aged broad, make a few suggestions to the manufacturers of moisturizing products routinely aired in television commercials?
Use real life women and then WE shall decide if your products work.
Paul and I were searching for a particular chair slipcover last week and found ourselves compelled to descend into one of Dante’s seven levels of hell.
A shopping mall.
Flipping recently through an issue of the AARP Bulletin (I’m far too young to be receiving it, you know, I must have come across it in the waiting room at the dermatologist’s, who still insists I’m 10 years away from even considering Botox) my eyes (with no need for reading glasses either, mind you) fell upon one particular article: ‘Humor Thera
Paul and I tend to be grazers in the summer. The thought of a hot meal after a hot day isn’t very appealing.
