I'm Just Saying

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.

As with the majority who experienced the wrath of tropical storm Alberto, Paul and I stepped gingerly outside, like laboratory beagles testing uncaged freedom for the first time in their lives, blinking at the sun, surveying our surroundings.

Even if you didn’t watch last weekend’s Royal Wedding (Philistine!), you may have seen the photograph beamed around the world of the family’s newest member, with sparkling eyes and flashing smile.

And what a good boy he is.

I will freely admit it: I am an absolute ninny, nerd, doorknob, when it comes to royal weddings.